I have to make a call," I instruct Jo as I cut the engine inside my garage. The door shuts behind us and the dim overhead bulb on the motor flickers on. "No. First tell me what's going on," she says. Her voice quavers slightly but her gaze is steely. "I mean, who was that guy?" "He's…he's this guy who has a beef with a friend of mine." "Uh-huh. One of your mysterious friends. And you often have "beefs" with people?" "Now and then." "Wow. You said that really casually." "It's not…it's never casual for me. I just don't want to involve you in this. I'm trying to be honest with you." "Why is that something you have to try at?" she asks, pinning me with her eyes. I don't have a response for her. She sighs, rolling her right arm with a little wince. "You OK?" "I guess I just tweaked my arm throwing that glass. I don't do that motion very often. Not since middle school softball." "When you threw a glass?" I ask, my brow furrowing. What's she talking about? "Yeah, at that guy. I yelled to warn you, but you couldn't hear me, so I threw the glass on the table at his back," she relays matter-of-factly.
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