Walking out of the Brookshire Country Club that afternoon, I felt lighter than I had in years — genuinely, physically lighter, like I’d set down something I’d been carrying without fully realizing its weight. The valet brought my old Honda around, and I tipped him twenty dollars.
He looked at the dented bumper, then down at the bill in his hand, clearly confused by the math of it.
“Life lesson, son,” I told him, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Never judge a book by its cover. And always tip well. You never know who you’re actually dealing with.”
I drove home through the familiar tangle of Boston traffic, already mentally listing everything I needed to do before six. Clean the apartment properly. Buy groceries. Maybe pick up a decent bottle of wine, something better than my usual. And somewhere in there, I’d need to sit down with Michael and finally explain, in full, why I’d kept a secret this large from him for this long.
