Page 67 of Score
She closes her eyes and bites down hard on her bottom lip. “Monk, don’t.”
“It was real, what we had,” I tell her, my voice going raspy and rough. “I don’t know how or when it went wrong, but for a while, it was real and it was the best…”
My voice gives out. I give up. I gulp down the rage and lingering hurt to push the last words out.
“You ruined it,” I say. “I wish you could just admit that.”
We’re cocooned in this tension woven from unspoken truth and leashed desire. The party, a cacophony of laughter and music and lifted voices, fades. I barely hear it over the sound of our breaths and the heartbeat pounding in my ears. The silence stretches so long, my hands tighten at my sides.
“Right,” I clip out when it’s clear she has nothing more to offer. “Got it.”
I turn and head back down the sidewalk, where I should have kept going in the first place. I’m almost at the corner when she calls.
“Monk.”
I still, my muscles going rigid at the sound of her voice. I don’t turn around, but I do glance over my shoulder. Her face is smoothed free of expression, but her eyes are alive with emotion.
“It was real, and I ruined it,” she says, gravel and regret mixing in the words. “And I’m sorry.”
I stare at her, not nearly as satisfied as I thought I would be. If anything, hearing her admission only makes the betrayal worse.
I nod and give her a stony stare. “Now you can have a nice life.”
And as I walk away, when I tell myself I hope I never see her again, this time I mean it.
Movement Four
“Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does.
Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.”
—James Baldwin,In Search of a Majority
TWENTY-ONE
Verity
Nine Years Later—Present Day
“Thanks for coming by,” Canon says, sitting behind his desk while I take the seat across from him.
“Of course.”
When Canon called to say he had something he needed to discuss, I told myself not to panic. It’s probably something minor with the script we’ve drafted. In the months since my initial lunch meeting with him and Evan, we’ve texted, Zoomed, called to trade ideas about the movie, but this is the first time he asked for a face-to-face meeting. I have a habit of building things up in my mind that aren’t that bad, so I tell myself to calm down. I’m sure it’s not as bad as I’m imagining.
“So,” Canon says, his expression set into the usual imperturbable lines. “I’m pretty good friends with Harry Tomer.”
Oh, God. It’s worse.
The name, a blast from a checkered part of my past, sends a premonition across my nerve endings. Disappointment churns in my gut. Just when it seems I’ve got things under control. My meds working. My moods stabilized. Opportunity of a lifetime, and nowthis shit. I knew it was too good to be true.
Canon studies me, head tilted as if considering a lab animal. Appropriate, since I feel like a mouse hopped up on some experimental drug with questionable side effects.
“Good ol’ Harry,” I say, letting the bitterness tilt one side of my mouth into a grimace-y grin. “I’m sure he had lots to share.”
Canon nods, then pauses, searching my face with rare hesitation for a man usually so sure.
“I mentioned that I thought you’re the perfect writer for the biopic,” Canon continues. “He said he knew you were extremely talented, but warned me you had ‘flaked out’—his words, not mine—when he hired you for something a few years ago.”
