Richard turns to look at me, narrows his eyes. “Friends.” It’s not a question, exactly.
“Anyway, you distracted me from my own shit, which is good.”
“What shit?” Richard asks.
“No, no, it’s fine. We don’t need to—”
“Come on, Frankie,” Richard says quietly.
And really, why did I bring it up if I didn’t, on some level, want Richard to know? I didn’t mention the unknown caller to Noah because I didn’t want him to feel bad. Even after all these years, I knew he still felt guilty about what happened that night. It was his parents’ house. And he’d been off having fun somewhere at theparty without me. Not that his being there would have changed anything.
“Just some guy from areallylong time ago,” I say finally. “He’s resurfaced. He called me last night. At least I think he did. It’s got me a little…unsettled.”
“Someone you dated?”
“Sort of.”
Does this feel better, saying some of it out loud? I’m not sure. Just thinking about the situationstillmakes me feel ashamed. I know that’s ridiculous. It wasn’t my fault. Of course I know that. Or my brain knows that. My body seems to be holding on to a different set of conclusions.
I remind myself it’s just been the one call from the 508 area code. The real problem is what I discovered when I did a little internet digging this morning. Senator Adam Foley is running for another office, this time governor of Massachusetts, which many people predict is just the next step in the long road to the White House. It makes sense that he’s showing up now, to make sure the me-shaped pothole is paved over, smoothed into oblivion.
“What happened?” Richard’s eyes are clouded with concern.
And that is comforting. I can and will take care of myself, the way I always have. But there is something nice about him caring.
“It was just a phone call. He didn’t even leave a message.”
“Then why are you…scared?”
“I didn’t say I was scared.”
“I know you didn’t. Sorry—I don’t mean to put words in your mouth. I—I just get that sense.”
I take a breath. “I am scared.”
“Do you want…I know some security people,” Richard goes on haltingly. “You haven’t told me the details, but maybe they could help.”
A favor. So that I’d owe him. The thought shocks me awake. What am I doing? This isn’t me.
I stand abruptly. “Thank you, Richard, but no,” I say. “I appreciate the offer.”
He looks confused, which is fair. I’m overreacting; I know that.“Do you want to— Let’s take a walk or something?” Richard asks. “I want to hear about the show.”
And Iwanthim to care about my show. Because it feels good. Better than I want it to. Noah was right—I shouldn’t have met with him. What version of me genuinely believes that seeing him is going to make walking away from him easier? The version that’s an idiot.
“Does Gretchen know you’re here with me?” I ask sharply.
“What do you think?” Predictably, he seems annoyed.
“I have no idea!”
Richard closes his eyes. “No,” he says finally. “She may suspect something, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“A few days ago she asked about the ‘other person on the trip’ and how you were dealing with what had happened,” he says. “Seemed like a strange question to me.”
“To care about how I was doing?” He looks at me pointedly. And fair enough. Now I am just being petulant. “Sorry.”
