Chapter 3

Trace Kalecki

“Ben, can you look outside and give me an estimate on how long the line is?” I asked.

Four giant stockpots, each one holding approximately seven gallons of chicken and vegetable soup, usually cut it. But we always circled back to the same sentence.

This fucking weather.

Everyone was cold. Everyone was seeking out heat, whether they came right off the streets or they’d traveled far for food they couldn’t afford at home. Most visitors weren’t actually unsheltered; they just didn’t have enough money for food.

The alley had been filled with people of all ages coming and going since we’d opened, some of them sticking to the heating vents for extra warmth when the booths in here were full. We tried to ensure that those who arrived with kids could sit down at a table.

Marisol and Julie stepped up the pace to empty bags of bread, and we were running low on that too. Four slices per head, and I didn’t wanna make cuts on carbs in this fucking weather. Coffee and tea were easier; we had tons of packets of insta-coffee and way too many tea bags. Ben had spent an hour bagging insta-cocoa and marshmallows for the kids as well.

He leaned out the door. “The line still goes around the corner. I’ll go out and check.”

“Thanks, man.” I wiped my forehead and asked Sandy to take over for me. I had to go check with Petey in the kitchen if we could make more food magically appear. “Oh, and when Ben comes back, tell him to find me in the kitchen.”

“Will do,” he replied.

I hurried out of the Green and into the…rest of the establishment. And talk about a different world. At this hour on a Thursday—the place was almost dead. The lunch rush was long gone, and it’d be another hour before early birds and tourists braved this fucking weather.

Adam perked up from the bar. “Do you need help, bud? I just got the Senior Circuit here.”

“I resent that!” Jerry groused.

“Senior, my ass,” Malcolm huffed.

I grinned, out of breath, and shook my head. “We’re good, but thanks.” Then I jogged out into the kitchen and headed straight for Petey’s station. “We need more food.” I bent down and dug out our last two stockpots that size and put them on the counter.

“I’ll go see what I can find.” Petey stalked off.

In the meantime, I filled the pot with water and started eyeing our spice selection on the wall. We should be able to pull together a poor man’s goulash.

“We should have plenty of ground pork and tomatoes!” I yelled.

’Cause we were out of the chicken that’d been reserved for this service.

When Petey returned, he and I worked like a well-oiled machine. It wasn’t our first rodeo, and we knew what we could pull together quickly. We skipped carrots ’cause they took forever to soften. No potatoes either. He took care of the pork, and I chopped onions and bell peppers. Ben came in around that time and stood sort of frozen, just watching.

Overwhelmed, maybe?

I crushed six cloves of garlic into each pot, then added the beef stock and crushed tomatoes before reaching for the paprika.

“You okay, Ben? You can take a breather, you know,” I said.

That seemed to snap him out of whatever. “Uh, sorry—no. Um, I counted about eighty people.”

Fuckinghell.

“Can someone do the math for me? Will fourteen gallons of extra soup be enough?”

Petey squinted at nothing.

“What’s the serving size?” Ben asked.

“’Bout two cups,” I said, tossing five sticks of butter into each pot.

“Then, yes,” he answered. “Fourteen gallons, two cups—should be roughly one hundred and ten servings.”

“Exactly what I was gonna say,” Petey bullshitted.

I side-eyed Ben. “You some kinda math whiz?”

He cleared his throat. “If that makes you feel better, sure.”

Ha!

I grinned, unable to help it. I liked this guy. I liked a guy who could sling sharp comebacks.

I didn’t know what made Ben smile, but he nodded and said, “I’ll go help the others,” and he walked out.

I chuckled and shook my head. He was funny.

He had a sexy smile too.

* * *

At ten minutes to five, I was in relief mode. We were gonna make it. Despite having run out of bread, we had a delicious goulash that contained both meat and pasta.

“Trace! We made it!” The sound of that kid’s voice echoing my thought stole my attention, and it felt damn good to see Tommy again. He entered with his mother in tow, and I left my station to go greet them.

“Hey, little man! It’s been a minute. Where ya been?” I bumped his fist.

“We’re staying with Grampa now!” he replied with a toothless grin.

“That’s awesome.” I shifted my attention to Monica and gave her shoulder a brief squeeze. “It’s good to see you, hon. Did you get that job?”

She smiled tiredly, relief visible in her eyes. “I did, thank fuck. I start next week.”

Damn, that was good to hear. “We gotta celebrate, then,” I said firmly.

