But he ran because standing there was impossible. He fled into the darkness and tears streaked down his cheeks as he ran and he ran and he ran – and...when he stopped, it was only because his lungs were burning. He bent forward and red swam before his vision and he vomited onto the pavement – he vomited out bile and he vomited out shame and he vomited out fury and impotent rage. And his dad’s mac and cheese. Mostly that, really. And when he coughed the last chunk out of the way, he drew a. “Cary’s just in the kitchen,” I said, choosing to ignore his question. “Please, have a seat. Nothing is reserved, so make yourselves comfortable and tell me what I can get you to drink.” “A white wine for Andrea, and Scotch rocks for me, if you can,” he said. “Of course,” I answered. “The same Chablis Cary’s drinking?” I asked the stunning Andrea. “That would be lovely,” she replied with a brilliant smile. As I moved toward the bar next to the French doors to the patio Cary walked into the room. More

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