“It’s coming from knowing you my whole damn life, and never seeing you as happy as you are right now. And I know it’s the therapy and all the quality time with me, but I think you did all this for her. I just don’t want to see it all go to waste. I’m telling you this as a recovering asshole myself. I don’t want to see you alone anymore. That’s all I’m saying.”

Things get heavy and silent for a minute, and after the last six months of heavy conversations and depressing stories from my past, I don’t want to be so serious anymore. A lot of good has come from the conversations we’ve had, but I’m ready to get back to the brothers we used to be.

“Thanks, man,” I answer, tossing back the ice cold water. “But for what it’s worth, you’re still an asshole.”

On my way from Murph’s shop, I stop by the souvenir shop, like I always do. Mateo is there, opening the store when I walk up.

He only has a few more weeks before he leaves for college, so I try to stop in as much as I can. When I walk toward the counter to greet him, I spot someone coming out of the stock room, and I stop in my tracks.

Ezra is in business attire, brown slacks and a white linen button-up. He looks to have bulked up a bit since I saw him last. The dark circles are gone from under his eyes, and he has new ink peeking out of his short sleeves.

He freezes when he sees me, and it's silent in the shop for a long moment.

“Hey,” he says finally.

“Hey.”

He moves toward the front and gives Mateo a register full of cash and a spreadsheet to sign. They go along with their business, and I almost leave, feeling uncomfortable. But Ezra and I are in the same room without killing each other, and I kind of want to see how much farther I can take this.

When they finish talking, Ezra turns toward me. “Hey, can we talk a second outside?”

“Of course,” I reply. A part of me considers reverting to my old ways. Defensive, violent, easily provoked. Instead, I wave goodbye to Mateo and walk outside to wait for him.

As he emerges from the store, Ezra shuffles uncomfortably in front of me before he finally speaks. Dr. Hightower always says the uncomfortable conversations will pay off ten to one, and after today, I hope I have ten years of good fortune.

Finally, he clears his throat. “How is she?” he asks, and I have to think for a moment before responding.

“Shelby?”

“Yeah, of course Shelby. I just want to know that she’s okay. I mean, she checks in every once in a while, but I haven’t really spoken to her, and that fine, but—”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupt him. “You haven’t seen Shelby in six months?”

In my pocket, my phone starts buzzing, and mindlessly, I silence it.