Tommy lit up. “Do kids under thirteen still get ice cream?”

I chuckled and winced. “In this cold? You gotta wait till spring. But I got somethin’ I think you’ll like. I’ll see you up at the table.”

I returned to my station between Ben and Marisol, and I reached under the table to grab a plastic bag. Then I filled three containers with goulash for Monica and Tommy to take home. I added a couple kits with energy bars and, last but not least, extra servings of cocoa and marshmallows.

Next week, I had to order more takeout containers for liquids. We had thousands of lids, but the cups ran out fast.

When it was Monica’s turn, I handed over the bag to her while Marisol served them the food they could eat here, and I gestured at an empty booth.

“Thank you. Really. Thanks.” Monica smiled and lowered the bag for an impatient Tommy, who beamed at the sight of marshmallows.

“Fuck yeah! It’s the minis!”

“Let’s go have a seat, baby.” Monica ushered her boy over to the booths, and we shifted our focus to the next man in line.

A few minutes later, we closed for the day, and it felt mad good we didn’t have to turn anyone away. It happened here and there, and it always sucked.

Those who were still eating could stick around while we started cleaning up, and Marisol changed to cartoons on a couple of the flat-screens. The kids liked that.

Iliked that I was about to have a two-hour nap before I went back to work.

As if on cue, I heard Ma in my head, but I didn’t need the reminder. Petey would get his rest in the office.

Marisol and Sandy offered to stay behind until the last people had left, so Ben and I began lugging the stockpots out of the Green.

“You know what comes now?” I nudged the kitchen door open with my hip. “Food and a well-deserved nap.”

He chuckled under his breath. “I admit, it got more hectic than I anticipated.”

Warmer months were a lot easier, that was for damn sure.

When all was said and done, the kitchen staff, Ben, and I had our own containers of goulash—plus I grabbed a serving of cheesy bread—and he and I headed upstairs.

“I think on Sunday, we’re gonna serve ramen and grilled cheese,” I said. “Costco’s running a promotion on block cheese and bread that even our wholesale suppliers can’t beat, and our ramen cup storage is getting full.”

He’d noticed our donation initiative in the restaurant earlier. We kept tip jars scattered about, our most popular being the one at the host’s desk and then the ones at the bar. We called it the Clover Cup, and basically, we asked people to consider donating fifty cents for a ramen cup and other food that went to the soup kitchen. So every time I saw a good promotion or we got coupons, we took the money and stocked up.

“Doesn’t it require much more work to make grilled cheese?” he asked.

I shrugged and dug out my keys. “Not really. We just have more people in the kitchen, ’cause the ramen is essentially self-serve. We hand over a cup, and they pour the hot water themselves.”

With limited resources and time, we couldn’t offer a wide range of foods like some soup kitchens could. We did our best to provide both carbs and protein, but they usually came in soup, the occasional casserole, or stews. Then bread. Grilled cheese, plain bread for dipping, PBJs, toast and beans in tomato sauce… A lot depended on sales and donations.

Last week had been really good. A local grocery store had donated fruit and eggs that were about to expire, a women’s group at a church had stopped by with baked goods, and I’d come across an insane sale on canned ravioli at Jewel. I’d had to call Adam and Everett down there to help me clear out their entire display.

Kids always loved ravioli in tomato and meat sauce.

And so did I.

I came to a stop in my hall once I’d thrown the keys on the side table, and I noticed Ben was staying outside.

“You comin’?” I tilted my head.

He hesitated, then nodded and stepped in. “I didn’t want to assume.”

Oh. Well, fuck that.

“You worked up a sweat today for us,” I said. “Shit like that makes me trust easier. Please get comfortable, okay? I’ll get us something to drink.”

I hoped he stuck around for a while, to be honest. He could ride out the winter in the hall, knowing he at least had food and a warm bed, and we’d get extra help on Thursdays and Sundays.

In the kitchen, I grabbed us a couple orange Crush from the fridge and two spoons.

Ben had entered the front room, but he just stood there, looking at the bed. The one occasion I should’ve turned it back into a couch, maybe. Whatever. I always sat at the foot of the bed when I ate. I had the coffee table there for a reason.

“You don’t use your bedroom?”

“Nah, there’s no use in cleaning two rooms.” Or three, for that matter. I sat down and nodded for him to take a seat next to me. “Plus, I have the TV right here.” I set down my food on the table and reached for the remote. Another luxury of mine, I guessed. I had all the sports channels, courtesy of the bar footing the bill. Which reminded me… I turned to Ben as he removed the lid from his container. “I understand sports aren’t a priority when you’re concerned about finding a place to stay, but I hope I’m not sheltering an enemy here. You root for all the right teams, yeah?”

