I hear Max in the background. I can’t make out the words, but he sounds pissed.
“I can call back in the morning. I’m not—it’s not—my life isn’t in imminent danger. I don’t think.”
“Hold on one second. Just let me…” There is rustling,followed by a quiet thud, presumably his bedroom door closing. “Okay, what’s going on?”
“No, I just—” My voice cracks. I try to compose myself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“I’ll be right there.”
“But Max—”
“Will be annoyed. And then he will get over it. Let’s face it: One more knock against you won’t matter.”
—
Twenty minutes later Noah and I sit on my couch side by side. He is holding my phone, studying the texts from the Senator. And the photos.
“I don’t understand. What does he even want?” He scooches closer to me on the couch and zooms in on the last photo.
“To keep me quiet, I guess? But I’ve been quiet all this time, so it doesn’t really make sense…Anyway, I keep asking, and he won’t answer.”
Noah is wearing an old T-shirt and pajama pants underneath his jacket. I still feel bad that I woke him but also validated by how shocked he seems by the messages.
“You need to go to the police, Frankie,” he says. “This isn’t optional anymore.”
The jig is officially up. It is time to come clean with Noah about the NDA. Something I should have done a long time ago. My behavior really doesn’t make sense otherwise.
“I can’t.”
“Frankie, I know you don’t want to, but the way he’s responding to you…It’s really disturbing. Like he’s had some kind of psychotic break.”
“I know. But it’s more complicated than that.”
“I don’t think it—”
“I signed an NDA,” I plunge ahead, before he can respond. “I took four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in return for never talking about what happened between us at your parents’ house, or after. I’m not supposed to ever mention his name in any context.”
Noah crosses his arms. “What are you talking about?”
“I told you that his wife found out, remember?”
“Yeah, I rememberthat,” he says, and he seems so confused. But only for a beat. “Holy shit. Your ‘inheritance’ from your great aunt.” He seems hurt as he looks around my apartment like he’s tabulating the cost of all my things.
“I was embarrassed, Noah.” My face feels hot.
Noah is on his feet now. “So youliedto me for more than twentyyears—because you wereembarrassed?” He is really, really angry. Of course he is.
“I didn’t lie,” I lie.
Noah paces, shaking his head. I can practically see him flipping through a catalog of all the variations of lies I’ve told him over the years.
“I’m sorry. I was seventeen, Noah, and I was confused and upset and…”
“No, no, no.” His voice is icy. “Because what about last week and last year and the year before that?” he asks, his eyes glassy. There is sadness beneath the anger. “Were you young and confused then, too? I’ve risked my marriage to be there for you, Frankie. Time and again. And you’ve been— I don’t even know who you are.”
I search his eyes for a way in. He always leaves a crack for forgiveness. “I’m sorry, Noah,” I say. “I am so sorry.” Because what else is there to say?
But it’s clear something is broken between us. “Me, too, Frankie,” he says on his way out the door. “Me, too.”
