The Perfect Mix by Helen Rothberg PhD

Author:Helen Rothberg, PhD
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books

ADVICE: PAY ATTENTION. Communication is more than just words.

I glared at New York Five Guy. He was defending me, and he was wrong. Maybe I should have been grateful that he cared so much, but I was livid. He’d broken one of our community rules: No violence. EVER. The year before, New York Five Guy had gotten into an argument with the Minnesotan’s cousin. He stood up and started pushing him. I got Bruno to step in between them and told New York Five Guy that if he couldn’t control his temper, he should drink in the meatpacking district. He apologized and smoothed things over with the cousin, and there had not been another incident. Until tonight.

In New York City, anytime you call an ambulance from a bar, the police come with it. Since we were around the corner from a hospital and the police academy, both would be there in minutes. New York Five Guy got off his bar stool, his bleeding hand wrapped in a napkin.

“Sit down,” I said through clenched teeth. We glared at each other.

The Minnesotan appealed to me, saying, “He’s got to get out of here. This guy doesn’t know anything about him. Come on, let’s go before the cops come.”

“You. Can’t. Leave,” I said. I was stern and steady, my eyes locked with his, my heart in my throat. I really liked the Five Guys. We had a history together. They’d helped me show Andrew that I could build a bar scene. If I didn’t let New York Five Guy leave, they were not likely to return.

“Sit down, all of you. The police are going to want to take statements.”

After I called for the ambulance, I called Andrew. He was at his second restaurant, Steak Frites, which he had opened a few blocks away. I told him there had been a bar fight and the police and an ambulance were on their way. He asked if I was okay and said he would be right over.

Bruno got the place cleaned up. Marco kept control of the dining room while the ambulance and police carted off their respective subjects. Andrew stayed at the bar for the rest of the evening. Four of the Five Guys were sitting with him. I brought them all coffee.

“Why didn’t you let him leave? This is going to cost him a fortune,” the Minnesotan asked, distressed.

“Because he hit the guy over the head with his beer mug,” I said. I tried not to be defensive, but I felt under attack.

“That guy was an asshole and deserved it and more,” said New Jersey Five Guy indignantly. “He was really protecting you. If they charge him with felony assault, he can lose his brokerage license.”

“But the guy never raised his hands. He just had a big mouth.”

“A nasty mouth. Hey, Andrew, do you know what he was saying?” The Minnesotan filled Andrew in on the whole story. Andrew listened, shook his head, and said nothing.

New Jersey Five Guy was pointing his finger

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