“Of course,” he assured. “You don’t, however.”

I lifted my brows. The fuck?

He smirked wryly and scooped up some food onto his spoon. “Considering the obscene amount of Cubs memorabilia downstairs, I can only assume you’re a Cubs fan.”

“Ah man, don’t say it?—”

“The Sox runs in my blood, kid.”

“Fuck, you said it.” I shook my head and dug into my food. “Knew you were too good to be true.”

He let out a laugh. An actual laugh—and it was fucking beautiful. He had a rich, warm, slightly scratchy voice that just did it for me.

“First time I was ever in the running for being too good,” he chuckled.

I wouldn’t know. I didn’t know jack about him, except what I’d scoped out in his wallet, and I didn’t wanna reach a new level of douchebag and dig deeper. I’d prefer to ask questions and get answers from the source.

I turned on the TV and proceeded as casually as I could. “I wouldn’t turn down the CliffsNotes of your life story.”

I’d expected his silence. Either he’d mull things over and then offer a short sentence, or he’d say nothing at all.

I hoped he would give me something. I’d caught glimpses today. He had a sense of humor, definitely. He was a hard worker. He didn’t complain. He didn’t just follow orders either; he pitched in where he saw the need. He was a math whiz…

He cleared his throat, and I pretended to scroll through game results.

“Grew up Back of the Yards, married at twenty, started a company with my brother-in-law, things were going all right, we moved to Hinsdale, had a son…” He let out a breath, and I side-eyed him. He was staring down at his food. He had a kid. And a wife? “Shit went sideways eventually. My brother-in-law, he—” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I lost everything. Then my ex-wife died about seven years ago, and bad turned to worse.”

Seven years ago. I… Fuck. I only had more questions now. But it sounded like my initial profiling wasn’t far off.

“Congrats on making me even more curious,” I said. “Why did you divorce?”

He paused, spoon midair, and furrowed his brow at me. “Why are you curious?”

I don’t fucking know.

Was it against the law to be curious? Huh?

Fuck it.

I dismissed the topic with a bitchy exit. “You sound like my ex. If I asked a simple question, he accused me of interrogating him. I was just makin’ conversation.” I looked away from him and shoveled food into my mouth.

Petey and I made damn good goulash. Our version of it anyway.

“He…? Are you gay?”

Oh, for the love of?—

I couldn’t help it. That put me on edge. “Is that gonna be a problem?”

“What the fuck? No.” He scowled at me. “Why would it be a problem?”

Maybe because it was a problem for too many people.

“I don’t know.” I faced forward again and started eating faster. I was tired, evidently cranky as shit, and I wanted to get some sleep before I had to return downstairs.

I didn’t know why I was curious about Ben. I never was. Not to this degree anyway. I mean, sure, I wanted to know if they could be trusted to roam inside my home, but I didn’t need someone’s life story for that. I was more interested in if they had drug problems or if they came off as hostile.

Ben sighed. “That’s why I got divorced. I was sick of hidin’ in the closet.”

He was sick of fucking what?

I whipped my head around so fast it could’ve fallen off.

This six-foot-four Grabowski was gay?

Okay, that…that… I hadn’t seen that coming.

And maybe he hadn’t seen it coming with me either, so…we were square, I guessed.

“Huh,” was my clever response.

Goddammit.

I went back to pretending to watch the TV—some old game running—and my mind started spinning. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had. I cursed the situation and how we’d met, ’cause if this had been Grindr, I would’ve been fucked six ways to Sunday by him already, and we would’ve moved on with our lives. Except for the fact that I never brought guys back to my place. It was his place or a bar.

Hookup apps were easy. I needed a five-minute conversation, and then I’d get my shit greased one way or another.

Great, now my ears were ringing too. The air felt awkward and stiff, and I didn’t know how to act. I kinda wanted him to be straight, for the simple reason that he was ridiculously sexy, but we’d gotten off on the wrong foot for a fuck. I’d had two boyfriends in my life, and that was enough. I wasn’t interested in another, and I already knew too much about Ben.

All while not knowing nearly enough.

And that right there was the point. If I wanted to know more about a person, shit had gone too far already. I never wanted to know more about someone.

