Page 41 of The Faceoff

She stops sorting.

She looks at me for a long moment, and I can’t read what’s behind it, which is becoming a pattern with her.

“You’re better at this than I expected.” She sits back on her heels.

“Is that a compliment?”

“It’s an observation. I’m reserving judgment on whether it’s a good thing.” She goes back to the box. “What do you get out of the story?”

“Bella sees I’m with someone. The whole thing she’s running — wait him out, he’ll come back — stops working, because there’s nothing to wait for. She moves on. Loudly, probably, but she moves on.”

“And the actual hooking up you’re allegedly not hurting for?”

“Pauses.” I say it flat. “For the duration. That’s part of it. You can’t fake-date someone and get caught leaving someone else’s room. The whole thing falls apart and we both look worse than when we started.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That’s a real cost for you.”

“It’s a manageable cost.”

“Is it?”

“Sloane.” I hand her the last book from the stack. “I’m not as much of a problem as you’ve decided I am.”

She takes the book. Holds it for a second without putting it down. “I haven’t decided you’re a problem. I’ve decided you’re an unknown variable, which is different, and which I’m allowed to be cautious about.”

“Fair.”

“I’ve also decided your grandmother thinks the sun rises and sets on you, and Margaret is the smartest person I know, so.” She sets the book on the pile. “That buys you some benefit of the doubt. Not all of it. Some.”

It lands somewhere under my ribs, that — Mormor’s good opinion translating into something for me, the two people in this room who matter most to her, sitting on the floor of her back room passing books back and forth. I don’t say any of that. I breathe out, slow, and pick at the tape on the second box instead.

“What do you get out of it?” I ask. “Since we’re doing logistics.”

She’s quiet, sorting.

“Evan stops,” she says finally. “Maybe. If it works. He sees I’m with someone and the story he tells himself — that I’m coming back, that I just need time — stops being available to him. He’s not —” she chooses the word “— he’s not someone who likes being made to look foolish. If I’m visibly with someone, especially someone like you, it costs him too much to keep pushing. He’d have to do it in front of people. In front of you.”

“He’d back off.”

“He’d back off.” She sets the box cutter down. “Probably. I don’t actually know. I’ve never tried this approach. My previous approach was endurance, which —” the corner of her mouth again “— hasn’t been a resounding success.”

“Endurance is a bad strategy for that.”

“Is it?”

“You can’t outlast a guy who’s decided you’re a project. He’s not on a clock. He’ll wait you out.” I hear myself say it and realize it’s the same thing I said to Cash on the porch, almost word for word, and I don’t know when I got so sure about it. “You have to change the math. You can’t just hope he gets bored.”

She looks at me.

“That’s exactly what Margo said,” she says. “Last night. Almost word for word.”

“Margo sounds smart.”

“Margo is terrifying.” She stands, brushing dust off her jeans, and looks down at the half-sorted boxes. “I’m going to need more than forty minutes.”

“Take all the time you want.”

“I will.” She picks up the box cutter, sets it on the desk, and there’s a shift in her — the work-mode falling away, something more guarded coming up to replace it. “I have rules. If I do this. Which I haven’t decided.”