one more thing i need to say to you
by Tom Andes
Simon knows he’s being unreasonable. Ten years is too long to hold a grudge. But everything in his life went south that summer they were eighteen, so when Keith calls and asks to meet for coffee, buttering him up for your classic Ninth Step amends, Simon comes packing, with the brass knuckles he’s carried since he shaved his head, wearing a flight coat, braces, oxblood Docs.
“S’up, man?” He goes in for a bro hug, pulling away when Keith holds him a beat too long. Keith was always like that, touchy-feely, sentimental, the kind of dude you couldn’t trust around your own mom. Nervous, jittery, newly sober, he’s blabbing about the bad old days, making excuses, and Simon enjoys watching him squirm.
He sips a small drip. They’re sitting in front of Café Brioche in Market Square, where they spent their teenage years hanging out, smoking butts, waiting for something to come along and get them out of that crummy small town, Portsmouth, New Hampshire. It’s a sunny October morning, the leaves turning, normies walking to their nine-to-fives.
Yeah, let the guy spiel. No harm, no foul.
“You were my best friend,” Keith says. “I should’ve talked to you when I realized that I was falling for her. It was a total dirtbag move, and I’m sorry.”
Simon’s been waiting ten years to hear that, and something loosens inside him. He sits up straight in his rickety iron chair, worrying at the cardboard sleeve on his cup with his thumb. He feels powerful, like he could make or break the guy’s day, hell, his whole week.
“What’re you going to do about it?” Maybe he’ll forgive Keith, but first, let him twist.
“Do?” Keith’s face falls. He’s still a pretty boy, like James Spader when he had hair, but it’s receding, running away from his widow’s peak. He’s getting flabby, starting on a second chin. They were best friends, misfits at their prep school, Country Day, the only kids in their class who didn’t want to grow up to be fat cat doctors or lawyers, making each other mixed tapes, copies of Circle Jerks, Social Distortion, Gang Green, and Black Flag albums.
Until Holly, who was the one thing they couldn’t share.
That summer she wore her hair in a Chelsea. They went to punk shows in that barn down to Exeter, slam dancing to the Bruisers and The Queers. She was beautiful, badass in her tank top and baby Docs—but he’d never tap his best friend’s girl.
“Isn’t an amends is about making it right? How can you make this right?” Simon knows the Twelve Step lingo, the cliches those old heads spout in the rooms. Working it till it worked never worked for Simon. Never could stand those crusty old drunks trying to shove Jesus down his throat along with stale Nilla Wafers and burnt Folgers.
“I guess I don’t know.” The guy blinks at him. They’re twenty-eight, Simon and Keith, one-time besties, still sparring over a girl. This is—yeah—pathetic.
“Forget it.” Simon shrugs. It’s an Oscar-worthy performance. Like he’s a simp, a pushover. “It was a long time ago. Shit happens, man.”
“You mean that?” At the look of gratitude in the guy’s eyes, Keith’s face shining, Jesus, like he might start blubbering in front of those yuppies with their lattes and croissants, Simon almost changes his mind, doubting what he’s come to do. He hates the guy’s weakness, hates his own.
Simon nods, hangover settling in like a Nor’easter, sweat under his arms, temples aching, burping up last night’s Newkie Brown.
“Thanks, buddy.” Keith’s voice is shaking. “Guess it’s time we buried the hatchet, huh?”
“Guess so.” They go in for another hug, Simon clapping his old friend on the back, the guy holding him, like they’re in one of those men’s support groups.
“You ever talk to her?” Keith says, and Simon shakes his head.
At least Keith didn’t marry her, either. After kicking up all that drama, Holly dropped out of Somersworth High, took a job as a waitress, saved up and moved to San Francisco. She left them all eating her dust.
Why couldn’t they share her, she’d asked, and Simon had no answer, except that you didn’t do that. Only now, he wishes they had.
“What about you?” He wants to get on with his day, make the rounds, tie one on with the regulars at Golden Memories, the Press Room. Tomorrow, hungover, a quarter of five, he’ll drag himself to his crummy job at Ceres Street Bakery, and sure, he blames her for that, too.
“Nah. But man, she was something, wasn’t she? I loved her too, you know.” Keith brushes his thinning bangs out of his eyes. Simon’s blood’s up, pulse pounding, sweat on his brow. Maybe the guy did love her. But not like Simon did.
“Right.” He laughs. When the guy turns, lifting his LL Bean jacket off the chair, Simon reaches in his pocket, slips those knucks on. Sure, he could let it go. But this slow burn hatred, this grudge is all he’s got. Without that, what’s left? “One more thing I need to say to you.”
Maybe it’s grace, a moment of clarity. This is another failure in a lifetime of them, and he’ll only end up more stuck. Where does it end? Is he going to coldcock his friend? In his jacket pocket, the weight of ten years lifting, Simon slips the knucks off.
“You think it’s funny that I loved her?” Red in the face, tears in his eyes, in front of the horrified yuppies with their iPhones and their MacBooks, Keith cocks his fist, and that’s the last thing Simon sees before the guy swings.
BIO: Tom Andes wrote the detective novel Wait There Till You Hear from Me (Crescent City Books 2025). His stories have appeared in Best American Mystery Stories 2012, Best American Mystery and Suspense Stories 2025, and The Best Private Eye Stories of the Year 2025. He lives in Albuquerque, where he is a freelance editor and musician, performing solo and with several bands. Southern Crescent Recording Co. re-released his acclaimed EPs on vinyl under the title The Ones That Brought You Home in 2025. He can be found at tomandes.com.