London

The days had slipped away between the fingers of the two Walshs, they were still talking sitting in the bathroom as they had always done. Without embarrassment. They compared themselves like this. They had always confronted each other like this. In Minnesota and California. They had made a long video call to Jim and Cindy in which they had appeared more close-knit than ever, making their parents happy and proud to see their children so united despite their lives flowing thousands of miles away. They had promised to join each other at Christmas or even earlier.

Brandon had taken a look at Brenda's scripts. A couple of projects to stage. He laughed several times and she liked the idea of being able to make him laugh again. Brandon looked like a lonely person. Always unassailable but alone. And it's not like she was doing better. But that built wall, the armor of her own independence had defended and protected it just as it defended and protected him.

The last night they went to a small Italian restaurant not far from Brenda's house. A not bad place hidden in the narrow streets of Soho, which Brandon had found and enjoyed almost immediately after his arrival in the city.

Brenda had chosen mussels and clams, without questioning the origin of those seafood; the brother who as a journalist asked them certain questions, opted for Bolognese fettuccine, trusting in the goodness of Britain's bovine raw material.

Brandon's cell phone began to vibrate on the table.

"But don't you ever turn that thing off?"

"No, never," he replied. He observed the screen and recognized the Washington area code.

"At this time?" Brenda asked.

Brother without looking away from cell phone "little sister, on the East Cost it's just 3 in the afternoon"

"Oops," she smiled embarrassed, sticking her head into the large wine list.

"Yes,Philip, you finally remembered your man at the Colosseum, tell me everything...yes uh..."

Brandon's expression was getting more and more snooling "what should I tell you? It's a great professional opportunity. Let me think for a moment. I have not even returned from Europe. I know there is no time. The day after tomorrow I'm in Wash.. ok.." and hung up.

"So? From the expression you have It looks like he just fired you. Yet I felt like I felt it was a good opportunity; what's in the pot, little brother?"

"It's not a pot, Brenda; it's a frying pan with boiling oil and she's cooking a mixed fried. And there's everything inside, believe me. Of everything."

Brenda had planted her eyes on him "Do you stop being so sibyl? What is it about?"

The waiter served the first and Brandon waited for him to walk away.

"A position has opened in Los Angeles." And he rushed with the fork on the fettuccine.

"Los Angeles?" Brenda repeats the name of the city.

"As a manager," he concluded.

Brenda expected him to say something, she wanted to grab an emotion from it but Brandon seemed worried.

"And are you going there?"

Brandon stopped eating, put his fork on the plate.

"I don't know"

Washington

Brandon took the taxi and immediately went to the office. The jet leg was making itself felt but it was late and pretended to ignore it. She pushed the glass door and hurriedly greeted Secretary Sherlyl.

"He's waiting for you," he shouted behind him.

Brandon framed the door and walked in without knocking.

"Welcome back Walsh"

"Hello Philip"

He was a man over fifty. Not nice. A guy. A great journalist and a famous poker player.

"Three months Walsh. We don't ask you more"

"What happened to Barret"

Thompson looked at his shoes.

"His wife is not well, it's a good opportunity"

"Yes I know"

"Three months and come back here"

Brandon didn't reply

"Oh! Thank you Philip for the big opportunity" the Thompson monkey

"It's not that.."

"So what?" Thompson had raised his voice without realizing it but apologized almost immediately "I had a bad day".

"Yes, me too," he replied.

Brandon came out giving the answer everyone expected.

When he opened the door of his apartment in Washington he was welcomed by the coldness of the ice-colored walls. He stayed and looked at the dishes still dirty from when he left.

He sank on the couch untaching his tie.

"Los Angeles" whispered.

Beverly Hills

The bedroom was still immersed in the twilight, despite being 9 in the morning; the decor was simple, sometimes spartan. A two-door wardrobe, a chair, a chest of drawers topped by a mirror, a bedside table next to the bed with stacked underpants; clean, but still to be fixed. And clothes. Everywhere. Clothes thrown in bulk. Shirts, t-shirts, jeans, pants. It seemed like the thieves had just passed. And instead it was the chaos that had been reigning for months in that room. The cell phone began to ring on the notes of Beverly Hills Cop and brightly warned Steve that maybe it was time to leave the bed.

A hand came out from under the sheet and began to feel the bedside table in search of the harassing object, dropping to the ground the photo of little Maddy smiling in a delightful Minnie dress.

He finally found the screaming object, to whom he asked for mercy by swiping his finger on the screen "Who is it?" Said blatantly annoyed; a distant voice, overseas, exclaimed, "Wake up Sanders, it's time to get up pelandrone!"

"Brandon!" He immediately seemed to recover all his intellectual faculties such was the joy in hearing the friend "How are you?"

"I'm doing great, in a dazzling shape. I'm going to the airport. I'll call you to ask for two courtesies."

Shoot friend" Steve was already out of bed, projected towards a shower and a black coffee.

"You have to pick me up at the LAX tonight; no limu, your car is fine...by the way, what car do you have now?"

"A Corvette, why?"

"Certain things will never change," Walsh thought and continued, "Nothing, just curiosity; but let's go to the second slightly more challenging request."

"What do you have in mind, Walsh?"

"How many bedrooms do you have?"

"One, small, smelly, why?" Brandon raised his eyes to the sky, as the taxi driver asked, "At the airport Lord?"

"Yes, thank you"

Steve didn't understand anything except that he had to pick him up. A smile spontaneously surfaced on the tanned face "You mean that..." "

"Bingo boy!" He did the other "work my friend, do you know or am I sending you a videotutorial?".

Steve began to jump as if burning coals had suddenly lit under his bare feet he grabbed a torn piece of paper and a pencil... "tell me the flight number."