kind of pleasure cruise.”
Mike straightened up, clasped Pete on the shoulder and began to head toward his own desk to shut down his computer.
“I hear you, man. Whatever you think works,” Mike said. “What are you up to tonight?”
Pete thought for a second. “Nothing, but I need to get some other stuff done here first.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. You wanna grab a drink later?”
“It is later, man,” Mike said. He was as literal as they came, Pete thought.
“Let’s hit the Pub, in the Gables,” Pete said. “We haven’t been there in forever. I’ll meet you there in an hour or so.”
Mike shrugged and laughed. “Sure, why not. I don’t have anything better to do. I’ll call up Emily and see if she wants to join us.”
Emily. He hadn’t seen her in months. Not since she’d left the Miami Times and moved south to Homestead with her new husband, Rick, a well-built and well-meaning clod of a man. She’d worked a few uncomfortable months as a designer at the Times after breaking up with Pete, and before settling down with Rick. Even then, Pete had seen little of her. The wounds were too fresh, he thought, and he was too immersed in drinking his sadness away to even consider trying to build—or rebuild—any kind of relationship with Emily. After she’d left him, they made a few feeble efforts at becoming friends, but Pete didn’t have it in him. She’d left him, and in her place was a creaking emptiness. Pete suspected that she’d strayed from him toward the end, and he could never really forgive her for that. He’d never be certain. The nights out without a call. The way she’d dress up more than usual for happy hour with her friends from work. He’d never gotten the nerve to call her out, too busy spinning around in his own depression, his father recently buried and his career soon to follow. But he knew. Still, he also didn’t want to hate her. So, they’d talked from time to time—terse e-mail exchanges or drunk dials in the middle of the night that usually involved her hanging up on him. If one’s definition of friendship was loose and based on familiarity between two people, then, sure, they were friends. But they weren’t friends by Pete’s definition, and that’s what mattered. Their relationship now had become one of resignation—Pete resigned to the fact that this was all they’d ever be to each other and Emily resigned to dealing with Pete, sneaking glances and side-stepping his random, almost unintentional advances. He loved her; she would never love him again.
The idea of hanging out with her tonight sounded less than appealing, but he did want to talk to Mike. And he did want a drink.
“Sure, that sounds good,” Pete said in a monotone. Mike knew as well as anyone what their history was, but he was friends with Emily and wasn’t about to choose who he hung out with based on Pete’s bruised heart. “Haven’t seen her in a while,” Pete added.
Mike slid into his backpack and shook Pete’s hand. “Alright, I’ll see you there, then,” he said, walking toward the elevators. “Don’t stay too late, whatever the fuck you’re doing.”
Chapter Eight
P ete waited a few minutes after hearing the elevator doors close to be certain Mike was gone; then he began logging back into his computer. He had been desperate to do this earlier, but after his war of words with Vance kicked off the shift, Pete couldn’t risk being caught doing something other than work. He looked around and saw only the web editors and a few custodians.
He logged into the Miami Times’ employee network and hit the “home” button on his Internet browser, which took him to the company Intranet, which housed a number of basic reporting and editing tools and databases, including an electronic newspaper archive, access to the Associated Press archives, and a variety of personal search engines that were meant to be used by enterprising young journalists looking to find sources or connect the
Mike straightened up, clasped Pete on the shoulder and began to head toward his own desk to shut down his computer.
“I hear you, man. Whatever you think works,” Mike said. “What are you up to tonight?”
Pete thought for a second. “Nothing, but I need to get some other stuff done here first.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. You wanna grab a drink later?”
“It is later, man,” Mike said. He was as literal as they came, Pete thought.
“Let’s hit the Pub, in the Gables,” Pete said. “We haven’t been there in forever. I’ll meet you there in an hour or so.”
Mike shrugged and laughed. “Sure, why not. I don’t have anything better to do. I’ll call up Emily and see if she wants to join us.”
Emily. He hadn’t seen her in months. Not since she’d left the Miami Times and moved south to Homestead with her new husband, Rick, a well-built and well-meaning clod of a man. She’d worked a few uncomfortable months as a designer at the Times after breaking up with Pete, and before settling down with Rick. Even then, Pete had seen little of her. The wounds were too fresh, he thought, and he was too immersed in drinking his sadness away to even consider trying to build—or rebuild—any kind of relationship with Emily. After she’d left him, they made a few feeble efforts at becoming friends, but Pete didn’t have it in him. She’d left him, and in her place was a creaking emptiness. Pete suspected that she’d strayed from him toward the end, and he could never really forgive her for that. He’d never be certain. The nights out without a call. The way she’d dress up more than usual for happy hour with her friends from work. He’d never gotten the nerve to call her out, too busy spinning around in his own depression, his father recently buried and his career soon to follow. But he knew. Still, he also didn’t want to hate her. So, they’d talked from time to time—terse e-mail exchanges or drunk dials in the middle of the night that usually involved her hanging up on him. If one’s definition of friendship was loose and based on familiarity between two people, then, sure, they were friends. But they weren’t friends by Pete’s definition, and that’s what mattered. Their relationship now had become one of resignation—Pete resigned to the fact that this was all they’d ever be to each other and Emily resigned to dealing with Pete, sneaking glances and side-stepping his random, almost unintentional advances. He loved her; she would never love him again.
The idea of hanging out with her tonight sounded less than appealing, but he did want to talk to Mike. And he did want a drink.
“Sure, that sounds good,” Pete said in a monotone. Mike knew as well as anyone what their history was, but he was friends with Emily and wasn’t about to choose who he hung out with based on Pete’s bruised heart. “Haven’t seen her in a while,” Pete added.
Mike slid into his backpack and shook Pete’s hand. “Alright, I’ll see you there, then,” he said, walking toward the elevators. “Don’t stay too late, whatever the fuck you’re doing.”
Chapter Eight
P ete waited a few minutes after hearing the elevator doors close to be certain Mike was gone; then he began logging back into his computer. He had been desperate to do this earlier, but after his war of words with Vance kicked off the shift, Pete couldn’t risk being caught doing something other than work. He looked around and saw only the web editors and a few custodians.
He logged into the Miami Times’ employee network and hit the “home” button on his Internet browser, which took him to the company Intranet, which housed a number of basic reporting and editing tools and databases, including an electronic newspaper archive, access to the Associated Press archives, and a variety of personal search engines that were meant to be used by enterprising young journalists looking to find sources or connect the
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