Archive of Our Own ^beta

The radio in the bedroom is on, low enough so he can still hear the birds chirp just underneath Diahann Carroll’s smooth voice. The record is an old one of June’s, from when she and Mozzie used to play board games together and bet various items. It had been her favorite as a young woman, and it reminds him of her smile, her perfume, her own rich, silky voice.

He’ll see her again soon, though. She is set to meet them at the airport in two days time.

Mozzie takes down the paintings first. He disassembles the frames, rolls each canvas up and stores them safely away. Most of the art here is Neal’s—reproductions or originals. Some of them hurt to look at. The worst ones, he throws in the empty fireplace, even though he’s not sure he’ll be able to burn them, anyway.

He blames it on the heat, instead of sentimentality, and wipes at his forehead.

He takes Neal’s clothes from his closet, folds them into boxes marked donate or keep. He doesn’t keep much—an old scarf, a jacket he thinks he could wear himself; every single one of his hats. They get their own box. Mozzie’s not sure what he’ll do with them, yet. Wearing them feels too personal, almost clownish or mocking; selling them feels too much like disrespect, even though he knows Neal wouldn’t mind. Maybe he would even like the idea of them going out to other people. He should have asked, but he didn’t think about it, and he didn’t. So he boxes them up, and sets them next to the one of canvases. For now, he’ll keep them safe.

He packs up the records. He puts away the books. The board games, the silverware, the pictures, the movies. Everything. Neal and Mozzie have lived here for two and a half years, now. They have a lot of junk. He leaves most of it to sit in the mansion, old, forgotten treasures for the next owners to sift through without the painful memories. In the end, he has only one bag and five boxes to bring.

The bag is his, for his own clothes and meager belongings. The rest of it belongs to his dead best friend—or maybe it’s all his, now. Neal’s hats, Neal’s clothes, Neal’s art, Neal’s favorite books—and Neal.

He doesn’t put him in the urn he made for him yet. Maybe it’s paranoia—Neal would say it’s paranoia, and then he would smile, and go along with whatever Mozzie said—but he doesn’t want to. He can’t open the box and look at what is inside. He doesn’t want to make a mess transferring anything. He doesn’t want to spill or leave any part of Neal behind in this place.

Neal always missed New York.

So Mozzie puts the small, wooden box in the passenger seat beside him on the private plane, secures Neal’s ashes with the seatbelt, and flies back home.

He doesn’t realize until he notices the weather changing that he had not lit a match in the fireplace, after all.

---

New York is bitter and cold. Clouds weigh heavily against the cityscape backdrop, grey and swirling. The wind is strong, and it howls at him as he steps outside. Snow stings his face. His breath fogs against the lens of his glasses.

It’s been eight years since he last set foot here. They’d left in May.

Mozzie leaves most of their things in the plane. They’re not too important, and this airport is his own—no one else will come here. June is the only one aside from Neal who knows about it. They will be safe here until Mozzie can come back for them.

He grabs Neal, though, and the unused urn. He hugs the box to his chest so tight he is afraid of breaking it. He shields it against the wind as best he can.

June meets him inside the entrance of the airport itself. She looks almost the same, despite the years. She has the same shoulder length hair he is used to, if slightly more blonde. The same regal posture, unaffected by the cane in her hand, with a confident and easy gaze. The same kind smile. She’s wearing glasses, now. He wonders when she started to need them.

“June,” he says, in greeting. He shifts the box to his hip, balances it with one hand. The corner of it digs into his waist, only just cushioned by his coat. It stings.

“Mozzie,” she says, hugging him one handed. She presses her lips to his temple and slowly steps back, giving him space again. He feels cold. “How was your flight?”

“It was long,” Mozzie admits, softly. With one hand, he adjusts the strap over his shoulder, feels the bulky weight of the urn against his back as he moves. He clears his throat, blinks hard. “It was . . . quiet.”

“Yes, I imagine so.” June squeezes his shoulder, clears her own throat and nods. ‘“Who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time.”’

‘“And alarm clocks fell on their heads everyday for the next decade,”’ Mozzie finishes. He smiles, sniffs. “Ginsberg.”

