Brick scrolls through his texts. “Gotta iron out some wrinkles between my boys.”

“Don’t forget to starch them,” I joke.

Brick grins. “I heard of that,” he says. “Is that a real thing?”

“Sure.” My mom used to starch my dad’s work shirts. It was old school. The memory floats, like a cloud of starch dust. Standing under the ironing board, around my mom’s knees. Puffs of steam, watching the powder float down. Thinking it magical, like snow.

Like snow.

Long before snow ruined them.

Brick grimaces. “Who wants their fabric all stiff, like cardboard? Hard to work it out in my head.”

I let myself smile, but it’s tight. Can’t forget what his boys do. Can’t ever forget. “Not stiff, more like … crisp. If you dig neatly pressed uniform shirts, or whatever.”

Brick wears a black denim shirt with red trim. Red cap on backwards. Variations on a theme. He looks good.

He turns his phone over so he can’t see the screen. “Lemme get some pie.”

I serve him, and he chats at me about whatever. He likes talking to me, I think. He always did. We get along.

“You wanna come up to my place tonight? I’ve got people coming over.”

He already knows what I’m going to say. “That doesn’t make it different from any other night, does it?”

He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m the host with the most. Can’t keep the ladies away.”

Most of the ladies. It goes unsaid. “Thanks, anyway,” I say.

He sighs. “I miss having you come by. We had some good times, didn’t we?”

I slide Brick’s pie plate away, try to clear my mind. No good comes from thinking in reverse. Instead, I focus on how it’s pizza-night Thursday. What will go on my half, what will go on Kimberly’s. She’s more predictable. I like to shake it up. Because I can. Tonight I have to work later than usual, but the food will still be waiting for me when I get home.

Brick’s phone is buzzing off the hook, but he stays right with me.

“Are you gonna check that?” I ask. He’s barely glanced at it in ages.

“I should,” he says. “Don’t want to. Somebody’s got beef and they wanna drag me into it.”

“Where’s the beef?”

Brick offers me half a grin. Hmm. He usually laughs too hard at my bad jokes. He’s trying to look out for me.

He glances at his phone. Double takes. Picks it up and scrolls.

“Hey, do me a favor,” he says. “Pop on the local news.”

“Sure.” The remote is right there below the counter, by the silverware bin. A couple of clicks and I’m seeing what he meant.

The six o’clock news leads with it. “Officer-involved shooting…”