Chapter 26.
26.
Admission (n.)
a voluntary concession of the existence of certain facts
a confession ten years coming
W e ride back to the Singer Suites after a full day in court, my head spinning from the day’s testimony and the questions it’s left me with. Having empathy for those who lost Joe does not make Margot guilty, I remind myself as our shuttle exits the freeway, greeted by the fast-coming early dark of late October. I work to ignore the gnawing doubt that continues to creep into my once resolute stance on this case. On Margot.
I’m lost in thought until we are just a few blocks from the hotel, when Cam leans forward from the back row of the shuttle, positioning his face between Damon and me. “Let’s meet up tonight instead,” he says, then falls back into his seat. It takes a moment to grasp what he’s saying.
I had forgotten entirely about Cam’s invitation from the bowling alley on Saturday: Come to my room. Say, tomorrow night? I wanna show you guys somethin’. After my Outback Steakhouse bathroom hallway run-in and then our subsequent confinement to our rooms yesterday, I was content to follow the rules and stay in my room. But Cam doesn’t seem to want to let the idea go.
“What do you think Cam wants to show us?” I whisper to Damon beside me. “Are you gonna go over?”
“Not sure,” Damon whispers back. He shifts his eyes to me. “Do you want to?” It’s as though he’s willing, but only if we go together.
“I don’t know,” I say, staring up at his darkened face.
He leans in. “It’s just Cam.”
Well. Perhaps Damon can’t think of any sinister options with “Just Cam,” but my mind forms an immediate list of possibilities. Maybe the trial has sent Cam mad and he plans to butcher us in his room with a dull butter knife from the breakfast buffet. Maybe he silently followed Damon and me up to the presidential suite that third night of the trial and plans to blackmail us in exchange for silence. I could go on and on. It’s perhaps my most accomplished trait, catastrophizing. And with Judge Gillespy’s newest security directive just this morning, the idea seems incredibly foolish.
We climb out of the vans and head to the dining area for dinner. The crowd, generally, has returned to the somber humdrum of the previous week, all remnants of Saturday’s uplift squashed by Judge Gillespy’s announcement this morning and subsequent heavy day of testimony.
Despite my mental exhaustion, I make a concerted effort to chat with a few of the other jurors (outside of Cam, Tamra, and Damon). However, most beeline for their rooms the second they’ve finished eating tonight’s dinner selection of chicken fingers and fries. Xavier pats each person’s shoulder as they pass on their way out of the dining area as if he’s a coach consoling his locker-room-bound players after a tough loss. Gray Man steps around him to avoid his touch.
Later, as we stand in a line in front of our respective doors, Cam and Damon look over at me questioningly. I promptly shove myself inside my room, letting it close with a thud behind me.
I’ve told myself to keep things platonic with Damon. I can’t exactly keep my distance, but I can avoid situations like this . Like the presidential suite. I’m here for one reason: to ensure Margot gets a fair trial. But Damon’s presence screams at me in a way I can’t seem to ignore. He’s adventure. He’s all the good from my childhood—every bit of it still resides in him. I can’t seem to say no to it, to the opportunity for more time with him. Even if it means Cam, too. And after today’s testimony, that of both Jackie Kitsch and Emblem, time beside Damon feels more like a need than a want.
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and present my argument. “We’re not going to talk about the case,” I tell her. “We’re probably just... blowing off steam. From being so cooped up all the time.” We stare at each other, and I blink first. As soon as I’ve spoken the words, I know I’ve already decided.
I walk past Cam’s door and knock quietly on Damon’s. As I do, I hear the elevator beep from around the corner. Shit. There’s a fifty-fifty chance whoever exits the elevator will come this way. I can’t risk a guard catching me break curfew. Damon’s door swings open, and I shove my way into his room. He eyes me in silent question.
Close it, I mouth, motioning toward the door. His hand still clasping the handle, he does as I say and quietly presses the door shut.
“What is it?” he asks, his voice still low though we are now alone in his room.
“The elevator dinged. I thought someone might see me,” I say.
He looks out the peephole for a long moment and then turns to face me, shakes his head to indicate the hallway is clear. Now, though, I’m distracted by the details of his room. My eyes catch on the bed, comforter pushed to the foot, flat sheet messily stretching across it, a ripple along the fitted sheet where he sleeps. I clear my throat and force my eyes to focus elsewhere. Scanning the rest of the room, I survey the stack of books on the nightstand and the pair of jeans neatly folded over the armchair in the corner. The room is incredibly small, with no way to keep a physical distance from him.