“Neal’s favorite.”

“Kate’s, too.”

June sighs. She squeezes his shoulder again. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

---

June helps him get Neal settled into the urn with gentle, steady hands. Her movements are confident, heavy handed and experienced with grief and loss. Byron died too young, too, but Mozzie hadn’t known her, then.

He’s glad to know her now.

For now, they set him on the mantle by the fireplace, just underneath an old reproduction of Peonies by William Merritt Chase. Neal had painted it for her, for her birthday. That was over ten years ago, now.

It’s been so long. He and June are both old, now. Arthritis stiffens the joints in his left hand; he walks with a slouch. His back aches even if he sleeps wrong for only one night. He even has hearing aids, now, made outside of the US. Russian surplus.

June has glasses, and walks with a cane.

Neal is dead.

“I think it suits him, Mozzie,” June says. She stands next to him, shoulder to shoulder, facing the heat of the crackling fire that glows in the soft reflection on the surface of the metal from the urn. “You did a wonderful job.”

Mozzie nods stiffly. The urn is gilded, shined and polished gold on both the top and bottom, and in between are intricate lines forming simple images and patterns. The shape of his favorite flowers, vines bordering the edges, with small, hidden messages encoded in the veins of the art itself.

Neal was his best friend.

“Only the best for Neal Caffrey,” he says. He takes his glasses off and wipes at them with his shirt.

“Only the best,” June agrees, softly. She lifts up her glass. “To Neal, then.”

Mozzie smiles, clinks the edges of their glassses together. “To Neal.”

---

The Burke’s have a different dog, now. Mozzie sees them as they walk him around the block of their neighborhood, all three of them wearing coats to bear the weather, even the dog. He’s a chocolate lab, young enough to still need training. He pees on the sidewalk, instead of the snow-crusted grass, and Elizabeth laughs when he barks at a flight of pigeons.

Mozzie stays in his utility van in their neighbor’s driveway, hidden behind tinted windows. Peter, he notices, frowns at the van as they pass, and for a moment Mozzie thinks he’s going to walk over to it and flash his badge. He doesn’t.

Mozzie sags in his seat and watches as they walk on the opposite street, as their figures fade and turn out of view.

Even far away—even FBI—it’s good to see them. When they first left New York, he was surprised to realize he missed them right alongside Neal missing them. Both Elizabeth and Peter. Somehow, they had become family. Sometime in between scheming behind the FBI, and scheming with the FBI; secret picnics with Elizabeth, going with her to museums and wine tastings; sarcastic, circular talks with Peter, and occasionally, even dinner with both of them and Neal.

He wonders if they still have the Bordeaux they left on the table the day Neal cut his anklet and fled.

---

Mozzie leaves, drives the van to an old, dusty safe house of his, and waits. He waits and he thinks, curled up on a musty sofa, bundled in beneath blankets and between pillows.

The letter Neal had written years ago is in his vest pocket, folded and probably crinkled. He hasn’t looked at it, as much as he desperately wants to. Hasn’t read even a single word, and he won’t. It’s not addressed to him.

Neal already told him everything he needed to. Mozzie even had the privilege of hearing it in person, of grasping Neal’s warm hand until it had cooled, of telling him everything Neal needed to know, too.

Peter won’t ever. He won’t hear Neal’s voice again, will never listen to him say This is why I ran, or I miss you, or You’re my best friend.

You’re my best friend, Neal had told him, before, but Mozzie was never under the illusion of being his only best friend.

Neal would want Peter to hear it out loud. Maybe Mozzie needs to say it out loud—explain himself, and everything to someone else. Someone else not June, who assured him that she loves him, and that Neal loved him, too. Someone not Alex, who kissed his cheek and said, I’m sorry, Moz, as she lifted his wallet to hide an origami figure in the folds. Someone not—anyone who would understand.

Maybe they would understand. Mozzie doesn’t know.

He considers, for the third time that night, leaving the letter on their doorstep next to another vintage bottle of Bordeaux. He’ll ring the doorbell, and leave before it’s answered. He’ll see them at the funeral. They’ll be there.

