Page 97 of Suite 7

“Good.” Something in her face softens and then firms. “Then why are you scared?”

Nine years of her sitting across the table. The way she’s always known when I’m performing and given me space to stop.

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“You keep saying that.” She picks up her glass. Sets it down without drinking. “Vera. I know you said you’d tell me when you’re ready. I’m not trying to push. But I’ve been watching you for the last few weeks and I need to ask you directly.” Her eyes don’t move from mine. “Is there something about this that involves me?”

The table goes very quiet.

Every version of the truth is right there, lined up, waiting.

Sloane, Gerald is Kane. And he asked me on a date, and I said yes — and I’ve been lying to your face since October and I’m sorry, I should have —

“No,” I say. “It doesn’t involve you.”

The word lands in my mouth wrong: not something I can file and move past.

Her eyes move across my face — not checking what I said, but the space around it — how still I’ve gone, how I’m holding my glass.

She’s always been able to read me.

She looks down at her plate. Picks up her fork.

“Okay,” she says.

The warmth stays. But underneath it, something shifts — a small careful distance installed without naming it, without either of us acknowledging it exists. The dinner changes register in the space of that one word.

I eat what’s in front of me and stay present and laugh in the right places. I’m very good at this. I have been getting better at it for weeks and that is the thing I cannot look at directly.

We finish the evening the way we always finish it. The bill split without discussion. Coats retrieved. The cold November air outside Maggio’s that always makes Sloane do the same theatrical shiver regardless of the actual temperature. The L rumbles past somewhere overhead. She hugs me at the cab — long, the way she hugs when she’s carrying something she’s decided not to say.

“Love you,” she says into my shoulder.

“Love you,” I say back.

Her cab pulls away.

The November cold settles around me, the street outside Maggio’s loud with the city carrying on like nothing just happened.

Saturday is in three days. I have a date with the man I just told her has nothing to do with her.

I pull out my phone.

Me: She asked me directly tonight. Whether it involves her.

Me: I said no.

Three minutes.

Gerald: Are you okay?

Me: No.

Me: Yes. I don’t know.

Gerald: Come over.

I stand there another moment.