“Are you crying?”

I hadn’t even realized.

“Their plight is very moving to me,” I said, quickly pulling myself together. “A business . . . struggling to keep up with the technology . . . online booking.”

Harris, no idiot, didn’t say anything to that. I let out a sigh and shut my eyes.

“I’m just wiped out from my drive. Exhausted.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to come back,” he said slowly. “Really hard.”

Did he know? On some level? Maybe he did. Maybe he was about to confess something and then I would confess and this would be the start of us finally breaking through. Unfortunate timing, since I wasn’t in the mood to break through right now. But I might feel differently in the moment, the way people who suddenly accept Jesus Christ into their heart were like, Jesus who? just seconds before being born again. I sat up, bracing myself. He was finding the words.

“When I get home from Olympic”—Olympic was a recording studio in London—“it always takes me a couple days to readjust.”

“Yeah,” I said, waiting for the confession.

“To get back into the swing of things.”

“Right.”

“But then I do.”

Oh. No confession. He was saying there were limits to how long one could mope around and apparently he did it the right amount.