“Don’t,” I say, and it comes out faster than I meant. Lila lifts her hands. “I know,” she says, softer. “I know. It’s just that I don’t like the way he slid into your life like famous men do with their hands already out.”
“He doesn’t care about being famous,” I say, because I believe that. “He cares about closing doors and then telling himself he’s not holding the key.”
“Same difference when you’re on the wrong side of the door,” she says.
We let that sit. I concentrate on the coffee. She concentrates on the croissant. My phone buzzes again; this time it’s the gallery:Press preview tomorrow—final headcount 17. Museum confirmed 2 staff. Mirrow security requests five minutes w/ you and me pre-doors. Okay to send yes?I type back:Yes—five minutes. No filming. No direct questions to people.I don’t write participants even though the email uses it. I’ve started making that correction in my sleep.
“You know he’ll have people there,” Lila says, as if to herself. “At the preview. At the gala. He has people everywhere. They’re like tasteful ghosts.”
“I know,” I say.
“You also know,” she says, “that you can text me if you look up and see something you don’t like, and I will start a fire under the bar, so everyone has to leave, and we get to be on the news.”
“I don’t want to be on the news,” I say.
“I don’t want him to get to look at you and call it charity,” she says. “We both don’t get what we want.”
A toddler passes our booth holding a half-eaten banana and a parent’s hand, eyes wide like the world is a museum she didn’t get tickets for. Her mouth is open in astonishment at the pastry case. Lila watches her and softens. “I’m going to be that mom who bribes her kid with quiche,” she says.
“You hate quiche,” I say.
“It’s the principle. Eggs are good for brains.” She licks her thumb where jam stuck and then makes a face at herself,because she hates sticky hands. She digs in her bag and tosses me a travel pack of wipes without looking. “For the nail,” she says. “You’ve been picking at it. It’s going to bleed.”
She’s right. The blue stain left a hard line under the nail that I keep worrying like it’s a problem I can solve by making it worse. I take a wipe and run it under the nail, then fold it and do it again. It smells like artificial lemon. Behind Lila, the door chimes. The drizzle lets two men in with suits the cost of my rent and smiles that look like meeting invitations. They look around the room the way men do when they assume rooms belong to them. They are no one I know. My shoulders still drop a fraction when they choose a table near the door instead of the back.
“Hey,” Lila says softly. “I see it. It’s fine.”
“I know,” I say. “I just—”
“You don’t have to justify the part of you that reads exits like verses,” she says. “You earned that.”
I’m saved from having to nod by my phone buzzing again.Unknown number:We confirmed your request with the museum.The wording is foundation-clean. The tone is one I could write in my sleep now. The number is the same one that caught in my brain the night I pressed the card corner into my palm. He doesn’t put his name on the text. He doesn’t need to. I stare at it for three seconds longer than necessary and slide the phone face down on the table like it tried to bite me.
“From him?” Lila asks.
“Yes.”
“What does he want to confirm?”
“That Mirrow will be under gallery terms tomorrow,” I say. “That no one films without approval. That there will be no direct questions to people. He usedyour request.”
“No,” she says. “He usedwe.As inwe confirmed.As in daddy knows best.”
“I think he means it as logistics,” I say.
“Men always mean it as logistics,” she says. “That’s how they get away with it.”
“Should I tell him to stop texting?”
“Do you want him to stop texting?” she fires back.
I don’t answer right away. The question is an elbow to the ribs. Do I want the quiet help? Do I want the net that I didn’t ask for? Do I want the presence that I can’t see and can’t stop thinking about? I hate all the ways the answer is not clean.
“I want the bad men to fail,” I say.
“Then use the good men and the systems they built and make them do the labor while you keep your rules,” she says. “It’s not the same as giving him your throat.”
“I’m not giving anyone my throat,” I say, maybe sharper than I intend.
