Page 20 of The Lies We Play

The face she makes is the face of a person being mildly surprised by a man on a roof, and the face is, frankly, devastating. It is the face of a woman who has spent her entire life explaining that no, it is not Olivia. And yes, Livia is a real name: and no, her parents weren't trying to be difficult on purpose, although evidence suggests they may have enjoyed the outcome.

“Sabine,” she says after a moment. “Livia Sabine Crane.”

“Three names.”

“My mother is also a fan of having strong opinions and naming her children before her husband can object.”

“Hers might be a worse case than mine.”

“Significantly worse.”

I take another drink.

She wraps her arms around herself.

I don't say anything for a moment. She is sitting on our shared roof in her pajamas with her arms tucked around a sweater too big for her, and she has just read both Cloud Atlas and The Kite Runner and made jokes about both. The correct move is to let the silence sit for a beat and not fill it with whatever stupid thing my twenty-two-year-old mouth might decide is useful.

She fills it.

“So what do you do, Creed?”

“I play hockey,” I say. “For the Night Hawks.”

She blinks.

“I don’t really follow hockey.”

“Okay.”

“My parents are golf and tennis people. I have spent a lot of my life at country clubs being polite about handicaps.” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t judge me. I didn’t choose that life.”

“That sounds like its own form of suffering.”

“I sat through a six-hour Masters dinner once.”

“I am so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Her gaze narrows with interest. “So. Night Hawks. Are you good at it?”

I look at her.

She asks it the way you ask a person about their job when you genuinely have no information and want to know if they are good at it the way they say they are.

“I’m okay,” I say. “I’m in my second year. I’m a defenseman. I get on the ice a lot. I’m not the guy people come to see, but I’m the guy people pay attention to if they know the sport.”

“Do you like it?”

That catches me.

It shouldn’t.

People ask if I am good. If I am tired. If I am ready. If I think we have a shot this year. Reporters ask about systems, pressure, matchups, minutes. Coaches ask if I can go. My father asks if I am taking care of my body. My mother asks if I am eating enough, then ships food regardless of my answer.

Do you like it?

The question is too simple to be easy.

She is good.