Page 173 of The Lies We Play

“Okay,” I say.

“I love you,” she says, fast, like she has to send it before the connection drops or courage fails. “Both of you. I love you both. I’m very irritated about it, actually, because it’s logistically inconvenient and I have a museum tour in twenty-five minutes.”

Halston’s fingers press into my skin.

I answer first because if I wait, I might not be able to speak. “I love you too.”

Halston looks at the screen.

His face gives nothing away, except to us.

“Love you, baby,” he says. “I miss you, and if you allow it, we can catch up with you. Say the word, and we’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

Liv’s eyes fill, and she shakes her head. “You’re always too good to me.”

Then she is gone.

The call ends, and the room returns with a cruel little click.

For a while, neither of us speaks.

The phone lies warm in my hand. Halston’s arm is still across me. The sheets smell like us. The day outside is bright enough to hurt.

I should feel split open.

Instead, for one strange second, I feel calm.

Halston lowers his forehead to my shoulder.

I turn into him.

We lie there in the aftermath of everything—Cup, confession, absence, wanting—with no one watching and nothing fixed.

Still, his hand stays on me.

Still, my phone holds her last words.

Still, the bed feels less empty than the world wants it to be.

I won the Cup last night.

This morning is the part I’ll remember.