Lightning Over Salvatore's

The fedora was the first thing Marcus noticed—same battered hat David had worn through twelve years of friendship, two failed marriages, and now this: a reunion neither of them had wanted but both had needed. June had always said she'd burn it. Instead, she'd buried him in it.

'You kept it,' Marcus said, gesturing to the empty chair beside her where the hat rested like a sleeping animal.

June's fingers traced the brim. 'It still smells like him. Smoke and that awful cologne he insisted made him mysterious.' Her smile didn't reach her eyes. 'How's the firm?'

'Miserable. The spinach in my salad is the only green thing I've seen all week.' A piece clung stubbornly to his front tooth—a detail he'd discover too late, in the restaurant's tarnished mirror, moments before walking out into rain.

June laughed. It was a real laugh, the first of the evening. Outside, lightning cracked the sky open, rain sudden and violent against the windows. The restaurant's neon sign flickered, casting her face in alternating pink and shadow.

'I never thanked you,' she said. 'For the eulogy. For what you said about him.'

Marcus swallowed hard. The truth was, he'd almost backed out. Had stood in his bathroom that morning, razor hovering over his jaw, remembering the last conversation they'd had. David, drunk and weeping, confessing he'd been embezzling clients for years. Marcus had hung up on him. Two days later, the car crash.

'David was—' Marcus started.

'A thief,' June said. 'A liar. But he was my husband. And you were his friend. Even when he didn't deserve it.' She reached across the table, her hand covering his. 'Especially then.'

A waitress appeared. 'More wine?'

'Please,' Marcus said. When she was gone, he continued. 'I thought about calling him back. That last night. I didn't.'

June's thumb moved over his knuckles. 'He knew. He told me once that you were the only person who never stopped caring, even when you should have. That's why he called you. Not to confess. To say goodbye.'

The spinach in Marcus's tooth caught the restaurant's dim light. He'd be mortified later. But for now, June's hand was warm, the wine was coming, and for the first time in three years, the weight in his chest felt lighter than air.

'To thieves,' Marcus raised his glass when it arrived.

'To friends,' June corrected, and clinked hers against it. Outside, the sky broke open again—lightning like forgiveness, if you believed in that sort of thing. Marcus didn't. But as June's fingers tightened around his, he thought maybe he could start.