Chapter 8
The hallway narrowed past the last chandelier where the carpet changed. The pattern went from wide gold loops to a tighter weave, the kind that swallowed sound. I felt it under my shoes and my breath came back to me. It was the first time I heard it since the doors.
I stopped at the edge where the lobby light ended and the hall started. It was only a step, maybe two feet of shadow between the two spaces. My hand was still in his. His fingers had gone damp around mine.
I breathed in through my nose and held it. I counted. One, two, three. The air tasted like perfume and old carpet cleaner. I let it out slow through my mouth and tried to make my face do nothing. My lip had been trembling since the glass. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth and swallowed and felt the shake settle.
He felt the pause.
"Hey," he said under his breath. His smile stayed on for anyone watching. "Look at me."
I didn't.
"Listen," he whispered. He leaned in close enough I could see the chain against his shirt catch the light. "You say we ran into each other last summer. You say you were in town for the foundation thing. That's it. You laugh. You keep it light. You let me handle the rest."
His script was neat. It had a place for me to stand and a line for me to say and an exit built in. It sounded like something he'd said in the car.
I breathed again. Deeper this time. My shoulders dropped half an inch.
"No," I said. It was quiet. Just for him.
His grip tightened. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to remind me he was still holding on.
"What do you mean, no?" he said. His voice stayed low, even. "This is not the time to improvise."
"I know what happened last summer," I said. I kept my eyes forward on the hall. The light at the far end was brighter. Someone was moving there, but I didn't look straight at it. "I'm not going to lie about it."
He exhaled through his nose. "You don't get it. He doesn't remember details. He remembers impressions. If you make it simple, he fills in the rest. If you make it complicated, he starts asking."
"Let him ask," I said.
That surprised him. I felt his hand twitch.
"You think this is about honesty?" he said. His whisper sharpened. "This is about getting out clean. You say the line, he nods, we have a drink, we leave. Forty seconds. Don't make it a story."
I finally looked at him. His blond hair was still perfect from the wind outside. His shirt shone under the hall lights. His eyes were not on me, they were over my shoulder, checking the distance.
I had spent three years letting other people write the first sentence for me. My mom when she called the office to say I was sick. My old boss when he explained why I left the charity board. Him, in the car tonight, saying "just follow my lead."
My breath was steady now. The trembling had moved from my lip to somewhere lower, somewhere I could hold.
"I've got my own line," I said.
He stared at me. "What line?"
"I'm going to say I was there," I said. "That I left early. That I didn't say goodbye and I should have. That's true."
His jaw worked. "That's not the plan. The plan keeps you out of it."
"The plan puts me in the middle of it and pretends I'm not," I said.
Down the hall a door clicked. The light shifted. Footsteps started our way, even and unhurried. I could see a shape in the reflection on the glass to my left, tall, coming closer. Seconds away.
He leaned in one more inch. His voice dropped to almost nothing.
"If you go off script, he will remember you," he said. "Not the dress. You. You understand that? You say that, you can't take it back."
I felt his hand still holding mine, and for the first time I felt how light his hold actually was. He was not pulling anymore. He was just not letting go.
"I know," I said. "That's why I'm saying it."
May you like
I pulled my shoulders back. The satin moved against my skin. I breathed in once more, slow, and let my face settle into something that was not a smile and not a plea. Just still. My own.
He didn't let go. But he stopped whispering.
