Page 11 of The Lies We Play

“Honey, there is a lot you don’t remember.”

“I’m aware. It’s giving me a lovely sense of mystery and total emotional collapse. Where is Halston?”

Her eyes fill again.

“The last I heard, he’s in a long-term care facility in Connecticut.”

The room goes silent inside me.

“Has he asked for me?”

She doesn’t answer.

I know.

I know before she says it.

“He hasn’t regained consciousness since the accident,” she says. “His family has asked, very gently, that we respect their privacy during this time.”

His family.

Very gently.

Privacy.

Three phrases that don't belong anywhere near Halston unless someone is holding a knife behind their smile.

I stare at her.

“My husband is in a care facility,” I say, each word scraped raw, “and his family asked you to respect their privacy? I should be there. I’m his next of kin.”

My mother blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Not enough.

Not the way she would blink if she knew what I had said.

“What did you say?”

My pulse moves faster.

“My husband?” I ask, then add, “Or next of kin?”

Her face empties.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Her voice turns soft in a way that makes me want to tear the IV from my arm. “I know you were very close to him. You liked him, but he never . . .”

Very close?

I liked him?

He never . . .

She says it the way someone might say “study partner.”