He stays on the couch the entire night, undecided.

---

Mozzie waits three more days. Neal is in no hurry. He’s dead.

He’s not in a rush, either.

Everyone else is patient, too. June tells him to take his time. Alex says the only job she has planned will have to wait for the ground to thaw and the snow to melt. They all have time, and nothing but.

But Mozzie knows if he does not move now, he will likely not. Maybe not until the weather is hot and suffocating, just like it was—like it was, then. Maybe not ever.

He takes a cab to their house in the quiet early morning of a cold, snowy Saturday. He’d decided to wait for a time where they—hopefully—won’t be interrupted by work. Having the weekend will give them time to process.

He still has no idea what to say.

But the cab pulls up, and stops in front of their house. Mozzie pays the driver, tips him well, and grabs the bottle setting on the seat next to him. He pats the letter in his breast pocket, takes a deep breath, and ducks out of the car. The air stings his skin as he steps outside, makes him cough in the chill. It burns in his chest. He feels like crying, but doesn’t.

He misses the awful heat of their little island.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever go back.

Mozzie nods to himself, once, and walks up the drive to the porch. He stands in front of the door, braces himself, and knocks.

Inside, the dog barks excitedly. He hears Peter, swearing beneath the insulation of the walls and windows. He considers, once more, the temptation of simply leaving the letter on the step, and perhaps hiding in the bushes alone with his bottle of vodka.

The door swings open before he has a chance, and Mozzie freezes.

---

It’s been eight years. Of course Peter has changed. Still, seeing it up close instead of in the safety of his stolen utility van is jarring.

His hair is greying at the temples, more than he remembers, and his hairline is weaker than it had been the last time they’d spoke. He has a thin beard, now, short and cropped close to his chin. And a mustache, too. Crows feet line his eyes, wide and confused. There’s a wrinkle in between his furrowed eyebrows.

He looks just as shocked to see him as Mozzie feels being here.

Okay, Mozzie thinks to himself, gripping the neck of the bottle even tighter. Just like he planned. Suit. Can I come in?  He clears his throat.

“Neal’s dead,” he says, instead, and closes his eyes. He doesn’t mean—he should have started—

Neal would be better at this. He would know what to say, how to act—he always did. Maybe he would smile, nice and inviting but not happy, and he would step inside and ask them to sit down. He’d tell them, and he would know how to. He’d be able to comfort them, or say It’s okay, or somehow he would—

He didn’t, when he had the chance. The task falls to Mozzie. But he feels so out of his depth.

He should leave.

“Mozzie,” Peter says. Mozzie opens his eyes. He blinks, and the blurry form of the Suit behind his fogged glasses steps back, once, and opens the door wider. Behind him, there’s Elizabeth, holding the puppy as he squirms and cries to be let free. She heard him say it, though. He knows she heard him. He can tell by the shock of sadness in her smile, and the gloss of her eyes.

Mozzie wipes the back of his hand against his cheek. “I had planned to say something else,” he admits, and he hates the watery shake of his voice.

“Mozzie,” Peter says, again. “Come inside.”

He does.

---

The couch he sits on in the living room is a grey sectional, and in front of it is a matching ottoman. The TV hangs on the wall opposite him, just above a small cabinet table. The curtains are pulled to block out light; the windows sandwiched between bookshelves. The walls are off white, interrupted by scattered picture frames.

“You’ve redecorated,” Mozzie says.

Elizabeth hands him a Bloody Mary made from the vodka he’d brought. “It’s a new house,” she says, gently, in unison to Peter saying, “We moved.”

“Oh, yes.” Mozzie shifts uncomfortably, takes a sip from the glass and sighs. Elizabeth made them strong.

It’s nine am.

“Neal always used to roll his eyes at me when I drank wine in the morning,” he says.

“Simple solution,” El says, cheering him silently with her own glass. She smiles at him, but her eyes are still shadowed. “Bloody Mary’s are perfect for breakfast.”

“That they are.” He takes another drink. Silence falls.

