“Do you speak Klingon?” Sully asks.

“Working on it. Thinking about maybe writing my next play in half verse, half Klingon.”

“Or maybe write it in all verse, wait till it blows up and Lin-Manuel Miranda partners with you, and then translate it into Klingon,” I suggest.

“Good suggestion, boss man,” Troy says.

We dive straight into wedding business. “Are you guys ready for this weekend?”

Sully rubs his palms. “I am pumped. My wife is too. She’s stocking up on tissues. She loves weddings. Cries at every single one, even if she doesn’t know the couple. Doesn’t matter. She goes full waterworks.”

“And she likes this? Crying over people she doesn’t even know?” That’s Troy’s style—he hasn’t met a question he’s afraid to ask.

“She says declarations of love hit her right here.” He taps his chest. “She likes weddings because she cries.”

“That makes no sense. How does that make any sense?” Troy asks.

“I guess you’ve never needed a good cry,” Sully says with a shrug and a sip of his coconut latte.

“If I need a good cry, I watch Brian’s Song,” Troy says.

“If I needed a good cry, and I literally never have, I think about the day The Beatles broke up,” I offer.

Troy furrows his brow. “You weren’t even alive then.”

“That’s what makes me sad. I’ll never see them perform.” I tap my phone and return to the details. “Here’s everything you need to know about the wedding.”

We review the plan. When I’m done, Sully counts off on his fingers. “Surf and turf bachelor dinner? Check. Woman? Check. Tux? Check. But the big question is, can I wear my new Nikes?”

Troy jumps in. “Nikes as in sneakers?”

“I don’t mean Nike as in a boutonniere. Unless Nike got into the boutonniere business.” He grabs his phone. “Side note: look into viability of lapel decor as possible new business venture.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him that florists have already cornered the market on boutonnieres. Instead, I focus on the practical, even though I already know the answer to my question. “Is Nike making tuxedo-wear shoes now?”

“That would be awesome, but no.” He slides his thumb across the phone screen, showing us a gorgeous set of gleaming white shelves filled with . . . sneakers. All sorts of sneakers. “My latest score is the new Air VaporMax FK. Check ’em out. They’re dope.”

“You actually collected all those pairs? For what? To look at?” Troy asks.

Sully scoffs. “Dude, they’re like stocks. I’m going to turn around and sell these babies. Well, not the VaporMax, because they’re too sick for words. But the others. If you buy quick and sell fast, you can make a nice profit. Always hustling, always looking for an angle.”

“I completely understand where you’re coming from with the hustle,” I cut in. “That said, I don’t think you should wear sneakers to the wedding.”

“For what it’s worth, I never wear sneakers when I’m working,” Troy offers. “Not a wedding and not at my other job either.”

Sully finishes off his latte, considers a moment, then stares at Troy. “Hey. What’s your other job? Writing plays?”

Troy glances away, his voice lowering. “That doesn’t pay the bills yet.”

“What does, then?”

“I do a bunch of stuff at night,” he says, his cheeks reddening a bit.

“Like what?” Sully presses. “You know what I do. Manage a Foot Locker.”

Troy takes a breath like this is hard for him. “I do a little construction, a little fire service, some delivery.”

Sully claps his shoulder. “Don’t be embarrassed, man. Nothing wrong with an honest day’s work, or an honest night’s labor.”

Wait. Is Troy’s night job what I think it might be?

“Speaking of honest work, Jason, who’s the lady you’re bringing with you this weekend?” Troy asks.

“She’s just a good friend. That’s all.”

Troy snickers. “Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.”

Sully slaps his palm on the table, shouting, “Hamlet!”

“But can you do that line in Klingon?” I ask, successfully sending the conversation down a new rabbit hole and away from Truly.

When she texts me later to tell me the location for Tuesday’s pub visit, it feels vaguely like a date. Like we’re a couple.

But that’s ridiculous.

This is simply a project, and that’s all it’ll ever be.

And that’s all I want.

13

Truly: Why am I looking at my clothes early in the morning, already considering options for tonight? There aren’t that many choices. My wardrobe is simple—black with a side of jeans.

Charlotte: You look foxy in black. And in jeans.

Truly: I’m not trying to look foxy! And really, what I wear this evening when I go to a pub with Jason doesn’t matter much, right? I’ll just dress like me.

Charlotte: The you look is a good look.

Truly: All right. Favorite skinny jeans it is. I’m ready for tonight and I’m planning on being a model citizen.

Charlotte: BAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Truly: You doubt me?

Charlotte: Of course not. I’m watching a Roomba cat video, not laughing at your efforts at model citizenship.

Truly: And for that, I can’t wait to come back to you tomorrow and tell you I was an angel. For now, I’m off to meet Presley for a cuppa.