Chapter twenty-nine
Lindsay
Istare at my phone longer than necessary.
No new messages. No replies. Nothing.
At some point, I realize I’m not waiting for a response anymore.
I’m waiting for proof that I still exist.
I tell myself to take it well. Arthur is stressed. Arthur is protective. Arthur is… Arthur.
He is a man who believes emotions are liabilities and words are tools.
But I translate the silence anyway.
You're optional.
I walk through the house with the phone in my hand, trying to shake it loose. I open a window. I close it. I straighten a pillow that doesn't need straightening.
I pretend I'm someone who doesn't care. The one who laughs it off. The one who understands that men like Arthur don't always communicate. The one who isn't waiting for scraps of belonging like it's a meal.
I consider reaching out again.
Then I picture the message being received by someone else first.
Categorized. Filtered. Deferred.
I lower the phone instead.
I hear Quinn downstairs taking a call, voice crisp, competent. She mentions the financial advisor that I chose earlier in the week.
"Yes. We'll be there."
When I come down, she is prepped and ready. "I got us a meeting with Billings Financial. He's available this morning, if that works for you."
I nod, grateful for something that needs me.
Arthur hasn't asked for anything at all.
I could tell her. I could let her be protective on my behalf.
But this isn't a staff problem.
This is a heart problem. And I'm not sure I'm allowed to admit that.
***
Quinn doesn’t slow as she approaches the reception desk.
“Good morning,” she says, crisp and efficient. “We’re here to see Mr. Billings.”
The receptionist smiles, checks a screen, and nods. “He’s expecting you.”
I stand beside Quinn, hands folded loosely in front of me, taking in the space while we wait. Clean lines. Neutral art. The kind of office designed to put people at ease without asking them to feel anything in particular.
Billings Financial.
