Page 6 of Danny

"I don't watch games. We're eighteen percent above forecast. Is anyone going to acknowledge that?"

"Acknowledged," Caleb says.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now tell Danny he's losing his mind."

Elliot looks at me. Then at Jagger. Then back at me. "Context?"

"A waitress poured a drink on him last night and he didn't fire her and now he's acting weird about it," Jagger summarizes, with a level of joy that borders on gossiping grandma.

"Define weird."

"He's late, Elliot. When is Danny late? Danny once showed up to a meeting fifteen minutes early and complained that we started without him."

"That meeting had an agenda."

"It was brunch."

"Yeah, but you were there, so it definitely had an agenda." I take another sip. "Or you were flirting with someone. Can we move on?"

We move on. Membership applications. The Winter Gala, now two weeks out. A property Jagger is looking at in the Maldives — "Not for me, for a client, don't look at me like that, Caleb." An embassy security contract Caleb's firm has picked up that's going to require sixteen-hour days for the next month. Elliot has opinions about our data infrastructure that are probably correct and definitely boring.

I listen, contribute, say the right things at the right times.

And underneath all of it, in the part of my brain I cannot get to shut up no matter how much expensive whiskey I drink, I'm thinking about the way her mouth looked when she was panicking. The way she said I'll pay for the dry cleaning. Like she actually meant it. Like she'd actually have written me a check for a suit she couldn't afford if I'd let her.

I'm thinking about her file. About the mother. About the blank space where a father should be.

I'm thinking about the fact that I sat in my car after closing and watched her walk to the subway in a coat that looked like it was losing a war against the cold, and I didn't tell my driver to pull away until she'd disappeared down the steps.

I’m thinking about how I’m trying my best not to get hard thinking about her doing stupid, mundane tasks.

"Danny."

Jagger's voice cuts through.

"Yeah."

"You're doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you look like you're sitting here but your brain's actually orbiting a completely different planet." He studies me over the rim of his glass. "What's her name?"

"Whose name?"

"The waitress. The one who spilled on you and lived."

"This conversation is over."

His grin comes slow, and it's insufferable. "Her name, Danny."

"Anna."

It's out before I can catch it. Just — gone. My brain's still so focused on not getting hard that it’s allowed my mouth to go completely rogue. I hear myself say it and feel something clench in my chest that I don't have a word for and don't want one.

The table goes quiet.