Whenever he’d visited New York for business or to see his brother, he’d tried to pop into the Soho club. He could easily draw a big crowd now, and fill out a fancier theater in midtown no problem, given the time he’d spent on screen hosting his own show on Comedy Nation before he shifted to the nightclub business. But he had no interest in that. He wasn’t on stage tonight for the money. He was on stage for the fun of it, and for the farewell—bittersweet though it was, given the fate of this establishment.

But this wouldn’t be the last time they worked together—Bob was a solid businessman, and Brent had promised him a job managing his club in New York, provided he got the approval from the city to open it. With two kids in college now, the man had needed to find a new gig quickly, and Brent was glad to potentially offer him something.

“So let’s say that there’s this guy,” he began, pacing slowly across the creaky wooden stage. “I’m not going to name names or point fingers at who this guy might be.”

He stopped to roll his eyes around, as if he were somehow looking at himself, and somewhere in the audience he could make out the silhouette of his brother pointing at him on stage. Brent held up his hands as if he was innocent. “Like I said, I’m not naming names. But, for the sake of argument, let’s say this guy fucked up a situation with a woman. Because, let’s face it, every now and then, from time to time, the man will be in the wrong, right?”

“Every now and then,” a woman in the crowd called out sarcastically.

“Exactly,” Brent said crisply. “It’s rare, totally rare, that the guy is the one who messes up. Because men are usually on top of their shit in a relationship. They never forget birthdays, they always remember to bring gifts to their women, they never say stupid, dumbass, idiotic things,” he continued in his deadpan tone. “Men, generally speaking, are really evolved creatures.”

Several loud chuckles resonated from the audience.

“But sometimes a man makes a mistake. And he has to make it up to a woman. What is this guy supposed to do when the woman is just not one of those gals who likes flowers?”

He stopped to scratch his head as if he was thoroughly flummoxed by the situation, and truth be told he actually was. Perhaps he could work out what to do next with Shannon in this routine.

“You see, I thought about a few options.” Brent stopped talking and quickly backpedaled, as if he hadn’t meant to indict himself, when he clearly had. “I mean, this guy,” he said in an exaggerated tone. “Not me, ’cause I’m not talking about me. Because this is clearly not about me at all. But this guy, who is obviously not me, he’s trying to figure out how to do something really fucking awesome for his woman. Something that proves he’s the man she needs. Something big,” he said, emphasizing that last word as his eyes drifted downward to his crotch, so the audience got his meaning. “So I thought: what does she want? What does a woman really want? And the conclusion is...” He stopped, paused, took a breath, because comedy was all in the delivery, then finished, “me.”

A few more laughs.

“So I’m just going to dip myself in chocolate, head to toe, and give her me. Covered in chocolate. For her to lick off.”

He held his breath as he tested out this new material for the first time. A ripple of laughter began, but there was still the punch line to deliver.

“But then I realized, that’s not really a gift for her. That’s a gift for me.”

Laughter rang out across the club. There were few sounds better than this—better than the sweet laughter of a joke well told. It was the great exhalation—it was relief and buoyancy all at once.

But then, it wasn’t a joke. He did need to prove himself to Shannon, and if she somehow happened to see this set, he was certain she’d know it was part of the big grovel, as Mindy had so aptly put it.

“So, yeah. Maybe not chocolate,” he said, then continued on for another ten minutes, finishing up his set. When he was through, he joined his brother and his wife in the audience during a short break between acts. Julia clapped proudly as he walked over, then wrapped her arms around him in a big hug. “As always, you were magnificent,” she said.

“I’m just sorry you didn’t wind up with the funny brother,” Brent said, adopting a frown.

“Shame she didn’t get the funny-looking one, isn’t it?” Clay said, deadpan.

Julia smiled and laughed. “You two are crazy. I know you were both lady-killers back in high school. All the Nichols men are fine-looking specimens,” she said, then patted Clay’s leg and wiggled her eyebrows at him.

Brent latched onto two words. He stared at her sharply. “High school? You think we stopped after high school?”

“Fine, fine. College, law school, and beyond,” she added, then dropped her chin into her hands. “But seriously. What are we going to do about your little problem?”

He furrowed his brow. “What little problem?”

She gestured to the stage as an answer.

Clay chimed in. “Do you think you fooled us?”

Brent snapped his fingers. “Damn. You guessed it. I really am going to dip myself in chocolate. Should I do dark or milk chocolate, though? That’s the million-dollar question.”

Julia swatted him. “Brent! Seriously. Your lady problem.”

“What lady problem?”

“You know you can’t trick her, man. Might as well own up to it,” Clay said, leaning back in his chair, parking his hands behind his head.

Brent laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “Fine, you got me. You saw straight through my routine.”

“I know that, sweetie,” Julia said, flashing a small smile. “But let me give you some advice. Whoever this woman is, she doesn’t want you to solve the relationship problem by dipping yourself in chocolate, as cute as you may be.”

Brent sighed, then laid out the story for his brother and his wife. “I’ve clearly got to big gesture the hell out of it. What do I do?”

Julia answered immediately. “The answer is simple. You need to focus on what matters to her. How can you show her how important she is to you? Where did you fail in the past in that regard?”

Brent scoffed. “That’s gonna be a long list.”

“Then take it item by item, step by step, and follow her cues.”

Clay pointed his thumb at his wife. “She knows what she’s talking about. Listen to the one and only Mrs. Nichols,” he said, and those words dug into Brent’s chest like a rusty shovel. He was thrilled that Julia and Clay were so happy together, but Shannon was supposed to have been the first Mrs. Nichols. She was supposed to have been his wife ten years ago. Now, she was simply a woman he’d had one dirty encounter with in his nightclub. He was at square one with her for all intents and purposes. Saying he was sorry yesterday was the barest beginning of trying to win her heart, and now he had to move past apologies and show her why she should want him.

After Clay and Julia went home, Brent made his way to the bar to catch up with Bob, who was pouring from the tap for another customer. “What does it take to get a beer around here?”

The man looked up and said dryly, “Evidently, it takes a chain restaurant.”

“No shit. But hey, you’ll be handling cosmos and top-shelf liquor in no time.”

Bob gave him a quick salute, then handed out the drink. When he returned, he poured him a beer, then clinked an imaginary glass to Brent’s. “Here’s to the next phase—cosmos and fancy-ass drinks at your new club.”

“And to landlords who aren’t assholes,” Brent said, raising his glass.

“Amen.” Bob rapped his knuckles on the counter. “I’ll miss this place.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Later, Brent hailed a cab and headed to his midtown hotel. As the cab ambled through traffic, he unlocked the screen on his phone, and opened up a new text message to Shannon. Keep it simple—keep it direct. That was what he’d do.