Page 6 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“That’s not fair,” she says quietly. “Everyone deserves a second chance. A real one. Not the kind where people say they forgive you but hold it over your head forever.”
Everyone deserves a second chance. Coach Hart said that to me once, when I was nineteen and sorry and scared. I wouldn’t mind if the rest of the world got that memo. “You might be the first person who’s said that to me in a very long time.”
“Then you’ve been talking to the wrong people.”
Now I wish I could see her face. A beat passes, and the space between us recalibrates, sends us back to reality: two strangers in a dark elevator. “So, are you here for the gala?”
“I guess you could say that. Tonight’s sort of a work thing for me too.”
I raise a curious brow. “Investor?”
She laughs. “No.”
My pulse ticks up. “You work for that author?”
She hesitates. “You caught me.”
“Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. I’m”—impressed? intrigued?—“making conversation in an elevator.”
The truth is, I’m not sure how I feel about it. Maybe God really does have a hand in this—trapping me in the dark with an author’s assistant, of all people, to talk to. Appropriate.
She laughs, and something loosens behind my ribs.
“What’s she write? That author.”
She shifts beside me. “Thrillers, mostly. Crime fiction.”
“That’s actually really cool.”
“You don’t have to sound surprised about that either.”
“What? This isn’t my surprised voice. I think you’ll know when I use my surprised voice.” Maybe the dark’s making me see things, but I can’t help but imagine her casting a skeptical look my direction. “Don’t believe me, that’s fine.”
“It’s not that. It’s just…you don’t strike me as a huge reader.”
“Oof, that hurts.” I slap a hand over my chest. “I’ll have you know, I graduated all the way up to eighth grade.”
She laughs.
“Seriously though, I love reading.” Understatement of my life.
“Oh, well, I’m sorry, then.”
“You should be.” The energy between us is almost electric. The darkness gives me that familiar feeling of anonymity, makes me bold. The words slip out before I can stop them. “Does she ever get letters?”
“Hmm?”
“The author you work for—from readers, I mean.”
“Oh, yeah, all the time.” She pauses. “Why? Have you ever written one?”
“No.” The lie burns my chest. Seriously, Beckett? Why lie? “Okay. Maybe. Is that weird?”
Her reply is fast. Sure. “No.”
