Page 73 of The Lies We Play
“That pass in overtime?” He whistles. “Beautiful.”
I grunt.
He glances at me again. “You’re always this chatty?”
“Only when moved.”
“By what?”
“Silence.”
Manny laughs again. “My ex-wife would’ve loved you. She hated talking too.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
The cab turns uptown. My phone buzzes against my thigh. I ignore it. It’s probably Fitzhenry, my agent, sending some version of we need to discuss messaging, which means he wants me to consider an interview where I say I’m grateful, focused, taking it one day at a time, and whatever other phrases athletes use when people want access to your fear but not your truth.
Another buzz.
Vesper.
I check the screen despite myself.
Saw the clip. “Nowhere else to go”??? Very subtle cry for help, old man.
A second message follows.
Also, Cally says your face looked “tragically constipated.” His words, not mine.
I stare at the text.
A laugh moves in my chest, small and unwelcome.
I don’t let it out.
Vesper has always been annoying in a precise way. She can find a bruise from three thousand miles away and press on it with a glitter pen. Her relationship cuts me deep because she’s with two men who adore her and adore each other. That was my dream and now . . . I got nothing. Only memories of what never happened and a future that I’ll never have.
My sister was a kid when everything happened. Not young enough to miss that I came home wrong, not old enough to understand why. She asked questions for a while. Then she stopped, probably because I trained everyone around me to stop asking before they got close enough to hear the answer.
My sister deserved better than that.
Most people did.
I type: Tell Cally I’ll remember that next time he needs tickets.
Vesper responds immediately.
He says you’re emotionally stunted but useful.
Useful.
Yeah.
That tracks.
Manny pulls up in front of my building fifteen minutes later. I tip too much because I always tip too much when I’ve been quiet. Like money can apologize for being bad company.