I blamed my dry spell. I’d been so focused on the bar and work and…whatever else, that I hadn’t gotten laid since…shit, since my sister had moved back to the city last fall. How fucking sad. Who needed HIV prevention when you didn’t bend over for someone? Not me.

Tomorrow, I’d either go to one of my apps, or I’d stop taking that damn pill for a while.

Furthermore, I couldn’t make a move on a guy who had bigger worries, like finding a place to live or whatever situation he had going on with his son and the rest of his family. Hooking up was probably the last thing on his mind.

No. New plan. We’d get some rest, and if he was asleep later, I wasn’t gonna wake him up. He needed downtime. I’d go back to work. Maybe I’d even have a couple drinks and enjoy the Hawks game from behind the bar. I could shoot the shit with a few regulars; Jamaal was on too. Perhaps we’d crank up the music a bit later on, and…and on the off chance that Ben came down, I’d subtly point out our White Sox roasts around the bar. For instance, we had the donation box with socks in it…? It was obviously called the Sox Box. We had the Life Sox burger too, for those who wanted lettuce and only four hundred calories in a meal.

* * *

All right, this was better.

I pushed open the door to the bar with epic timing, just when Jamaal started blasting our game-day playlist. It was our biggest motivator for guests to order more beers with their dinner. The place was packed, energy surged, and people were ready for the game.

“Oh! Sleepin’ beauty!” Jerry was still here…

“Go home to your wife, man,” I told him.

He waved me off. “She don’t want me at home when there’s a game.”

Uh-huh.

I grabbed a short apron from under the counter and tied it around my hips. Then I snatched up a Hawks ball cap too, and I put it on backward, ready to get back to work.

“Trace!” I heard Tonya holler. She was on her way out onto the floor with food. “Two beer samplers, one gin and tonic, and four number twos!”

I gave her a two-finger salute and got cracking. Bobbing my head to the music, I pushed all images of Ben out of my head and let the bar din sweep over me instead. Jerry and Malcolm were bitching about our best seasons, the three hockey fans right in front of me were talking trades, and Jamaal laughed at whatever a patron was saying.

Chicago’s Dallas fans had found their way to the Clover too, all seven of them.

“Kalecki!” a familiar voice boomed out.

I dropped a scoop of ice and a lemon wedge into a glass, then glanced up and tried to locate—ah. I grinned. Of course Scottie and Tina would be here. Right on time, too; they could claim the last seats at the bar. It was filling up, and more people were pouring in.

“Two shots as usual?” I asked.

“You know it!” Tina leaned forward, and I did the same and kissed her cheek. “One for you too!”

“You know what—I think I will. Thanks, hon. I’ll start up a tab for ya.” I finished the first order just in time for Tonya to return, and then I poured three shots of Scottie and Tina’s favorite vodka. “To the Hawks!”

“To the fucking Hawks!” Scottie yelled.

A dozen people nearby cheered and raised their drinks, proving time and time again we had the best fucking fans on the planet.

I threw back the shot, and it burned its way down my throat the way it should.

Only thing that felt better was a big, hard cock.

Ben’s big, hard cock?

Fuck. I slammed the shot glass down on the bar and immediately poured myself another. And considering they’d bought me a glass, it was only fair I treated them to an extra too.

“I need one more, and I don’t drink alone,” I said. “On me.”

“Kalecki came to party!” Scottie rubbed his hands together and grabbed his glass.

Alcohol always helped, didn’t it?

“Whew!” Tina made a face as she swallowed, and so did I. Goddamn. “What do we want, babe? Wings?”

“Fuck yeah. One basket of Dead Wings, extra hot.” Scottie nodded, handing me his card.

“Comin’ right up.” I started their tab first before I put in an order for the wings.

Shit snowballed from there. Most of the dinner guests had received their game food, so the majority of the orders came straight to the bar. Jamaal and I worked as fast as we could, and we cranked up the volume on the song blaring. We were almost there. Countless screens flashed with a flyover of the empty rink, and we had approximately fifteen minutes before we killed the warm-up music.

“Trace?”

“Yeah, in a sec—” Fuck, I knew that voice. He was supposed to be asleep. I kept my back to him as I dipped the sixth margarita glass in syrup, then pink sugar. Jamaal was ready to take it from there, and I wiped my hands on my apron and turned around.

Ben stood close to the door to the kitchen, and he hesitated a beat before he walked over.

“I asked you to wake me up when you headed down,” he told me.

“Yeah, but I crossed my fingers behind my back,” I replied.

He blinked.

I smiled up at him.