He wishes Neal were here.

“Are you hungry?” Peter asks, abruptly. “We—” He pauses. Blinks, looks like he’s about to steer off course and say something else. Mozzie braces himself.

Elizabeth clears her throat.

“We have cereal,” Peter finishes, somewhat lamely. He folds his hands in his lap.

“Oh, no.” He shakes his head. “I don’t drink cow’s milk. I much prefer coconut. Fair trade.”

“We have bagels,” Elizabeth offers, instead. “Or waffles. Toast.”

Mozzie smiles. “I ate before,” he lies. “Thank you, Mrs. Suit.”

She nods. Peter shifts, purses his lips. They don’t ask questions. It’s quiet. Uncomfortable.

Just like his flight home had been.

The dog, at his feet, growls softly. When he looks down, he’s chewing on the ends of Mozzie’s shoe laces. He doesn’t mind, though, doesn’t scold him or even take his shoes away to set back by the door. Peter and Elizabeth haven’t noticed, or else they would, probably.

Mozzie bends down and strokes the fur at the back of his neck.

“What’s his name?”

“We call her Fitz,” Elizabeth says. “Or Miss Fitz. Peter calls her Misfit—but it’s actually Fitzgerald. Supposed to be, anyway.

”Probably Ella, then. That would make sense.  He asks, anyways. “Ella? Zelda? F. Scott?”

“What is she chewing on?” Peter asks, interrupting.

Mozzie shakes his head. “Nothing.” He takes another sip of his drink.

Peter frowns at him like he doesn’t believe him, but says nothing. He nods.

It’s quiet again. Awkward. Without Neal, he doesn’t know what to do. It’s been too long since he’s seen them. Maybe he was wrong to come here after all. Maybe Mozzie should have just left the—

“Oh.” He digs the letter out of his pocket. “This is . . . for you.”

Peter sets his own drink down, leans over the coffee table and takes it out of his hands. He frowns at it, studies it, but doesn’t open it. Elizabeth grabs his free hand and squeezes.

“What happened?” Peter asks, eventually.

Mozzie takes a deep breath. “Huntington’s.”

The paper in Peter’s fist crumples. He doesn’t look up. “I don’t know what that is.”

“I’ve heard of that. It’s hereditary,” Elizabeth says. “Isn’t it?”

Mozzie nods. His eyes sting. “It is. Neal’s mother had it. She died when Neal was in prison.”

“He knew. He knew, didn’t he?” Peter sighs, throws the letter on the table and holds his head with both hands. Elizabeth reaches out, holds onto the fabric of his shirt at the shoulder. “Did you know?”

“He told me six months after we first met. He was nineteen. I don’t think—it wasn’t real, then.”

“Nineteen. Jesus,” Peter says. His voice is rough, thick. He sits back up, rubs at his face. His eyes are red. “He didn’t tell me.”

“That’s—why we left. He didn’t want you to know.”

Elizabeth sighs, wipes at her eyes. “Why? We have—I mean, we could have been with him.”

Mozzie hesitates. He doesn’t have an answer for them, not really. Over the years, his opinions changed. When they were done with the bucket list, when things started getting bad, he thought of them. But Neal was afraid, and Mozzie—let him be. He didn’t want them to see how bad it would get.

Mozzie both envies them and feels sorry for them. They missed out on eight years. They didn’t have to see Neal at his worst.

“The funeral is Wednesday,” he says, eventually. “You can tell the Demi-Suits, if you want. Neal liked them.”

“Mozzie,” Peter says. “Are you okay?”

Suddenly, Mozzie can’t breathe. He shakes his head, takes his glasses off. Pressure builds behind his eyes, sharp and aching at his temples.

Thirty-two years. Neal had been by his side for thirty-two years. Most of both of their lives.

He doesn’t know what to do now. He had been alone from the time he was twelve years old and ran away because of the Dentist. And then, twenty years later, there was Neal. Consistently. His best friend.

Mozzie has not been alone since he was thirty-some years old. But he is now. His best friend is dead. He will never see Neal again.

