Cyril Tellier swigged his beer.

His third one, to be exact.

To be even more exact, he was downing his third beer before noon.

It wasn’t like he had better things to do on this balmy September morning, considering the circumstances.

“I worry about you, buddy.” Adrien’s voice brimmed with sympathy. “You’ve been through a lot.”

Cyril pictured his friend’s kind eyes peering at him in concern.

“Life’s been a first-class bitch,” he agreed. “But as long as I’m capable of drinking craft beer as fine as this, I’ll hold on to it. You have no reason to worry.”

Adrien snorted but didn’t comment.

Cyril extended his hand in front of him and fumbled for his glass, his fingers catching nothing but air. Then he heard something slide across the table. Had to be his tumbler inching toward his hand with a little help from Adrien.

Good man.

There. Cyril felt a cold, smooth surface touch the back of his hand. He grabbed the glass and carefully lifted it to his mouth. His nostrils caught the bittersweet smell. Then the foam coated his lips. He took a long, appreciative sip, savoring the passage of the delicious liquid over his tongue and down his throat, and delighting at how it quenched his thirst and cooled his whole body.

The brew he’d favored for years without knowing why now offered a new sensory discovery every single time. It was still the same smoked malt but infinitely richer in subtle smells, tastes, and aftertastes—things he hadn’t noticed before the accident. In his previous life. A life so different and so far away that he sometimes wondered if he’d dreamed it up.

“So,” he finally said, interrupting the awkward silence. “Why did you bring me here? What’s so special about this café?”

“Several things.” Adrien perked up, obviously happy Cyril had asked that question. “For one, it’s an easy walk from your new apartment.”

I’ll be the judge of what’s easy.

“Remember our itinerary?” Adrien asked. “Two right turns, then about twenty meters down rue Cadet, and you’re at the entrance of La Bohème on your right. It doesn’t get more straightforward than that.”

“Easy,” Cyril said, doing his best to conceal his sarcasm.

“Second reason,” Adrien continued. “The food here is amazing—the best you can get in a Paris bistro. And on top of that, Jeanne—one of the waiters—is a friend. She’ll take care of you.”

“Perfect.” Cyril smirked. “So next time I send my soup to the floor and my ravioli across the room, I won’t need to call Mom or Gerrie.”

Not that he’d asked Gerrie for help with anything lately. She’d made it crystal clear she didn’t want to be his “nurse.”

He doubted she still wanted to be his girlfriend.

“I’m sure your mom and Geraldine are always happy to give you a hand,” Adrien said a little too cheerfully. “But you can be autonomous here with Jeanne around to keep an eye on you.”

Right. Of course. If by “autonomous,” one understood switching from dependence on people in your inner circle to people outside it. But Adrien had meant well. And when Cyril needed him most, Adrien had left his wife and infant back in Bordeaux and cancelled important tournaments. He had basically put his life on hold to be by Cyril’s side in those dark first weeks after the accident. And now he traveled to Paris every Thursday, covering hundreds of kilometers each way, just to spend some time with him.

Shame warmed Cyril’s ears. A bit of indulgence was the least his friend deserved for his dedication. “I appreciate—”

“Speak of the devil.” Adrien interrupted him. “Hi, Jeanne. How have you been?”

Cyril heard what sounded like cheek kisses, pats, and chairs moving.

“I’m great, but La Bohème isn’t the same without you and Fritz,” a throaty female voice said.

“She’s referring to my computer chess program,” Adrien explained to Cyril. “I used to play here against Fritz every afternoon.”

“You’re Cyril, right?” Jeanne asked. “Adrien tells me you’ve moved to rue Buffault. You should know that none of the bistros on your street are as good as this one.”

Cyril smiled. “I don’t doubt it. Your judgment is obviously unbiased.”

