Page 39 of The Lies We Play

Creed: I know what you mean.

Liv: So, tell me about him.

Creed: My grandfather?

Liv: Yes.

Creed: He was Philippe senior and died when I was twelve. He taught Luther and me both. He didn’t believe in helmets, and he believed in frozen ponds. He believed if you fell hard enough on your head once at four years old, you’d never fall again on purpose. Luther tested this theory three times before my mother told Grandpa that either we wore helmets or she’d never let us skate with him.

Liv: Tough lady.

Creed: She’s tough but loving.

Liv: I like her.

Creed: She’d like you.

Liv: You don’t know that.

Creed: I do.

Liv: Confident eyebrows again.

Creed: Accurate eyebrows.

Liv: [photo of the Columbia library window, view of the quad in late afternoon light, ginkgos in yellow]

Liv: You have a grandfather rink and I have a library window.

Creed: The window is yours, though.

Liv: What do you mean?

Creed: You said “my window.” The rink wasn’t my parents. It belongs to a neighborhood in Montreal. The window belongs to you.

Liv: You’re a sentimentalist.

Creed: I’m a defenseman.

Liv: That is not a denial.

Creed: It’s a redirection.

Liv: Ineffective.

Creed: Noted.

Creed: Won 3-1. Clean game. Coach happy. Nobody died.

Liv: I couldn’t watch the game, but congrats. I have to study.

Creed: Good luck with the test.

Liv: Thank you. If chemistry kills me, tell James I appreciated the Sprites.

Creed: I’m not delivering your final message to a bartender.

Liv: Fine. Tell him I appreciated the Sprites and his hockey commentary.