“I miss him,” he says, and his voice is warped and strangled by hot tears.

Elizabeth moves from the opposite couch to sit next to him. She wraps one arm around his shoulders, lays her head against his shoulder. Her hair tickles his neck. He sniffs.

Peter sighs, and Mozzie closes his eyes just as he starts to stand. Solid weight, warm and heavy, lands on his other side, and then Peter lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

“Yeah,” Peter says, voice just as gravelly. “Yeah.”

---

The weekend passes, and he doesn’t hear much from Peter and Elizabeth as it does. He has brunch with them on Sunday morning, and he tells them stories of everything they did when they first left. France, Italy, Spain, Russia. The Louvre, Gallerie dell’Accademia, Guggenheim, Tretyakov. The food, the sights. The thefts, the discreet ‘returns.’ Everything.

Peter tells them about the times he almost caught Neal, but didn’t. He talks about the pranks Neal used to pull on him when he was still chasing him—the expensive wine and a handwritten note, sent to the van they were hiding in for surveillance. The time he faked his death via shark mauling in Nevada. When he let himself get caught speeding in a Tesla, and every single reproduction in the backseat had to be tested meticulously—even though they were obviously fake, and signed by a man named Daniel Moreau. He wasn’t selling them as the real works, even had paperwork clearly stating they were reproductions. Every single one had been a theft he was a suspect in, but they could never prove it.

Mozzie spends hours there.

And then nightfall shadows over them, and he goes back to June’s, to Neal’s. Monday morning eclipses quietly. The weekend is over, and Neal is gone, and the Burke’s go back to work.

Mozzie sits in Neal’s loft most of the day. Percy III sits with him, and listens kindly as he reminisces on old times. The fine cheeses and wines he had sequestered from Neal’s fridge; the plans foraged and forgotten. Some of Neal’s art is still here, his old paintbrushes and yellow-aged canvases. There are even one or two bottles of a vintage, aged wine. Probably worth thousands, each.

He drinks one of them. Saves the other for another day.

But eventually he wanders back downstairs, an old board game held underneath one arm. The maid makes tea for him and June. Cinnamon, with a bit of honey and a bit of whiskey. The night is cold, and it is only just beginning.

Mozzie sets up the game board for them as June tells him of playing poker with a young Frank Abagnale, years ago. They sit across from each other by the fire, playing various games—Candyland, Parcheesi. Each game they take turns telling tales. He tells June about the time he, Kate and Neal had stolen from the Zietz with hilariously unfortunate timing. They had run into another ‘reacquisition’ group, posing as security guards, and Neal had been the only one of them to speak Swahili. They nearly got caught, that night.

Sometime later, when the stories they’ve told had faded with the fire, the doorbell rings. Mozzie pockets all of his Scrabble tiles, tells June he will know if she cheats, and gets up to answer it.

Peter stands at the door, hunched over from the wind, hood up and collecting snowflakes. Mozzie smiles and lets him inside.

---

Although he could have done it himself, or even gotten one of their staff to, Mozzie sits and watches as Peter adds another log to the fire, as he pokes it and watches sparks burst, orange and brilliant. June, he kisses goodnight, and respectfully turns his head as she leans in to hug Peter, too.

The Scrabble board sits across from him on the game table, discarded. He’s pretty sure June was winning. He watches her retreat from the room, as her silhouette bleeds into the shadows and fades away. Now, it’s just him and Peter.

The silence between them isn’t awkward or uncomfortable. But it’s heavy and looming and Neal’s missing presence lingers and aches.  It’s a missing limb, and Mozzie aches to stretch his fingers.

God, he misses Neal.

Mozzie clears his throat. His knees pop as he stands, and he winces. Peter glances his way, looks like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. He grimaces, and turns back to the fire, shifting another log even though it doesn’t need it. Mozzie slips away silently, creeps into the darkened service kitchen and pours two tumblers of whiskey.

He finds Peter still standing at the fire when he returns, staring into his own reflection on the urn, morphed and angry. Sad. Mozzie wonders if he read the letter yet, what it said. Maybe it helped. Maybe it didn’t.

