“Should I be calling you Lizzy?” Emily asked me.
“No,” I said quickly. “Please don’t call me that.”
I bit my lip again, darting a look out her window. Our colleagues were bustling around their offices, snatching up their car keys, stopping to chat for a moment before heading home. “Whatever you tell me in here is confidential.” She must’ve seen panic in my eyes.
“Thank you,” I said simply.
Tim popped his head in, gave us a curious look. He had a sports bag slung over his shoulder, big enough to fit a small child in it. “Having a women’s meeting, are we?”
Before we could even answer, he gave a military salute for some reason. “Got tennis in ten,” he said. “Better be off.”
I shook my head as he half jogged down the hallway. “Wheredoeshe get his energy?”
“I suspect he’s part machine,” Emily said. “But wherever he gets it”—she shifts in her seat, groaning—“I could use some. I need some up-and-go.”
“No!” I protested too loudly. The word was out of my mouth before I could stop it. “I like you how you are. You’re so—”
Calm. Gentle. Kind. Oh no. The blush spread down my neck like a rash. I fumbled with my mug, nearly spilling it. My hands were trembling. Fortunately, she didn’t mention it.
“Does your husband call you Sarah?” she asked.
I smiled grimly. “No, he’s never called me that.”
He wouldn’t even agree to it for the blog interview…and God, what a shit show that was. We’d fought in the car on the way over.
He hadn’t wanted anything to do with promoting Black Wood. He was too afraid. I kept him out of the pictures, obviously. Always have. And for God’s sake, we’ve changed our names, our appearance, and our driver’s licenses. We’re nothing like what we were back then.
Joe stood stiffly beside me during the entire interview, clutching my shoulder so hard it hurt. At one point the writer asked him about Black Wood, and I held my breath. “To be honest, the place gives me the creeps,” the idiot said. I rolled my eyes and wondered if I could get that removed from the article.
“What does he call you?” Emily asked curiously.
I had to think about that. On the odd occasion I mixed with his friends, he called me “Hey” or the nickname Sarah gave me. I think it’s his way of fucking with me. “Sometimes he calls me Lamb. It’s the nickname my sister gave me. Lizzy Lamb.” I half smiled, remembering. “As in ‘quiet as a lamb.’ ”
My smile quickly faded. Nobody would suspect that quiet little Lizzy Lamb with the waist-length dirty-blond hair had evolved into me. Everyone always seemed to think there was something wrong with me. Even my mum’s chatty sisters skirted uneasily around me when we were left alone together. They’d stand up too abruptly, murmuring something about needing some fresh air or another hot cuppa, even though theirmugs were still half full. I made people nervous without even meaning to. Made enemies without even trying. It mademefeel uncomfortable in my own skin and only added to my private confusion.What’s so wrong with me? What’s missing in me that people see so clearly?Sarah, meanwhile, was personable, lively, always there with a perfectly timed quip.
Emily studied me, really looked, as if seeing me for the first time. “Lizzy Lamb,” she said, and for some reason I flinched.
“I didn’t talk much.” I gave her a wry smile. “Not back then, anyway.”
“Shy?”
I sipped the coffee again, felt it burn going down. I considered her words before finally shaking my head. “No. Just lost.”
“A lot of kids feel the same way,” she said, shifting in her seat.
“Not Sarah,” I said quickly.
“And you envied that.”
Yes, I did envy that. So much.
“Were you ever diagnosed with anything?” Emily prodded. “By a psychologist, maybe?”
Another small sip. “Why?”
“Just curious!” she said chirpily.
My heart fell a bit. I didn’t want Emily to think badly about me, so I paused for a moment before smiling cheerfully back.