He was even hotter when he’d just woken up from a nap. Despite how short his hair was, he pulled off a stellar bed-head look.

“Are you a child?” he pressed.

I shrugged and scratched my nose. “You keep calling me kid, so…”

He rolled his eyes, then looked out over the crowd. “Put me to work, please. At the very least, I can pour beer and take out dishes.”

By all means. We could use the help.

“You’re not busboy material, so I’ll keep you at the bar.” I reached under the counter and sifted through our work tees with the Blackhawks logo. XL should be a good fit. I found one and handed it to him. “Go change into this.”

He nodded once and walked off.

What, no changing right fucking in front of me this time? What made him modest? A bar audience of fifty people?

If he proved too much of a distraction, I was seriously going to ward him off with crosstown trash talk.

For now, I returned to work and helped Jamaal with a big order of various cocktails. At the same time, Jerry was trying to increase his beer fund by proposing bets. Malcolm was down, and so were Scottie and a handful of other regulars. Jamaal and I never engaged, but we did enjoy getting the crowd going. So he suggested a vote and picked Hawks enemies as our topic.

We’d done that many times before, and my stubbornness reared its head. I didn’t fucking care what some of the old-timers said; our biggest rival was the fucking Blues.

As I prepared three Jack and Cokes, Jamaal jumped up on the bar and cupped his hands around his mouth. “You know the rules! We need five contenders, and the buy-in is ten bucks!”

I dug a ten out of my back pocket and held it up. “This is my night!”

Jerry and Malcolm laughed at me, undoubtedly knowing I was gonna write St. Louis as usual.

By the time we had our five contenders, Ben was back, and I explained what was happening, then moved on to give him a quick rundown of the beers we offered.

I pointed to our three stations with taps. “Each one is numbered, so we’ll just tell you how many and the item number.” Then I jerked a thumb over my shoulders. “Bottles in the fridges.”

“Got it.” He nodded firmly and seemed to react the moment Tonya and Julie came up to the bar. Luckily for him, it was only cocktails this time.

He’d get his moment soon.

“You have thirty seconds to write down your answers!” Jamaal handed out paper and pens we’d never see again. “We’re lookin’ for the Hawks’ biggest enemy!”

Someone yelled. “Don’t be the jagoff who writes we’re our own enemy!”

I laughed, then bent over and wrote the Blues?—

“Are you joking?” Ben leaned closer. “And you wonder why I call you kid.”

I straightened and scowled up at him. “Look, you old fucks can go back to the days when everything was about the Wings, but?—”

“No, it ain’t that,” he replied. “But he said enemy, not rival. You don’t have to pick a team.”

Huh?

He took one step closer and pointed to the paper. “You wanna win that money? Write the 2013 realignment.”

Holy shit.

He…

He was a genius.

Fucking everything had gone south since then. We’d lost our biggest rivals because they were no longer in our division.

Damn near giddy all of a sudden, I did as told and added my name before I handed Jamaal my note and ten bucks. We had some time as he collected the others, so I hurried my way through an order of gin and tonics.

“And two Heineken!” Julia added.

“I got it.” Ben jumped into action.

I crossed the path to lower the volume down to zero, because we were in the last five-minute stretch.

“We have our answers!” Jamaal declared. “As always, the loudest cheer wins! Starting with—” He unfolded one note. “Detroit!”

Yeah, that one always got loud cheers. Whatever. We saw them twice a year. Big whoop.

“Next up!” Jamaal went on. “The Predators!”

“Fuck the Preds!” I boomed out.

Automatic reaction. I couldn’t help that. Try mention the Kings too…

Jamaal laughed as he read the third note. “Chelios!”

Oh, get over it. Only people over forty gave a shit. I looked over my shoulder and saw Ben smirking wryly.

He caught my curiosity. “Yeah, I was bitter when he was traded.”

I chuckled. Of course he was. My dad had been fucking furious.

“Fourth note!” Jamaal hollered. “The 2013 realignment!”

I whipped around again, and for one heart-stopping second, almost the entire establishment was silent. Then…came the laughter. And the cheers. And more cheers. There was no fucking doubt. Unless the fifth note contained magic, Ben and I had this in the bag.

As it turned out, the last note contained zero magic, because someone had jotted down fucking Minnesota? Seriously? If it hadn’t been for the fact that we were currently sucking ass, I would’ve gotten as high and mighty as we used to deserve to be. Minnesota saw us as rivals; we didn’t see them at all.

