“Where is she?”
“Rio,” he replies, not missing a beat. “At a show.”
“Oh.” This makes sense. Rio. A place everyone goes.Where even is Rio?I wonder.Brazil, that’s right.Other than the one time to Aruba, I think the farthest I’ve made it out of New York is to the Poconos. So, yeah.
Rio.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Fine.”
“That’s good.”
More lingering quiet now.
“And you’re doing great, right? I mean, you made it. All your dreams have come true,” I say, trying to ignore the snarky undertone my voice surreptitiously adopts.
“Not all of them,” Beckett mutters.
“Huh?”
“Nothing,” he replies. “Where are you right now?”
“In my bedroom. Why? Where are you?”
“Kitchen. But I meant, like, where in the world?”
“Who am I, Carmen Sandiego?”
He emits a small chuckle. “Are you still in New York?”
“I am. Are you?” I ask, stomach clenching.
“Yes.”
“But not Long Island, I’m guessing.”
“No, not Long Island.”
“Gave up on the seals?” I shoot back. I hate the flatness in my voice, but it appears the giant lump in my throat won’t allow for inflection. This must be what happens when anger and sadness and guilt and shame all collide in a fiery crash.
“Yeah.” His tone is sad when he says this.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” he says.
“How does it feel to be famous?”
“I’m not.”
“Entertainment Weeklycompared you to Nicholas Sparks.”
“Nobody readsEntertainment Weekly.”
“Okay,” I say. “If you say so.”
“Can I askyoua question?” Beckett volleys the spotlight back onto me.
