Me: I’ve done my research. I’m not a screwup, Dad. I’m not unreliable. Last year, I had a reason for not finishing the project, if you remember.
Dots.
Dad: I don’t think of you as unreliable.
Shit. The dots. The damn dots.
Here it comes. Here it comes. My dear dad is about to throw his grief for his dead daughter and disappointment in his pill-popping son in my face.
Dad: Sawyer, it’s hard for me, too. I’m sorry about what happened in Paris. You did good work, and I should’ve said so to your face.
Dad: You still there?
I let him watch the dots for a minute longer.
Me: No problem. I’m good. But I need to go. I want to get in a run before Chicago turns into an oven.
Dad: I’ll text you later. We should touch base regularly. I want to keep abreast of your progress. OK?
Fuck. Stop worrying! I wasn’t trying to kill myself. You don’t need to watch over me.
Me: Yeah, sure. Every day.
I don’t bother to wait for any more dots. I put down the phone on the nightstand, crawl back into bed, and look at the dresser.
Nearby, Azizi leans against the wall; her legs crossed at the ankles, her head tilted to the side, exposing her long neck. She told me once about the esthetic of a long throat and sinewy arms, and how they enhance the beauty of a ballerina’s line, especially in arabesque.
My reaction to that information was to administer an eye roll that could be seen two towns away. But I understood what she meant—just too much of a big brother to admit it.
I pull the sheet over my head. Too early to run. I’ll sleep a few more hours and then prepare for another day with Honoree and Lula Kent. I close my eyes. Sleep finds me quickly, as does the nightmare.
It starts with hands on a steering wheel, not just my hands, but Azizi’s hands, too. She’s pissed and intoxicated and grabs the steering wheel. I scream at her to let go. I beg her to let go.
Then we are all there—my mother, my dad, my grandmother Maggie—all of us helping me steer the car, but they can’t help. The car careens off the road toward the biggest fucking tree in Southern California as an SUV smashes into the driver’s side. My side. The impact spins us 360 degrees. Screeching tires. A scream. The noise paralyzes me. The pain steals my breath.
Silence descends like an unwanted guest, taking up every inch of space, sharing nothing, offering no reprieve, other than the deadly stillness.
A dream-instant later, hands lie on my chest, coaxing me to breathe.
I wake up, and my head hurts. The pain splits my skull, and I pat the nightstand, searching for my prescription. Damn. I swallowed my last tramadol six months ago, the night I tried to forget Azizi’s face, her cries, her pleas.
Let me die. I want to die. I can’t live like this. (Who’s talking? Me or her?)
Silly girl. You were perfect. The best of us . . . but you never saw past that tree.
PART 3
CHAPTER 21
HONOREE
Tuesday, October 27, 1925
Honoree left Archie’s office at two o’clock in the morning, searching for a place to hide. A quiet corner where she wouldn’t run into Miss Dolly or Archie’s brother, Dewey, or anybody—a small, dark space where she could scream, collapse, and weep.
She barreled toward the back door. The crisp, late-night air would calm her, but just as she reached the kitchen, she heard voices and disappeared into a corner.
Standing next to the stove, Ezekiel was using his teeth to rip open a loaf of Wonder Bread. In work boots, brown trousers, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and suspenders, he looked more like the boy she remembered than the man in the fancy suit with back-alley manners she had tangled with a few nights before.
