Page 63 of The Lies We Play

One man who learned control so young he mistook it for virtue. One man who watched the world as if violence might be the only honest language left. One man who could buy a solution before anyone finished explaining the problem. One man who would put himself between me and danger without asking whether I wanted a wall or a hand.

And me.

The idiot in the middle.

The overachieving, color-coded idiot who had loved them both with the sincerity of a woman who thought devotion was enough to keep people from leaving.

They left.

Creed never searched for me. According to Mom, Halston asked that I never contact him. Dad agreed. I never understood what happened back then, and it’s not that I can go ahead and ask my parents about the subject.

Before I lost them, they didn’t like to discuss my accident. After my parents died, there’s no point in even thinking about the life I had back there.

Mom did mention that with my issues, I was . . . not the kind of person Halston Saint Claire would like to have around.

Did I cry?

Alone, in silence, and then I learned to move on. That’s what my parents wanted, and it was a good thing I did it. Who knew they wouldn’t be around for long? Not me, but at least while they were around, I gave them all the attention I could and made them happy.

I type back to Moises.

If I say yes, will you judge how much sugar I put in it?

His reply comes quickly.

Always. With devotion.

I smile despite myself.

Then Bella twitches again.

The smile fades.

I set the phone down and look at my reflection.

“Don’t make this weird,” I tell the woman in the mirror.

She looks back at me with ten years of practice in making weird look functional.

“Excellent,” I say. “Inspiring.”

By seven-thirty, I am dressed, mascaraed into the illusion of alertness, and negotiating with Bruno outside my building.

Bruno is my scooter. He is temperamental, powder blue, older than any vehicle should be allowed to be in a city with hills, and absolutely convinced he is a horse in a historical drama. I bought him six years ago from a man named Enzo, who told me Bruno had “character,” which I now know was Italian for “electrical problems and a deep personal grudge.”

“Come on,” I say, turning the key.

Bruno coughs.

A woman across the street looks over.

I smile at her with the serene dignity of someone not currently being humiliated by machinery.

“Don’t do this,” I whisper.

Bruno sputters, considers mortality, then starts.

“Grazie,” I say. “See? Growth is possible even for an old man.”