as if that day in his office six months ago had changed everything between the two men. The wall Thomas had erected since then made Rollo feel like a stranger.
Rollo saw Thomas giving him the eye through a puff of cigar smoke and tried to smile. "Want another beer, T?"
"No. I'm good."
Thomas had taken the news about his injury very hard, but what man wouldn't? Rollo would never forget sitting at his desk across from Thomas and Nina, seeing the hopeful look on their faces, just before he dropped the bomb on them.
Sure, other couples had broken up in his office before, but this was the worst he'd ever witnessed. He explained the test results and waited for someone to say something, but they just sat there, marinating in the tension for several long moments. Then it happened—Nina let it rip right there in front of him—the list of everything Thomas had done wrong in the last four years. She told him it was over, and headed for the door.
For as long as he'd known Nina, Rollo had always thought of her as private and aloof. Apparently, she'd been saving up for one humdinger of a public display.
Thomas sat perfectly still through the whole thing. His face was cold and expressionless but his knuckles were white around the chair arms. He flinched when Nina slammed the door behind her.
Thomas was Rollo's patient, but he was also the best friend he'd ever had, and the only thing he could think to say was, "I'm so sorry, man."
But really, what else could he have said?
And since then, it seemed Thomas only wanted to work harder or stay home and listen to John Coltrane and Charlie Parker and get himself even more depressed. He hadn't had a date in six months. He didn't want to go out drinking with the rest of the ruggers after a match. He didn't want to talk about any of it. Not even to Pam.
Rollo let his eyes travel to the darkened living room, to the little cage he knew was hidden behind a big potted plant. At least Thomas now had that little ugly dog to keep him company. He and Pam thought that was a real positive sign.
Thomas was still giving him the eye.
Rollo smiled brightly.
"You can report to Pam that I'm fine—eating my vegetables, sleeping well, bathing daily, taking my vitamins."
Rollo shrugged, as if that wasn't exactly what he planned to do. He decided to change the subject. "So does the shipment meet with your approval?"
Thomas stared at the cigar balanced between his fingers and grinned.
The Cohiba Corona Especiale was more than a cigar—it was a work of art, a silken extravagance, a thing of beauty. He took a puff, savoring the delicate notes of honeyed tobacco, warm cocoa, and roasted nuts on the back of his tongue, tasting the heat with his brain, his eyeballs, his very soul, glorying in the pleasure of his one and only illicit vice.
Yes, it met with his approval, unlike most everything else in his life, and Thomas closed his eyes, thanking God once more that Rollo had a patient who was an official in the U.S. Customs Agency.
"It's mighty fine, Rollo. Stupendous. Send along my heartfelt thanks."
Rollo took a puff of his own. "Always do."
The men smiled at each other in conspiracy and Thomas took comfort in that brief exchange. Sure, things could be better, but he still had an occasional cigar. He had Rollo and Pam and his nephews. He had work and rugby. He supposed it was enough.
It would have to be.
"Hey, what the hell is that horrible sound?" Chick frowned and cocked his head as he returned to his seat.
"Hear it? It's like a cat puking up a hair ball."
"It's called jazz," Stephano muttered.
"No. Seriously. There it is again—"
Thomas jumped up, spun around, and peered into the dimly lit living room. Oh, great. He thought he could get away with keeping Hairy under wraps, but it looked like the jig was up. He jogged to the small pet crate in the corner. He yanked away the ficus tree, creating a shower of small, crisp leaves, then whipped off the old pillowcase.
Hairy was hacking his brains