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“But we are debuting ‘Please Come to Boston.’ You remember that song?”
    “Sure.”
    “What do you think of it?”
    “I ain’t a fan,” Adam said.
    “Really? It’s a heartbreaker, man. You love the heartbreakers.”
    “It isn’t a heartbreaker,” Adam said.
    Gribbel sang:
“Hey, ramblin’ boy, why don’t you settle down?”
    “Probably because his girlfriend is annoying,” Adam said. “The guy keeps asking her to go with him to a new city. She keeps saying no over and over and starts whining about him staying in Tennessee.”
    “That’s because she’s the number one fan of the man from Tennessee.”
    “Maybe he doesn’t need a fan. Maybe he needs a life partner and a lover.”
    Gribbel stroked his beard. “I see your point.”
    “And all he says is ‘Please come to Boston for the springtime.’ The springtime. It’s not like he’s asking her to leave Tennessee forever. What’s her response? ‘She said no, boy.’ What kind of attitude is that? No discussion, no hearing him out—just no. So then he gently suggests Denver or even L.A. Same response. No, no, no. I mean, spread your wings, sister. Live a little.”
    Gribbel smiled. “You’re nuts, man.”
    “And,” Adam continued, feeling the rant rising up, “then she claims that in these massive cities—Boston, Denver, Los Angeles—that there ain’t nobody like her. Full of yourself much?”
    “Adam?”
    “What?”
    “You may be overthinking it, my brother.”
    Adam nodded. “True.”
    “You overthink a lot of stuff, Adam.”
    “That I do.”
    “It’s why you’re the best attorney I know.”
    “Thanks,” Adam said. “And no, you can’t leave work early for your gig.”
    “Aw, come on. Don’t be that guy.”
    “Sorry.”
    “Adam?”
    “What?”
    “The guy in that song. The rambling boy who asks her to come to Boston?”
    “What about him?”
    “You got to be fair to the girl.”
    “How so?”
    “He tells his girl that she could sell her paintings on the sidewalk, outside the café where he hopes to be working soon.” Gribbel spread his hands. “I mean, what kind of financial planning is that?”
    “Touché,” Adam said with a small smile. “Sounds like maybe they should just break up.”
    “Nah. They got a good thing. You can hear it in his voice.”
    Adam shrugged and headed into his office. The rant had been a welcome distraction. Now he was back in his own head again. Bad place to be. He made some calls, had two client meetings, checked in with the paralegals, made sure the right briefs had been followed. The world moves on, which is an outrage. Adam had learned that when he was fourteen years old and his father died of a sudden heart attack. He had sat in the big black car next to his mom and stared out the window and watched everyone else in the world living their lives. Kids still went to school. Parents still wentto work. Cars honked their horns. The sun still shone. His dad was gone. And nothing changed.
    Today he was being reminded yet again of the obvious: The world doesn’t give even the slightest damn about us or our petty problems. We never quite get that, do we? Our lives have been shattered—shouldn’t the rest of us take notice? But no. To the outside world, Adam looked the same, acted the same, felt the same. We get mad at someone for cutting us off in traffic or for taking too long to order at Starbucks or for not responding exactly as we see fit, and we have no idea that behind their facade, they may be dealing with some industrial-strength shit. Their lives may be in pieces. They may be in the midst of incalculable tragedy and turmoil, and they may be hanging on to their sanity by a thread.
    But we don’t care. We don’t see. We just keep pushing.
    He flipped radio stations on the way home, finally settling on mindless arguments on sports radio. The world was divisive and always fighting, so it was nice when people fought over something as meaningless as professional