Two minutes before the game started, I was the lucky recipient of fifty bucks. I pocketed my original ten plus another, and then I handed Ben thirty.

“What’re you doing?” He frowned. “You won.”

“Because you gave me the answer!” I laughed. “Don’t be an idiot. This is more your win than mine, man.”

He couldn’t possibly see this as a handout.

He was reluctant about it, but he pocketed the money eventually.

Great. Now we could focus on winning the game.

* * *

I had to get out of here. I’d allow myself one last night, and then I was gone. Because none of this was real. It was a painful flashback to simpler times. More than that, it was a glimpse into a reality that didn’t belong to me. This was Trace’s life.

I didn’t work here. I didn’t live upstairs. I didn’t have the energy to scream at a TV.

But man, I fucking wished I did.

Trace and Jamaal shouted at our shitty play along with the rest of the patrons, while the knot in my stomach just grew. As did my envy. With Trace, I didn’t know what was worse. The fact that I wanted to start my life over and be him, or that I wanted to be with him. Because fucking hell, it was attraction this time around. He wasn’t a sweet woman with a kind smile who’d helped me in the ER. He was…crass, all male, hardworking, disgustingly generous, funny, and so goddamn beautiful that I constantly caught myself staring.

He had a hunger for life that balanced perfectly with a dose of working-class reality. I didn’t know what his dreams were in life, and I had no plans to stick around to find out, but I bet they were right up my alley. I just had a gut feeling that he was exactly the man I’d once wanted to be. Just…fuck, a place to call home, a job I enjoyed, money to catch a game every now and then, maybe a road trip with…

Alvin had wanted to see the ocean since he was little, and by the time I’d been able to afford it, Lindsey and I had started realizing we were reaching our expiration date. I’d been downright depressed, and she’d been understandably fed up with my inability to talk about my problems.

By the third period, I needed some air. We were down by four, and nobody was ordering anything, so I slipped out the kitchen door and into the hallway. After a quick bathroom break and drinking some water, I opened—or not. I frowned and gave the door a shove instead, and that worked.

The icy cold from the alley was a relief. A feeling that wouldn’t last long, but now I welcomed it.

I created a pile of snow with my boot to prevent the door from closing properly, and then I trailed down the stoop steps and filled my lungs with frigid air.

Fuck. Just yesterday, I had hated the cold with every fiber of my being. And here I was now… But that proved how fast an illusion could reel one in. Even though tomorrow’s worries were on my mind, I’d been able to push them out of sight to some degree today. I’d known this morning that I’d have a couple nice meals. I’d known I wasn’t going to freeze my ass off. My clothes were clean. When I asked Trace later if I could take a shower before I went to bed, I had no doubt he’d say yes.

I scrubbed my hands over my face. I should shave, but I wasn’t going to. I needed everything that kept me warmer. Without a car, I’d have no choice but to seek out options I’d managed to avoid for so long. It happened, of course. I’d spent the night at O’Hare. I’d spent more than a few nights riding the blue line. I’d been robbed when I’d foolishly fallen asleep at Union Station once. I’d accidentally stumbled upon a turf war between two bums fighting over a heat exhaust in Lincoln Park, and it’d resulted in me limping to the nearest urgent care with a stab wound in my calf.

I’d thought those days were over. I’d bought that car two years ago, cheap as fuck, constantly something wrong with it, but it’d been a place to sleep, and I’d found it easier to get jobs if I could expand my search field geographically.

I’d look into what kind of transit card I needed to buy tomorrow. The thirty bucks Trace had given me offered a bit of relief. I’d be able to see Alvin. Which settled it; he liked trains, so fuck the bus. Maybe I could convince him to leave the house.

This was better. I should focus on my problems, not the life Trace had. Not him, period. What the fuck was I thinking about him for anyway? It’d do me no good. It wasn’t like I had shit to offer him anyway. I was a fucking loser. I couldn’t take care of my own boy. I couldn’t take care of myself.

I was definitely leaving tomorrow. First thing in the morning, before Trace woke up.

This was his goddamn fault anyway. It wasn’t like me to fantasize about human touch or even an ounce of happiness. I’d gotten a couple years of sporadic exploring after the divorce, and that was evidently it for me. The sooner I got that through my skull, the better.

The kitchen door opened with a creaky protest, flooding this part of the alley with light, and I recognized the dark silhouette of Trace.

“There you are.” He looked down, and I noticed he had a smoke between his lips. He chuckled. “You made a doorstop outta snow. Who the fuck are you, man?”

Someone was lit.