He nudges his shoulder and holds out the glass for him.

Peter pulls his eyes away from the orange glow, from Neal, and looks his way. He blinks. Takes the whiskey and smiles, but it’s flat.

“Thanks.”

Mozzie shrugs. He cheers, another drink for Neal, and savors the burn in the back of his throat. Peter takes a drink, grimaces, and flicks his gaze back to the urn.

“It’s really him, isn’t it?”

Mozzie does not say anything. He’s not sure what to say. Any quote would be inadequate. Peter already knows.

He takes another sip of the whiskey. Let’s his vision blur in the face of dancing flames.

“Did Neal ever tell you his real name?”

Peter shakes his head. “No.”

Mozzie shrugs. He takes another sip. “It was Neal.”

Peter huffs a laugh, shaking his head, and Moz grins on reflex. Somehow it feels nice, even with the burn in his eyes, the ache inside his temples. His chest swells. He swallows down the pain.

“He told me once,” Mozzie continues, “his first alias, he was three. He grew up in Witness Protection.”

“Really?” Peter asks, and he finally tears his face away, looks Mozzie in the face. His eyes are red, forehead wrinkled. “He never told me.”

“He wanted to. He wanted to tell you everything.”

“I would have listened,” Peter says, and he sounds so desperate, hoarse and pleading; like he needs Mozzie to know, needs him to believe he would have been there if he could have been.

Mozzie ducks his head. Nothing is ever easy. “We know.”

Peter makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. Mozzie finishes his drink. He waits for an accusation, or a persecution of hatred, blame. It doesn’t come. Instead, Peter deflates. He retreats back to the couch across the fire, sits down heavily and holds his head in one hand.

Mozzie follows him. He sits down, careful to leave a few inches of space between them. He stays silent and watches the fire as hypnotizes him, guilty and aching.

“I told Jones and Diana today,” Peter says, eventually, voice muffled.

Mozzie shifts. He wonders if he should have grabbed the bottle of whiskey instead of just two glasses. “How did they take it?”

Peter shrugs. “As well as can be expected, I guess.”

Mozzie doesn’t know what that means. That part of Neal’s life was always separate from his. It’s been eight years. He’s not sure just how close they were. Maybe they missed him, too; maybe they only miss him now, when they know he’s gone beyond their reach. Maybe he doesn’t give them enough credit. He doesn’t know.

“I’m sorry,” he says, when nothing else seems adequate or appropriate.

“Yeah,” Peter says softly, finally sitting up and looking back to him. “Me too. Me too, Moz.”

---

It’s mid-morning when the doorbell first rings.

Officially, Neal’s funeral does not start until one. Unofficially, there is a bar in the dining room with three separate pots of coffee brewing, Irish cream on the side, as well as platters of eggs, sausage, pancakes, waffles, strawberries, whip cream. The table is set full of plates and glasses. There are gift bags in each of the nine seats, including Mozzie and June’s own seats, even though it was her idea and his doing.

Mozzie wanders into the entryway behind June, her miniature pug pattering just behind them. Snowflakes blow in as the door opens. He shivers. Winter burns. Peter and Elizabeth step through, red faced from the wind. June greets them warmly, hugging each of them and taking their coats to hand off to the maid.

“Mozzie,” Elizabeth says, when she steps away from June. She holds her arms out to him, and he steps into her embrace, hugging her back. “It’s good to see you.”

Mozzie closes his eyes. “Et tu, Mrs. Suit.”

Elizabeth’s laugh is warm and watery. He feels cold when she pulls away again, wiping at her eyes. 

Peter smiles awkwardly at him, pats him on the back. He clears his throat. “Sorry if we’re too early. We just . . . “ he trails off, shrugs. 

Mozzie does not know what to say. Time is, after all, an illusion at best, and they had expected early arrivals, anyways. June swiftly and smoothly takes over before he can figure out the words he wants to say. 

“It’s entirely alright,” she says, smiling, reassuring. “Alex is upstairs as well, getting ready. I suspect she’ll be joining us soon.”

