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“I need to confess something,” she calls, lips having been pursed in pain and now they twitch. I feel a prick of unease.
“No, you don’t need to confess anything. And it wouldn’t even count, I’m not a priest,” I call down. “Save your energy and try to think about something—”
“You will listen, you owe me,” she yells in a high-pitched, primal voice that is rich with anxiety and fear.
I give a sigh of resignation. I need to do whatever it takes to keep her calm and still while we wait.
“I’m listening. But not because I think you’re going to die,” I say.
“I got fired from my job three months ago. It was my dream job. And I was supporting my entire family with it. And I haven’t told my mother what really happened. I’ve lied to everyone,” she says in a rush.
“You don’t have to—” I try to stop her, but she just keeps pushing forward.
“I wish I hadn’t because I’m going to die, and those cunts who were making fun of me are going to think I’m really someone who uses men for money,” she says angrily.
“Aren’t you?” I ask her.
She glares daggers up at me. “Really? I mean, if I were, I’m clearly terrible at it. You practically threw me off a cliff to get rid of me,” she says.
I laugh despite the real anxiety I’m feeling waiting to hear back from Marco.
“I thought you were about to confess lies. You’re just telling more of them,” I quip.
“Just because you didn’t put your hand between my shoulders and shove me, doesn’t mean you’re not the reason I’m out here,” she snaps.
“Sorry.” I feel instantly contrite.
“I heard them talking about me. Out there on the balcony,” she says quietly. “I was leaving and came back for something and overheard them. I just wanted to make them think that I didn’t care. But, of course I care. But all anyone knows are the rumors. And they would rather believe the most ridiculous theories, with no basis in fact, than hear the boring truth,” she says. I know exactly how that feels. Renee dragged my name through the mud and I know most people believed her.
There’s an instant kinship, an invisible knitting of recognition and connection that I feel for her. I’ve been struggling with this very thing since I moved back to Houston. And I’ve had to endure gossip, not respond to innuendo and have everyone think Oh, look at the size of him. Of course, he choked her out or whatever. The gossip campaign that Renee started has died down in fervor, but I know that these people think they know things about me. And they know absolutely nothing.
“Tell me what really happened,” I hear myself asking before I can think about it. It would be bad form not to ask, I tell myself. But, I can’t deny that I’m eager to know more about this woman who has me lying on my stomach with my head dangling off the edge of a cliff in the dirt, playing the role of confessor.
“I was living in Nashville. I had a great job at the Southern Poverty Law Center right out of law school. But the money was shit and I wanted to be able to do more for myself and my mama. So, I started applying for jobs in law firms. Big ones where I swore I’d never work. I went to a shitty law school, but I was first in my class and I wrote an article that the Harvard Law Review published. So, I had no problem finding a job. I moved to Washington, DC. It was great. The cost of living was crazy. But, I was renting and took the train in. Everything was great until I started seeing someone at work,” she says.
“Well, I don’t know how you could have foreseen that wouldn’t go pear-shaped,” I say sarcastically.
“Oh, it gets even worse. He was my boss,” she drones.
“Oh.” Damn.
“That’s not the best part.”
“What? Was he married?” I joke.
“Engaged,” she says quietly.
That was the last thing I was expecting to hear.
“Shit, I keep putting my foot in my mouth with you, don’t I?”
“You did say you were terrible at small talk.” She laughs, with real humor and shakes her head in what I have to guess—because I can’t see her face—is chagrin.
“I lived in Rockville. That’s a suburb of DC. It was affordable and not crowded, you know. I didn’t really spend much time in DC beyond work. I didn’t have any friends there, so my time in the actual district itself was limited to my office in China Town. But earlier this year, I ended up having an unexpected free afternoon after a deal closed early. You have no idea how rare that is. It’s fucking brutal, that life. I worked like a mule at harvest time. On the days we were prepping for a deal to close, I would go forty-eight hours with no sleep. I never complained. I was proving to be something of a wunderkind in the practice that dealt with large insurance settlements. We were charting courses no one had ever even thought of. I was making an impact and I was making money. I never complained about the shitty treatment, the shitty hours and the constant sexual harassment.”
“That intense,”I say.
“It was. But like I said, it had its upsides,” she says and she sighs up at the sky in nostalgia. “On the first free day I’d had in a year, I woke up feeling like doing something special.
