Page 26 of The Lies We Play

I look.

He’s right.

One of the middle lights blinks.

“How long have you been watching that?” I ask.

“About a week.”

I turn my head.

“You come up here and watch a single bulb on the GW Bridge fail?”

“Among other things.”

I don’t ask what other things.

Not because I’m not curious.

Because his voice shifts when he says it. Not much. Enough. It sounds like there are whole rooms inside him that he keeps locked with politeness and bad jokes and very good posture.

He is half a step closer than he was a moment ago.

I haven’t noticed him shift. I don’t think he has noticed either. We have both, in the act of looking at the bridge, drifted toward each other the half-inch that strangers don’t drift.

The half-inch is the entire conversation.

His arm isn’t touching mine. It is the width of my sweater sleeve away. His skin is warmer than the air. I can feel that warmth in the narrow space between us.

That is how close we are.

That is what proximity means at the half-inch.

I don’t move.

He doesn’t move.

The bulb blinks.

We watch it fail in intervals.

After what might be fifteen seconds, he says, very quietly, “It’s a nice night.”

“Yes.”

“You cold?”

I shrug.

Which is a lie, but a nonverbal one, so legally I feel there should be a lesser penalty.

Creed turns his head and gives me a look.

“What?” I say.

“You’re freezing.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”