I don’t care for Bill. He likes the style himself as William.
“You put on airs,” I say. “But you’re nobody special.”
His fist clenches, as if he’s going to hit me. The punch will hurt, but he’ll be finished.
Instead, he pushes his mug into mine. “Cheeky little bugger.”
Then he does something weird with his face—it goes all crumply.
“Are you sad?” I ask.
“Yes you are. I can see.”
Bill sighs, gazing out to sea. “You think telling the truth is obligatory. But you’re wrong.”
This is puzzling. “What’s more important?”
“Getting on with people.”