“Don’t be a smartass,” Jeanne said. “Besides, I wasn’t finished. You see, half of the staff at La Bohème are fans of your music. I own both your albums. Rob, whom you’ll meet soon enough, adores The Stray Dog and fully identifies with the dog in question.” She lowered her voice. “A word of advice—if you hold your eardrums and your mental health dear, don’t ask him to sing it. Or anything. Ever.”

“I don’t know about my mental health, but I hold my eardrums very dear indeed. I will never ask anyone who’s called Rob to sing,” Cyril said.

“Good.” Jeanne chuckled. “What I’m trying to say is you’re one of our favorite musicians and a friend of Adrien’s, to boot. You’re guaranteed special treatment here that you won’t get elsewhere in the neighborhood.”

Cyril nodded. “I see.”

And nearly clapped his hand to his mouth.

How much longer until he would stop saying “I see” all the time? Sounded stupid coming from him.

“And what’s up with you, Adrien?” Jeanne asked, thankfully turning her attention back to his pal. “How’s Natalie and baby Lucas?”

“They’re doing great. Nat says hi.”

“Hi back. Will you guys be ordering lunch later? Today’s special is bouillabaisse. Claude’s bouillabaisse is better than what they serve in Marseilles, if I say so myself.”

“I seem to recall you’re from Nîmes, not Marseilles,” Adrien said.

“And so what?” Jeanne countered. “It’s still better than what they serve in Marseilles.”

Cyril’s mouth quirked.

“I’ll leave you to mull over it,” she said. “Duty calls.”

Adrien touched Cyril’s arm. “Do you have any plans for lunch?”

“Nope.” He had no lunch plans until Sunday, when his mom would come by to help him clean and cook. She visited every Sunday and Wednesday, spending almost the entire day at his place. She knew he could afford a cleaner—along with a cook, if he wanted—but she wouldn’t hear of it. He suspected her overflowing solicitude was her way of coping with what had happened to her son.

“Want to try out the famous bouillabaisse?” Adrien asked.

“On one condition.” Cyril turned to Adrien. “Can you describe this place? I’d like to have an idea of my surroundings.”

“It’s a regular neighborhood bistro, nothing fancy. The one impressive feature is the bar—antique wood and copper and a floor-to-ceiling wall rack with every wine you can think of.”

“Sounds right up my alley. Anything else worth mentioning?”

“Hmm. Let me see. The waiters wear white shirts, black pants, and black aprons.”

Cyril nodded slowly and then tilted his head to the side. “Ties?”

“No ties.”

“Aha. Interesting.” Cyril pressed his index finger to his mouth. “Very interesting.”

God, it was frustrating to no longer be able to read people’s facial expressions. Unless they laughed out loud, he had no way of knowing if he was being funny or a bore.

Adrien didn’t laugh. One could only hope he was smiling.

Suddenly, a wave of melancholy came over Cyril, turning the corners of his mouth down. “Just three months ago I was giving concerts, preparing a new album, and scouting for the perfect engagement ring.”

“And now you’re eating the best bouillabaisse in this country with your oldest friend.”

“You make it sound so… normal. Like nothing’s wrong with me.”

“I’m not trying to make light. It’s just… I know it’s cliché, but you have to focus on the positive stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Like music, for one. You don’t need your eyes for it.”

Cyril sighed. “I’m too full of bitterness.”

“Work that bitterness into your songs. You’ve done it before.”

Cyril shook his head. “In small quantities, it can make for a good song, but… I got nothing else. If I write a song, it’ll be crap halfway between a rant and a screech.”

“You should write anyway,” Adrien said. “As a form of therapy.”

“Oh, it’s therapy we’re talking about.” Cyril clapped his hand to his forehead. “Stupid me.”

Adrien began to say something, but Cyril wasn’t listening.

“This”—he pointed to the tumbler in his hand—“is the best therapy for my affliction. Works like a charm.”

He brought the glass to his lips and emptied it in one long gulp. Ah, the incomparable flavor, the spicy tang. It took his mind off the darkness around him for a few seconds.

Which was the longest he’d managed so far.