Chapter 26
London. Day 9 of 21. Maybe 28. He didn't say.
New York. 2:17 p.m.
The photos were in a folder. I named it Work. I'm a liar.
I didn't open it. Not today. I opened it yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Four photos. One bar. One hotel room. One restaurant. One elevator.
His suit. His scar. His face.
I closed my laptop. Opened it. Closed it again.
"Rough day?" Elias was at my desk. Coffee in his hand. Mine. He always brought mine black now. No asking.
"Rough week," I said.
He set the cup down. Didn't leave. "Talk to me."
I couldn't. Not about Laura. Not about the elevator. Not about the way Alexandra's fingers were flat on her waist like he wasn't holding, just being held.
So I said, "Hypothetically."
He sighed. Sat on the edge of my desk. "God. Okay. Hypothetically."
"Hypothetically, if someone doesn't call you for nine days, but you see them… around. With other people. Do you trust them?"
Elias was quiet. Too quiet. He looked at my screen. It was black. But he wasn't stupid.
"Hypothetically," he said, slow, "are you talking about trust, or are you talking about silence?"
"What's the difference?"
"Trust is what they do. Silence is what they don't." He tapped my coffee cup. "My girlfriend didn't call me for a week once. Finals. She was drowning. I saw her Instagram. She was at a study group. Laughing. With a guy from her class. Arm around her. For a photo."
I looked up.
"I didn't sleep," he said. "For three days. Then she called. Said 'hey, sorry, hell week, that guy's gay and engaged, we were celebrating passing Torts. I miss you.'" He shrugged. "Photos are moments. Not stories."
"But what if you don't get the call?" I said. Before I could stop it.
His eyes softened. "Then you decide if the story you have is enough. Or if you need a new one."
He left. Took his coffee with him.
---
Penthouse. 8:42 p.m.
I sat in the parlor. No candles. No rain. Just the city. Lights on. All of them. Too bright.
I replayed it. All of it.
Brown dress. You don't wear brown. His eyes. To figure it out.
Parlor. It was business. It wasn't you. His hand, two feet from mine. Asleep. Not touching.
You look tired. His eyes on my mouth. Three seconds. Then gone.
Against:
Singapore bar. Her hand on his chest.
Hong Kong hotel room. Her arms around his shoulders.
London restaurant. Her hand on his.
London elevator. His hand on her waist. Flat. Not curled.
Memory vs. evidence. Feelings vs. facts.
I hated that I was doing this. Scoring him. Like he was a case file. Like I was Legal.
He hadn't called. That was a fact.
He hadn't texted. Fact.
He said text me. I hadn't. Fact.
He said It wasn't you. Fact.
He looked at my mouth. Fact.
He left for three weeks. Fact.
I opened my phone. Opened the folder. Work. Four photos. I scrolled. Slow. Zoomed in on the elevator. His fingers. Flat. His eyes. Closed. Like he was bracing. Or enduring. Or somewhere else.
I didn't know.
I went to my messages. Alexandra – Mobile. Last text: Driver's on call. If you need anything, text Legal. Or me. 9 days ago.
My thumb hovered.
I could delete the photos. Burn the folder. Pretend Laura didn't exist. Trust the parlor. Trust the quiet. Trust It wasn't you.
I could save them. Keep them. Wait. For him to explain. For him to come home. For him to prove the photos wrong without me asking.
I could text him. Are you with her? Two words. End the silence. End the not-knowing. End us, maybe. Or start something else.
Delete. Save. Text.
I set the phone down. Screen up. The elevator photo glowing. His face. Her face. His hand not holding.
I didn't choose. Not yet.
I got up. Walked to the window. The city was still there. He wasn't.
I stood there until my legs hurt. Until the coffee went cold. Until the not-knowing felt like a room I lived in now.
And I stay ed in it