Page 131 of ClickBack

“You sound far away.”

“I’m right here. And I’m proud of you.”

“I know.” Her voice changes. “I wasn’t trying to make another thing for you to worry about.”

“You didn’t.”

She waits. I could ask about Zion and move us somewhere familiar. Instead I put my fork down.

“The thing you asked me Friday. About what happened after that photograph.”

“Ma, we don’t have to do it now.”

“Not now. But we do have to do it. I haven’t forgotten.”

“All right.”

“I wanted you to hear that from me.”

“I’m glad you said it.”

We finish with the interview dates. She sends the job description while we are still talking and tells me not to mark it up. I tell her that depends on the quality of the writing.

When we hang up, I read every word. Then I save Tori’s number from the list Jarrett sent and call her.

She answers with her name. I give her mine, though she may already have it on her screen.

“I’d like you to explain what was done,” I say. “Then there are some things I want to decide for myself.”

Chapter 24

Jarrett

By Wednesday, I have gotten good at leaving my phone alone for almost ten minutes.

I work out. I answer Cam. I get through a meeting with Sterling without asking him to repeat anything until the last page. At home, I watch a game from last season and discover I have been watching the same possession for three replays without seeing the ball.

Giselle’s message comes a little after eight.

Zel: Zion’s at Rae’s. If you still want to talk, come here. By yourself.

I read it twice, then answer before she can wonder whether I saw it.

Me: Leaving now.

I drive to Cedar Mill with both hands on the wheel. There are things I want to say, but every version I try sounds better than the way I behaved. By the time I turn onto her street, I have stopped rehearsing.

Her porch light is on. She opens the inside door while I am still coming up the walk, then stands behind the screen. Soft pants, a sleeveless shirt, glasses. Her bob is tucked behind one ear. I have missed the sight of her doing nothing in particular so badly that I stop at the bottom step.

“Come in,” she says.

I climb the steps and take the door when she pushes it open. We have to move around each other in the entrance. Neither of us seems to know how much room to leave.

“Thank you for coming.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that.”

She closes the door. I put the fob in my pocket and follow her into the living room. There is a folded blanket on the sofa, her book beside it, a pair of slippers underneath. She has been here all week, living through something I helped make harder, and I have been thinking about whether she would call.