“It’s fine.” Her eyes are soft and, if I’m not mistaken, a little wet.
My own drift back to the television. I must have been talking for a while, because the game’s not on anymore. On the screen, men in ugly sunglasses sit around a poker table, looking either bored or grim. I don’t know why in God’s name this is on a sports channel, but I guess it doesn’t really matter.
“It’s easy for me to forget,” I say, concentrating on the feel of her fingers in mine, “that football was a thing that helped Cope. It hurt him, a lot. But it helped him, too. He loved playing. He really did. And he was so good at it, and that . . . that made him happy, to be good at this thing that other people loved, too.”
When I look back to her, she nods in understanding.
“So you watch it to remember?”
“I watch it—yeah, to remember. Looking back, I always focused on the negative stuff with him, once he went pro. I’d talk about the hits he took, or the stuff I heard about him through the grapevine, stuff that made me worry about how he was doing off the field. But if I hadn’t only focused on that, if I’d made sure to tell him I was proud of him, too, if I’d—”
“Adam. You know it’s not your fault. You were worried about him.”
I shrug. “It not being my fault doesn’t mean I couldn’t have done different. And if I’m going to do this thing, this story I’ve been working on for so long, I’ll need to do different. I’ll need to remember Cope’s love for the game, because a lot of people share it. I’ll need to admit my own mistakes.”
I can tell, as soon as this is out of my mouth, that I’ve changed the temperature in the room. I’ve made it so I’m no longer only the guy who lost his best friend, the guy who wants to share something with the woman he’s in a relationship with.
This thing, this story I’ve been working on.
This story I once thought about trading Jess for.
We haven’t talked about it since the trampoline.
She’s concentrating on our hands now, her lashes low, her lips pressed together tight. It’s good that she hasn’t pulled away entirely at the reminder, but it’s not good how quiet she’s gone. It can’t be.
Jess being this kind of quiet with me—that’s an us from a different time. From before Florida, before the farm.
Before that tiny foyer in this hotel room.
“I’m sor—” I begin, but at the same time, she says my name.
She keeps her eyes down. Squeezes my hand gently.
“Yeah?”
She clears her throat softly before she speaks again. Twice. Stalling, same as I did, and I brace myself. The stress we’ve worked out from the day, from the new lead on Lynton—I’ve brought it all back to us. Reminded her of how we got here, and where we’re going next.
She’ll probably say we need to take a step back, or that it’s time for her to go to her room. That she needs to stay focused on Tegan from now on.
Finally, she raises those lashes and looks me right in the eyes, and I brace myself.
But I’m not braced enough for what she says next.
“I’ll talk.”
The Last Con of Lynton Baltimore
Transcript Excerpt from Episode 5, “Modus Operandi”
Durant:It’s clear to me you have a particular attitude about women.
Baltimore:Oh, is it? What’s that, then?
Durant:You don’t respect them. You don’t feel empathy for them. You see them as weak, and that’s why you target them.
Baltimore:::scoffs:: Ms. Durant, you could not be more wrong.
Durant:About which part?
