Page 74 of The Faceoff

I noticed about an hour after I’d walked her out, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, that I’d told her next time I’ll ask, and that next time had come out of my mouth like a fact rather than a possibility, and that neither of us had said anything about it.

I said it like there’s going to be a next time.

I have to text her.

I broke two rules yesterday, seven and three, and the protocol when you’ve blown up the terms is that you make contact, you reset, you find out where you stand. That’s the businesslike reason and I’m going to hide behind it.

The problem is the texting itself.

I sit at the kitchen counter with my phone and I open the thread and I start typing, and this is the part nobody sees, the part I’ve spent thirteen years making sure nobody sees — that writing a sentence I care about is a different sport for me than it is for other people. The words don’t sit still. I type one and it looks wrong, and I read it back and it’s not wrong, the letters are just doing the thing, and I delete it anyway because I can’t tell anymore if it’s wrong or if it’s the page, and the second-guessing is where I lose every sentence that matters. Texting Cash is easy. Texting Cash is yo, you up. Texting Sloane something that’s true and dry and exactly right and gives nothing away — that’s eleven drafts.

Yesterday worked. V bought it. Delete.

We should talk about yesterday. Delete — sounds like a breakup, and also like I want to talk about the part of yesterday I actually want to talk about, which I’m not going to.

Hope the showcase casting goes your way Monday. Delete — too much, gives away that I remember, that I’ve been thinking about her thing instead of my own.

I sit with it. The revision is where I lose sentences. I know this about myself. The only way I send anything that matters is to write it once, fast, before the second-guessing starts, and hit the button before I can take it apart.

Vivienne looked like she got cross-checked. Good work yesterday.

Send. Before I can revise it. Good work — businesslike, partner-to-partner, the kiss filed under operations. Safe.

I put the phone face-down and go ice the shoulder.

It buzzes before the ice is on.

Sloane

I did nothing. You committed a felony against the rulebook and got lucky.

I’m smiling at the phone. I’m aware I’m smiling at the phone. I’m sitting alone in my kitchen at six in the morning with a bag of ice on my shoulder, smiling at a phone like an idiot.

Felony. You’re being dramatic.

Sloane

Two counts. Tier three AND rule seven. Premeditated.

Sloane

I’ve consulted the document. You’re facing real time.

What’s the sentence

Sloane

Still deciding. Leaning toward making you carry boxes at the shop again.

That’s not a punishment. I like carrying boxes.

Sloane

I know. That’s the tragedy. I have no leverage over a man who enjoys manual labor.

And I laugh — out loud, alone, in the kitchen — and there it is again, the thing she does, the dry landing that catches me off guard because I’m braced for the punchline and she doesn’t do punchlines, she does the true small thing two inches to the left of where I expected it. I read it twice. Not because the letters are doing the thing this time. Because I want to.

I’m in trouble. I noticed that days ago. I’m noticing it again, harder.