Page 61 of Don't Tell

She stares at him. "Cade, you don't — "

"And don't bother coming back. Don't call me. I'm sick of your petulant behavior, Lila. I’ve been sick of it for a long time. I thought I was being kind by not saying so. I’m done being kind."

"Cade…"

"I thought I made myself clear."

"You don't…"

"We're done."

She gasps.

She glances at me. The look is fast and ugly and not for me — it is for him, delivered through me — and she pushes back from the table, snatches her bag, and is in heels at the door before either of us has moved.

The door slams.

The silence after is very loud.

I sit still at the table, hands flat on my thighs, the slammed door's ring fading. We don't look at each other.

Her glass is still full. The bread hasn't been touched. Neither has the water I poured.

After a while, I unstick my hands from my thighs.

"I should go."

"Stay."

"Cade — "

"One minute. Please."

He moves to the chair across from me. He sits down, pours water into a glass, and pushes it across the table at me without asking. I drink half of it. My hand is steady. I wish the rest of me were.

"Eli Brandt got back to me."

"Who?"

"The gallerist. The first of the three I emailed about your work this morning.”

"What did he say?"

"He’s interested in your work. He'd like to meet you."

I'm quiet.

"There's a private viewing here at the Cresswell next Thursday. The Davies collection — emerging California painters. Brandt will be there. He suggested he could meet you there."

"Here?"

"Mhmm."

"In the hotel?"

"In the hotel."

I look at the water glass.