Page 158 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
“Nash.”
“It’s not happening.”
My fingers trembled at my sides. I shoved them into my jeans and stared at Triumphant Sisyphus. The anguish Nash had demanded was chiseled into its face, but the artist laced it with strong undercurrents of triumph.
When I looked at the sculpture, I saw Sisyphus winning.
He carried the boulder above his head like a trophy rather than a punishment.
He reminded me life was a matter of perspective. You can see your losses as failures or lessons. The choice is yours.
My eyes slid to Nash.
Ben.
Whomever he was, he hadn’t turned away from the art since we entered.
If I hadn’t been blinded by my idea of Nash, I might have considered him as Ben earlier. I inched back, allowing him to study the sculpture. The phone in my palm felt heavy. I chewed on my lip, considering what to text Ben.
Durga: What are you wearing?
I didn’t need a response. The read receipt would confirm it. Over ten minutes passed until Nash received a phone call from Delilah. He ended the call, clenched his phone, then held it out in front of him.
My eyes skated between Nash and the Eastridge United App.
The read receipt said, read.
A few seconds later, a message popped up.
When Nash slid his phone back into his pocket, the green dot beside his name turned red.
I didn’t bother looking at his answer.
It was like the end of a football match.
Fourth down.
Three seconds to go.
One yard from the end zone.
No time outs left, and the whistle blew.
A ref had thrown down the gauntlet.
The end.
Game over.
Final score.
Nash was Ben.
Ben was Nash.
And I was fucked.
Because Ben finally had a face.
