Page 41 of The Clinch
I turn my head slightly.
“He won’t bother you again.”
I laugh once without humor. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” Absolute certainty. “Because if he does, I’ll handle it.”
That finally gets a reaction out of me: a short, incredulous laugh.
“You can’t handle every person who remembers I existed.”
“Watch me.”
I raise my eyebrows, but his face stays level. He’s not joking. I turn fully toward the railing, placing my palms on the wood.
“It’s not a big deal. Just… annoying. Being reminded of a version of myself I deliberately left behind.”
“So you pretend she never existed?”
I glance back at him. “I didn’t say that.”
“What did you say?”
“I said she’s not who I am anymore.”
He studies me for a moment, then shifts subtly, taking the outside edge so the crowd has to go through him before it gets anywhere near me.
“You know what I think?” he asks quietly.
I already don’t like the answer. “What?”
“I think you don’t want other people deciding who you are.”
“I’ve spent four years deciding exactly that.”
“By disappearing?”
I turn my head to look at him. “By choosing.”
He studies me, recalibrating.
“Once people name you,” I continue, keeping my voice even, “they start interacting with the version they recognize. They expect things. They excuse things. They forgive things you won’t tolerate anymore.”
He takes that in.
“I didn’t erase Lillian. I retired her.” I hold his gaze. “She lived in a world where people saw talent, body, performance, and decided that entitled them to the rest.” I turn back to the skyline. “Liz decides what the room gets.”
Silence stretches.
“Liz gets to move through the world without explaining herself. She doesn’t apologize for other people’s weaknesses. She doesn’t hand over pieces of herself just because someone’s looking.”
“That sounds… controlled.”
“It’s intentional.”
“And safe?”
“Yes.”
