He thinks: I almost didn't cross the bar.This is what comes, sometimes, on the nights when he's in the kitchen at midnight watching Elijah cook — the specific thought, not with anxiety, not as a what-if that destabilises the present, but as the plain acknowledgement of what was true.I almost didn't cross the bar.He had been in the habit, in the years after Dom, of not crossing things. Not meeting the things that were in front of him, not allowing himself to receive what was being offered, not — wanting. The penthouse had been the architectural expression of this: a space that required nothing, a life that had eliminated the variables that could produce the specific pain of losing.He'd been good at not crossing things.And then there had been a bar, and a voice cracking trying to hold steady, and a cocktail napkin with the numbers worked out on it, and a decision that had been, he understood now, not a calculation at all. The calculation had been the cover story. The real thing had
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