Page 65 of The Lies We Play

It is annoying how little effort he puts into this.

His dark eyes find me before I park.

That is also annoying.

Being known is lovely until it becomes inconvenient.

“Buongiorno,” he says when I step off Bruno.

“Careful,” I warn. “He’s emotionally fragile today.”

Moises looks at the scooter. “Today?”

“Don’t start. He can smell judgment.”

“I would never judge Bruno.”

“Liar.”

“Yes,” he says, handing me coffee. “But with affection.”

I take the cup with my right hand. My left is tucked under the strap of my bag, fingers curled against the leather where he can't see them.

He sees anyway.

Moises doesn't look at my hand.

He looks at my face.

Worse.

“You didn’t sleep,” he says.

“I slept adjacent.”

“Livia.”

I shrug. “It’s my normal. Don’t worry about it.”

He knows about the accident. The public version. The clean version. The version that starts with a crash and ends with rehabilitation, because people prefer stories that behave like medical brochures. Injury. Treatment. Recovery. Progress.

He doesn't know that before the accident, there were two men.

He doesn't know I belonged to them in two different ways and somehow completely.

He doesn't know one of them was my husband, and the other was the man I should not have wanted and loved with the same desperate honesty.

He doesn't know that I am still legally tied to a man who has had years to release me and has chosen silence instead.

And I don't plan to tell him.

Ever.

That is what therapists are for, right? They listen to your past wounds in a controlled environment, write notes, offer breathing exercises, and don't propose over risotto—or worse, gelato.

I take a sip of coffee, burn my tongue, and welcome the distraction because physical pain is sometimes emotional pain with better documentation.

The morning shifts around us. People pass by with bags and dogs. A cyclist rings a bell as if bells have ever solved anything. From the café, the smell of warm cornetti drifts out, butter and sugar and ordinary life.