”Diana and Christie are on their way,” Peter says. “Jones, too, I think.

“And Sara’s coming, too, but her flight landed late last night, so she might be—well, on time.”

”I believe we have one other guest coming, as well. In the meantime, feel free to help yourself. We have breakfast and coffee. A lot of Neal’s pairings and sculptures are upstairs, in his old bedroom—as are many of his reproductions. You’re welcome to wander.”

”Thank you,” Elizabeth says. “Mozzie, I bet you know the story behind all of Neal’s forgeries.”

”Alleged,” Mozzie says, and smiles. 

Peter huffs, shaking his head, but he’s smiling. Elizabeth grins. “Would you care to join us?”

Mozzie smiles back. “I’d love to.”

---

It doesn’t take long for everyone else to show up. All things considered, it’s a small wake. The closest of Neal’s friends. The people he missed on the island. None of his other, more distant friends, none of the people he’d worked with or admired, like Taylor Gordon, or anyone else. Just them. 

Mozzie thinks Neal would have liked it this way. He hopes he would have. He can’t ask. 

Once everyone has settled in around the table, picking at their food or sipping coffee, reminiscing on some of their favorite memories, June stands up and gently clings a butter knife against the side of her coffee cup. Conversation stops, and the attention shifts towards her. 

“Good morning. Thank you all for coming. I’m sure Neal would have loved seeing all of you again, and all in one place, might I add.” She pauses, purses her lips, and collects herself. “I know almost everyone here, but, it has been eight years. If you could, please go around the table and say your name, as well as how you knew Neal. I’ll start: My name is June. I was Neal’s landlady, and he was a good friend. I loved him dearly. The world will not be the same without him.” 

She sits, takes a sip of her Irish coffee, and looks to Mozzie. 

Suddenly nine pairs of eyes are on him. Mozzie clears his throat. Sweat pricks at the nape of his neck. His throat constricts. He has never liked attention. 

As Ernest Hemingway once said, “Never, never tell them. Never tell anyone anything ever. Never tell anyone anything again.”

Neal always liked Hemingway. But it probably does not apply. 

Elizabeth reaches out and grasps his hand under the table, out of sight, and squeezes it. Truly, she and June are godsends.

”Haversham. Mozzie. Neal was . . .” Everything. His partner in crime. His protégé. His brother. “. . . he was my best friend.” 

Elizabeth goes next. She tells them her name, and says, “Neal worked with my husband at the FBI.” She grins, watery and mischievous. “Before that, he was being chased by husband and the FBI. Somewhere along the way, he wormed his way into our life and became one of our closest friends.” 

Peter shifts in his seat, obviously uncomfortable. “I’m Peter. I was the one who caught Neal. He worked under me as a criminal consultant at the FBI.” Elizabeth nudges him. “And he was also—he was my best friend.” He ducks his head, wipes his eyes. Mozzie averts his gaze.

Diana goes next, and following her, Christie. Then, it’s Jones, Sara, Alex, and after, the only person Mozzie does not recognize. He knows who she is. He’d sent a letter in the mail.

“I suppose the introduction was for me, because I don’t recognize anyone. Thank you, June,” she says, glancing over and nodding. June smiles at her, gestures for her to continue. “My name is Ellen. I’m Neal’s. . . he was . . . the closest thing I have for a son. I raised him as much as I could since he was a toddler.” She sighs, wipes her eyes with a napkin. Mascara brushes against her cheeks. Her bangs are messy. “I loved him.” 

“He was well loved,” June says. 

Elizabeth squeezes his hand again. Mozzie disentangles his hand to wipe at his eyes. His hands are shaky. He sniffs. 

Peter clears his throat, leans over with his mug of coffee raised towards the center of the table. “To Neal.”

Everyone follows suit. Mozzie raises his own mug, clinks the rim. Closure. Neal is gone, but he is surrounded by his friends, the only people who will share his grief and understand. Even though he is alone—he isn’t.

Everything is change, and everything is connected. Also everything returns, but what returns is not what went away. 

New York. Neal always missed New York. 

“To Neal.”