“Thank you.”
“That’s not a compliment, Beau.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. Really. ’Cause after a while, being friends with someone who never asks for anything makes you feel like shit.”
I jerked back, frowning at my friend and his declaration. “I make you feel like shit?”
“Yep. You got no need of me. Take last Wednesday for instance. I made a mistake. I made a big one. And you walked away, not giving me even two minutes to explain.”
“Oh gee, I’m sorry Hank. You’re right. I should’ve been thinking about your feelings. Where was my head?”
“Stop being an asshole. Of course I didn’t mean right after it happened. But Thursday, Friday, a weekend goes by. We’ve been best friends since we were five years old, and you don’t give me a chance to explain. Know why?”
“Of course not. I don’t know anything.”
“Because you don’t need me. You have your big family and the admiration of every person in this town. Hell, you even got a body double, an exact replica of yourself.”
I couldn’t quite read him, whether he was joshing me or if he was being serious. Deciding the safest course of action was to wait and see, I watched him silently, sipping my coffee at intervals.
“But guess what? It’s your unlucky day, because I can’t afford to lose friends. That means you’re stuck with me.”
“Meaning you’re gonna keep messaging me cat pictures until I stop ignoring you?”
“If that’s what it takes, then yes. And God bless the Internet, because if there’s anything it has in infinite supply—other than ill-formed opinions—it’s cat pictures. And if that doesn’t work, then I’ll buy you a second house.”
“Hate to break it to you, but you can’t force a person to be your friend. Nor can you buy friendship.”
“Then what can I do?” His tone hardened, grew serious, as did his glare. “Because I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have listened to Drill. I should have given you a heads-up. I’m incredibly sorry, and I swear on my father’s crypt, I will never let you down again.”
I leaned forward, lowering my voice in an attempt to defuse his mood. “Hank, you already apologized. We’re fine. All is well. Besides, you hated your father.”
“Yeah, but I really love that crypt. You’ve seen it. It has the gargoyles.” He made a claw with his hand
I smiled at his weirdness. It was very Hank-like.
“Like I said, all is forgiven.”
“It’s not that easy. I’m going to need you to accept something as a token of my remorse and friendship.”
Oh no.
“I don’t want anything.” I glanced around the diner, half expecting Hank to give Beverly a sign and then for the waitress to strip off her uniform.
“Well, too bad. I want to give you something, and I want you to think about how awesome I am every time you look at it. I want you to think, ‘That Hank, he sure is a good friend. What would I do without him?’ Because the next time I fuck up—and mark my words, there will be a next time—I need to know you’re not going to ignore my calls for ten days.”
“Even if you give me something, I’m still going to ignore your calls for ten days.”
“Fine. But pick up the phone on day eleven.”
“You’re such a dummy.”
“So . . . we good?”
“Yes,” I said emphatically. “Like I’ve been saying twenty times now, we’re good. Put it out of your mind.”
He hit the top of the table with his palm. “Excellent.” Then he opened the satchel sitting next to him and pulled out an envelope. “This is for you.”
Hank slid it across the table and I picked it up, opened it, and scanned the contents of the letter I found within. Then I glared at my friend.
“You’re giving me your house on Bandit Lake?”
“Yep.”
“Nope.” I slid the envelope and letter back to him. “No, thank you. I do not accept. And don’t buy me another fifty thousand dollar watch either. One is enough.”
“Too late. It’s all done.”
“You can’t give me a house without me accepting it.”
“Yes. I can. Remember, all those houses up there can’t be sold. They can’t even be transferred.”
“Then you can’t give it to me.”
“But I can leave it to you in my will.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. When you die, we’ll talk about it then.”
“You’re the executor of my estate, and now you have power of attorney over the property. I’ve irrevocably signed it over to you, and you’ll inherit it in full on the day of my death—or your kids will, or whoever your shit is going to.”
“I’m not taking it.”
“Fine. Don’t. It can just sit up there and rot. And then your kids will inherit a nice piece of property with a house falling down in disrepair.” He started to chuckle, like he couldn’t hold it in. “And I know for a fact the auto mechanic in you ain’t going to let that happen.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out two keys, giving me a shit-eating grin as he slid them across the table. “I took the liberty of changing all the locks. These are the only two keys that work, so don’t lose them.”
“Hank,” I lowered my voice to a harsh whisper, “I’m not kidding. I’m not taking the house.”
“It’s out of my hands.” He shrugged.
“You’re such a go—” I stopped myself, biting back the words.
“Oh, watch out! The choir boy almost took the Lord’s name in vain.”
“That house is worth over a million dollars.” This was a classic case of Hank being Hank, of his penchant for being ridiculously excessive. He needed to stop doing this kind of stuff. We were best friends. Shit happened. You just get back up and face a new day. I might’ve needed space for ten days, but giving me a house is a complete overreaction.”
“Technically, it’s worth nothing. You can’t sell it. I mean, I guess you could rent it out, like Mr. Tanner does with his crappy fishing shack. If you want to.”
I wiped a hand over my face, gritting my teeth. This was the last thing I needed. I had enough shit to deal with, and now I had to convince this crazy ass to take his mansion back.
One of his mansions, I reminded myself. He had two other houses in Tennessee and a host of places all over the world.
“I hate you so much right now.”
“It’s a thin line between love and hate, my friend.” Hank skootched to the end of the booth and stood, bringing the strap of his satchel to his shoulder. “I suggest you let the love flow through you. Otherwise, I’ll just keep sending you cat memes until you do, and you know I will.”
“You’re a shitty friend.” I glared at him.
“I am.” He nodded, putting on his sunglasses. “Speaking of which, you don’t mind paying for breakfast, do you? I forgot my wallet.”
29
“The brain appears to possess a special area which we might call poetic memory and which records everything that charms or touches us, that makes our lives beautiful.”
― Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
* * *
*Beau*
My hands needed washing. They were covered in grease and dirt, and I hadn’t taken the time to give them a scrub all day.