She is letting me lie because the lie is information. She knows Liam Walsh is not my name. She does not yet know what it is. She will. She has channels for it.
That is a chess move I would respect in someone else.
I respect it differently.
"Liam," she says, without turning around. "How's the side?"
"It's been better."
"It'll be better again."
"That's a guarantee?"
"That's a probability."
"Reassuring."
"You'll live."
"Less reassuring."
The corner of her mouth twitches. I see it from across the kitchen, even with her in profile.
I am not going to mention it.
I am going to keep that small piece of information for myself, the way she is keeping my real name for herself. A count we will both pretend does not exist.
She turns back to face me.
"Eat something. There's bread in the cupboard and eggs in the fridge."
"You're going to feed me?"
"I'm going to let you feed yourself, Liam. There's a difference."
"Generous."
"I'm a generous host."
"Are you a host?"
"Today I am."
I drink the coffee. I look at her across the counter.
"Thank you. For last night."
She does not move. She looks at me.
"You saved me first."
"That's not how the math works."
"It is in this kitchen."
She holds my eyes a half-second longer than I expect before turning and walking past me out of the kitchen. She does not look at me when she goes. She does not need to. I am aware of her the way I am aware of the wound. Constantly. With the same quality of pull.
Frank used to say there were two kinds of women a man should be careful about. The ones who rearrange a room without trying. The ones who leave a room without leaving anything.
