Page 48 of The Lies We Play

Liv: Not like you. More like in the dry way.

Liv: You’re going to love him.

The light turns green.

I sit there half a second too long, and someone honks behind me.

I drive.

You’re going to love him.

That sentence does something unpleasant and interesting inside me.

I should be annoyed.

I am annoyed.

I am also curious.

And under that, quieter, more dangerous, is a feeling I don't have time to inspect while merging around a cab.

What if she is right?

At Fifty-Seventh and Eighth, three new texts come in.

Liv: Creed, he just made a joke about the NY Supreme Court that was, structurally, a pun.

Liv: A pun, Creed.

Liv: He believes everyone in power is scammy, just like we do.

Liv: I am, as we speak, evaluating whether I have a thing for that.

I exhale through my nose.

“Of course you are,” I say to the windshield.

At Sixty-Second:

Liv: Update: he asked what position you play, and when I said defenseman, he said, “That explains the suspicious amount of emotional withholding.”

I bark out a laugh.

Then the laugh stops because that is good.

That is too good.

At Sixty-Fifth and Columbus:

Liv: Verdict: I have a thing for that.

I pull into the building’s garage. Park the car. Sit for a second while the engine ticks down and the phone buzzes again in my hand.

I look at the screen.

Liv: Don’t be weird when you get here.

Too late, I think. This is . . . already strange, and I don’t know what to expect when I see her and meet him. The guy that might take Liv away from me.