“Kind of like making music,” Cal smirked.

“Kind of,” I said sadly. “Maybe that’s why it suited me. But Bob refused to let me stay in that role. If I was going to take over the company someday, he insisted I start climbing the ladder. And once I moved into the office, every aspect of my job depressed me. Inputting data for time cards and cost codes, filing invoices, preparing liens, validating insurances for subcontractors, the hours I spent commuting in and out of the city every day, my gray cubicle. And let’s not forget Bob’s constant, condescending tone regarding my lack of leadership skills. I couldn’t please him, no matter how hard I tried, and I swear, each day shaved off a little piece of my soul.”

“So, what? You quit? Good for you.”

“Oh, it’s better than that.” I took a long pull of my beer and smiled sarcastically. “I got fired.”

Cal’s brows rose.

“You heard me. Bob fucking fired me.”

I stuffed a couple fries in my mouth, shrugged, and then told Cal the whole story, beginning with the argument that had resulted in my termination. “I’d been cross-checking a set of invoices and discovered that Bob had purchased and charged one client for building materials—considerably more than the project had called for—and then used those extra materials on another project, while overcharging the second client too.”

“That dirty dog.”

“I confronted Bob about it and he shrugged it off, said it was no big deal, that everyone did it. But I refused to send the invoices like that. It was the first time I’d ever really stood up to him, and it didn’t go over well.”

“What happened?”

“He said, and I quote, ‘Christ, Joe. You’re as much of a pussy now as you’ve always been.’ I told him being a pussy was better than being a crook, and he took a wild swing at me.”

“He hit you?”

I shook my head. “I ducked, and he missed. And then I laughed because I knew that would piss him off even more. After that, he told me to clean out my desk, get the fuck out of his office, and never come back.”

Cal was peering at me, rapt. “Jesus.”

“I guess he felt bad after that. A couple days later he sent me an e-mail apologizing and asking me to come back, but I never responded to it.” I shrugged, stared down into my glass. “He sold the company a few months later, retired to Vail, and no doubt wrote me off as another dead son. We haven’t spoken since.”

“Damn, Harp. I’m sorry to hear that. Really. What about Ingrid? How’s she doing?”

“Happily remarried and living in Texas. She’s going to flip when she hears we’ve reconnected.”

We finished eating, ordered more beer, and Cal fixed me with his eyes. “Do you ever think about it?” he said. “Playing music, I mean? Do you ever wish you’d come to Brooklyn?”

I bit the inside of my cheek and ran my thumb along the metal edge of the table, pressing it into the pointy, ninety-degree angle of the corner until it hurt.