2. Byrd

2

Byrd

" P lease tell me you at least got laid before you left the city."

"Reggie."

She ignores the warning growl in my voice. Probably because I sound more tired than threatening.

"It's been over five months, Byrd."

Ouch . Actually, double ouch . Reggie is the only person in my life besides my family who still insists on calling me Coen. If she's breaking out the nickname, it means she's trying to make a point.

"We only signed the divorce papers yesterday," I remind her.

"After being separated for five months . And now what? Your plan is to wallow for another five, alone in the middle of nowhere?"

"It's a three-quarter-million-dollar cabin in the redwoods, Reggie." I smile at the thought. "It's perfect for wallowing."

"Unacceptable." Even through the Bluetooth in my 4-Runner, I can tell she's not amused. "I have a job offer for you."

"I'm not coming home." I'm already past Santa Rosa, the last real bastion of civilization in Sonoma County. Only winter-blue hills and bare vineyards line the last stretch of highway between me and towering solitude.

"It's not in Tilburg. In fact, you can do it from your mansion in the woods." Her voice softens. "But you should come home sometime, Coen. We miss you."

It's nine hours later in the Netherlands, which means she's probably curled up in her loft bedroom with a glass of wine and her laptop. I think about changing the subject, asking her if she's started the new season of White Lotus yet, or if she's rewatching one of her nineties teen soap operas for the hundredth time.

"What kind of job, Reggie? I have wallowing to do."

She snorts, letting me pretend it's a joke because she's known me since way before Lara and she's a good friend.

"There's this kid…"

"I'm not handling private auditions anymore," I cut in. "And I'm on sabbatical from Cirque."

"It's not an audition. Well, more of an evaluation. He's already been accepted to Cici."

"Then why does he need an evaluation?" The Netherlands Circus Conservatory, which Reggie runs and affectionately calls "Cici," has a pretty stringent audition process.

"It's a special case. He was supposed to start last fall, but he was injured right before the start of term. Busted his distal radius, scaphoid, and two metacarpals."

"Shit. Training? Or fucking around?" Talented circus kids are rarely risk-averse and are prone to dangerous hobbies.

"Training. Home gym." There's a sharp lilt to the last words, and I shift in my seat, glad Reggie can't see the guilty reaction. Commercial gyms go under after a claim like that and work hard to prevent accidents. Home rigs are completely unregulated, rarely insured, and always a little dangerous. Not that that stops those of us who can afford them. I'll be training at the cabin with no one around and spotty cell service by tomorrow afternoon, and Reggie knows it.

When I don't say anything, she continues, "He's been rehab training since the beginning of the year, and his parents are adamant that he'll be ready to join the next class in the fall."

"You held his spot?" I'm not totally surprised. The school only takes about twenty kids a year out of hundreds of submissions. If they gave him one, he must have earned it.

"We want him. The kid's a fucking magician on the rope." The banked excitement in her voice stirs an unexpected flutter of interest in my own beaten heart. "He could have gone anywhere, but he chose our little corner of the circus world."

"Why?" I'm genuinely curious, not trying to sound like an asshole, but Reggie bristles.

"Because we might be small, but we're a good school, asshole."

Yeah … my enthusiasm might be out of practice .

"You should know," she adds. Reggie and I met at NCC, and I grew up a circus kid in Tilburg. I do know.

"So you want me to check him out? Make sure he's actually ready?" I'm almost to Cloverdale, where I'll ditch the 101 and start to lose cell service. "What if he's not?"

"You've got four months. Make him ready."

"I'm not a coach, Reggie. And I'm sure as hell not in any position to be a therapist if it goes south."

"You're a good guy, Coen. You make people feel comfortable in stressful situations, and you recognize when to push and when to go gently. You've also got one of the best eyes for talent in the business, and you know the rope. Shit, you haven't performed in years, and you still train like a pro every week. "

"That's a lot of very flattering bullshit that still doesn't explain why you don't have one of your own coaches do the evaluation."

"Because he's in California. Mendocino is a lot closer to LA than Tilburg."

"There are a lot of great coaches in LA."

"Jesus, Coen. Take the fucking job. You need something to do in that house besides wallow and think about the bitch who left you."

"She's not a bitch." The response is automatic, although I'm not sure I still believe it.

"Fine. The soul-sucking vampire in Lululemon that you were always way too good for." Believe it or not, Reggie never liked Lara.

"Stop." I sigh. "I'll take the job. But don't pretend I'm not doing you a favor."

"You're my hero, and I adore you. I'll send the paperwork right now."

"I'm driving, Reg."

"So? Sign it when you stop for gas."

"I'm not doing that. I'll look it over when I get to the cabin and send it back tomorrow."

"Good enough. Now say thank you, because you know I saved you from becoming a reclusive sasquatch, and tell me you love me."

"I'll get back to you on that after I've spent a week with a teenager in my sasquatch sanctuary."

"He's not a teenager. He's twenty." She laughs like she can see my eye roll through the phone. "Oh, and there's one more thing…"

"Seriously?"

"Just remember you already said yes. "

"Reggie." I'm so close. I can smell the fog-drowned forest.

"His name is Jericho Wash. He's Gabriel's little brother."