Page 122 of ClickBack

For a moment I want him here so badly that I nearly ask. I want his arms around me and his phone in another room. I want Wednesday night, when being seen by him felt different from being seen by everybody else.

“I should have called you first,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

I believe him. I cannot make believing him do everything else.

“Send me the names of the people involved. And tell them I’ll speak for myself if I decide to say anything.”

“I will.”

“The things about Zion still need to come down.”

“They’ll keep reporting them.”

“Thank you.” I rub at a spot on the table that has been there since Rae was in high school. “I need to get off the phone.”

“Can I come over?”

“Not tonight.”

“What about tomorrow?”

Today. Our dinner is today. There is a dress waiting at the tailor’s, and an entire version of the evening I no longer know how to reach.

“I can’t do dinner, Jarrett.”

“I wasn’t asking about dinner.”

“I need some room. I don’t know how much yet.”

He takes that badly enough that I can hear him working not to argue.

“Let me know you’re all right.”

“I’ll let you know when I’m ready to talk.”

“All right.”

After we hang up, I stay at the table. I should call Rae. I should answer Di. Instead I watch the window become visible in the dark and think about my mother’s hand resting over mine in that other room.

When the names arrive from Jarrett, I save them. There is no new instruction beneath the list.

Upstairs, I could take off the camisole and put it away. I could decide I was foolish to buy it, that I should have known better than to make so much of one good afternoon and a man who wanted me.

I leave it on.

But I carry the skates to the hall closet. I set them on the high shelf and shut the door. One lace catches. I open it again, tuck the lace inside, and close it carefully enough that the latch barely makes a sound.

Chapter 22

Jarrett

I call Martin Broderick at eleven on Friday night. By Saturday afternoon, I have decided the best place for me is somewhere I won’t run into him.

Maryland works.

The radio stays off on the drive. I have already heard enough from men who played six decent seasons and discovered a microphone could keep the checks coming. Martin spent part of his show wondering what I talked about with Giselle. Her age, her divorce, her little house. He added cats without knowing whether she had any.

Then he said I could buy the house three times over with one night’s pay and asked what the appeal was.