But then, I haven’t come here to impress.

I enter the teeming club, where swirls of cigarette smoke mingle with the bluesy notes of a jazz quartet. The musicians on the small stage pour their souls into their horns, strings, and keys as couples on the dance floor engage in a moody Lindy Hop.

The melancholy tune well befits my purpose for coming. It’s true I could apologize, as could Charles, and the bruises we inflicted would gradually fade. But beneath the surface, our long-held resentments will fester unless one of us changes course. Perhaps a break is all we need. In the meanwhile, it only makes sense for him to continue the show. And thanks to Christopher Clayton Hutton, there’s no need to divvy up supplies, bookings, and the rights to each of our tricks. Like the branches of a grafted tree, how would we ever begin to unravel them?

All that’s left for me to hear is that Charles will be fine on his own—despite my suspecting as much.

While I indeed mentored his showman skills and designed our flashiest acts, he’s the one who performs them. Plus, even back in our days of bit shows and small-time, he shrewdly knew to charm house managers and publicity folks. As I scribbled away backstage, consumed by new ideas and improvements, he was planting seeds for future bookings that would otherwise have taken us years, even decades, to secure.

Part of me aches in admitting it, but the fact is: he’ll be more than fine.

My gaze roams the dimly lit space. Suits are fairly easy to spot in rooms dominated by servicemen.

“Eh, sweetheart!” a GI calls to me, slurring. He can’t be more than seventeen. “How ’bout a special send-off?”

Slipping past him, I ignore more leering eyes. I was confident Charles would be here to wind down. He could have come and gone by now or simply chosen another place. I can wait at his motel, but who’s to say when he’ll return after a night of gallivanting?

Again I scan the room, more thoroughly. That’s when I spy his profile. At a far corner table, he sits with glass in hand and eyes downcast. He’s alone, lost in thought. A surprise. A relief.

Our spat could actually be taking a toll…

Nevertheless, I plod toward him with proposal ready. He could agree resentfully. Or eagerly. Perhaps he’ll at least suggest I reconsider. He could attempt to drill reason into me over fighting “some other countries’ war,” point out the sheer insanity of what I’m contemplating. He could challenge me to compromise and to hash out our issues.

Or with sincerity, he could just ask me to stay.