The Truth

“You tired already?” I laugh. “Thought you said you got enough cardio.”

“Fucking cardio’s fine,” Ricky says, “it’s the knees that are killin’ me. I’m moving at least twice as much weight as you are. I’m gonna have to get that glucosamine shit the way things are going.”

He’s got a point. “Yeah, we can do that.”

We look around and spy a coffee shop up ahead. Best of all, it’s got outdoor seating, so we’re able to snag a table without offending any of the other customers. A minute later, a waitress comes over. “Coffee. Black.”

“Come on, Uncle Daniel,” Ricky says. “Live a little, unclench some.”

“Fine,” I reply, glancing at the menu on the wall. “And a cranberry bran muffin.”

“A bran muffin is not living,” Ricky argues. He looks at the waitress. “Iced spiced latte, double shots of whey in that, with two breakfast sandwiches, whole wheat, please.”

After our waitress leaves, he gives me a look, and I return it. “Do you know how much sugar is in a muffin?” I counter. “And you could muscle down some.”

“No thanks,” he says, rubbing his flat, and apparently empty, stomach. “Besides, I need some extra protein after this run.”

I laugh, I can still see my building in the distance behind us. “The run we didn’t do, you mean?”

He shrugs and laughs too. “The best one we’ve ever done.” He looks around the coffee shop patio in emphasis. “Seriously, I’ve got to get you doing something else for cardio. You know leanness is like, ninety percent diet, right?”

“Coffee’s good for that.”

“True, true . . . especially green coffee,” Ricky says, and I realize that shooting the shit over coffee with Ricky and over a beer with Billy are both things I should do more frequently. Mental health and emotional health are as important as my physical health, after all.

“So, what are you thinking after our conversation yesterday?” Ricky broaches carefully after our food arrives, shoveling half a sandwich into his mouth in one bite. Somehow, he doesn’t miss a single crumb. He’s just got a maw like a great white shark.

I pick at my muffin, which is just as sweet as I expected but surprisingly tasty. “I don’t know yet.”

“That’s bullshit,” he declares, rolling his eyes dramatically. “I didn’t ask what conclusion you’ve come to. I asked what you’re thinking, which you are absolutely doing. You’re an over-analyzer by nature, so I know you’ve had at least two dozen streams of thought. And you play shit close to your vest, do it at work too. Fine when it’s Fox, but this time you need to open up a little maybe. That’ll help me” —he puts his palm to his chest— “to help you.”

He points at me, and I have to admit he’s right. At work, keeping my thoughts private except to very certain, very trusted individuals is how I grew successful. Even the people I trust with some of my thoughts don’t get them all.

But this isn’t about budgets. This is about something I’m not sure I’m prepared for.

“When did you get so damn smart?” I ask, trying to delay answering while I figure out what started this change in me, in Tiffany, in us.

But Ricky takes another bite and chews patiently, waiting me out.

This is a lot harder than I thought it’d be. When it comes to business, I take input from my teams, but I’m decisive and sure. On this, though, there are too many questions, too much risk, and I realize I would like Ricky’s opinion.

“She kissed me.”

Ricky coughs suddenly, his eyes going wide as he chokes on his too-big bite. I guess I finally found something that’s too much for that great white’s jaw of his. I laugh, but when I see the flush moving up his face, I realize something’s seriously wrong. “You okay, man?”

He shakes his head, knocking on his chest with his fist.

I reach over, slapping his back. But it doesn’t help, so I do it again, harder and louder, which gets the waitress’s attention.

Instead of being helpful, she screams. “Oh, my God! Is he gonna die?”

That gets everyone’s attention. Thankfully, a lady comes over from the table next to us. “Heimlich him!”

“Look at the size of him!” her companion scoffs. “No one can reach around him.” She holds her arms out, visually measuring the size of the circle she’s created versus Ricky’s chest.

I know what I have to do. I slam my palm on Ricky’s back again, as hard as I can this time. Even in his compromised state, he glares at me. I take that as a sign that it’s working and do it again.

That one seems to do the trick. A bit of egg flies out of his mouth, a remarkably small chunk to have caused so much trouble, but I’m glad to see it. He coughs, moving air, thankfully, and then swallows heavily a few times.