He presses his back into the door and steals my attention. “So, does this mean you want to go see what Cam’s up to?”
“I’m slightly curious,” I say.
He runs his hand along the back of his neck, head bent down, then looks back up at me. That combination of movements from him, it’s alarming the fire they create in my gut.
“We should give it a minute, though. Ensure the coast is clear?” I say, pointing toward his door. He nods, takes a step into the room so we are both inches from his disarrayed bed. I survey the room some more for something to do besides staring at him. “Is that what I think it is?” I say, swiping the item from his nightstand. “You may own the last remaining Walkman. May I?”
He nods, and I start flipping through his music selection, a black nylon case of CDs slid into plastic protectors, four on each page.
“Figured this was the only safe electronic device the bailiffs wouldn’t take.”
I think of the bottom drawer of his old bedroom dresser, which held a collection of cassette tapes and CDs found at garage sales and thrift shops around town. How, despite my protests that he could listen to any song via Spotify, he preferred the tapes, painstakingly rewinding to listen to something again. I can still hear the squeaky run of the tapes. I like that he’s held on to this bit of himself from his past.
We share a knowing look before I go back to flipping CDs.
“What are you in the mood for?” he asks.
I bite at the inside of my cheek, wondering if he remembers how I used to play the High School Musical soundtrack on repeat for most of the years we knew each other. How he’d exhale with marked annoyance each time a song would repeat. How I’d sometimes catch him humming “We’re All in This Together” on our walk to school.
I feel him observing me closely as I flip the pages of his CD case, his eyes never leaving the side of my face. I pretend not to notice.
Eventually, I find the CD I want and, after amusedly directing the CD player, blast “I’m Like a Bird” by Nelly Furtado loud enough so we can hear it through the headphones.
He smirks again.
I cross my arms, and his eyes follow the gesture briefly to my chest, then back up again in a flash. We stand in silence listening, both lost in the song. I wonder if the sheer act of listening to music together takes him back the way it does me. I picture him sprawled on my bedroom floor, hands clasped behind his head, mouthing lyrics. For the four whole minutes of the song, we stand silent, listening and watching each other.
As the song comes to an end, he takes the CD player from my hands. “Hey,” I say, feigning protest.
“My turn.” He rotates his back to me as he leafs through the book of CDs, a destination seemingly in mind. He pulls out a disc. I try to look, but he blocks me with his body. I press into his side, but it takes barely a nudge for him to ward me off. Size-wise, I’m like a Chihuahua at his heels.
Once his CD of choice is in the player, he turns to face me. We watch each other for reaction as the familiar intro to “Empire State of Mind” barrels from the player.
I grin. “Are you trying to get me to sing? Because this is a great way to do it.”
He leans against the dresser, crosses his arms against his broad chest. “The stage is yours,” he says, throwing an arm out toward the strip of carpet between the bed and dresser where we stand. “Wrong Lyrics Only?” he suggests, knowing we’re both thinking it.
“Empire State of Mind” was one of our most common wrong lyric references. When my dad left after that fight where Damon stepped between us at fourteen, Damon turned around to face me, and after a minute of silence, he said, “Concrete jungle wet dream tomato.”
My tension broke with a shatter.
I shake my head. “I need alcohol for Wrong Lyrics Only.”
His face changes, hardens in knowing. I think about the last drinks we had together, at Outback Steakhouse, our legs touching under the table.
Confirming his mind has also wandered back to Outback Steakhouse alongside mine, he says, “I’m sorry I told George about what happened at the restaurant.”
I shake my head. “It was nothing, Damon. I appreciate your concern, but I promise it created more trouble than it’s worth.”
He rubs at the back of his neck, evaluating me. Finally, he says, “Even so, I guess I’ll just have to keep an eye on you. Make sure you’re safe.”
I expect a hint of a smirk, but when I can’t find one upon inspection of his lips, something inside me softens further still. Around him, I am a stick of butter melting slowly in the sun. I think I’ll say, I can take care of myself , or I don’t need you watching over me , but instead what comes out is “I guess so.”
He takes a step toward me. “Should we talk about that kiss?” he asks, and my muscles reflexively tighten.
“What? Why?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Because it happened, and we haven’t really had the opportunity to talk about it.”
“Except for every moment of every day that we spend together when we’re not sleeping.”
“Yeah, but we’re never alone.”
I become highly aware of our aloneness now. “Can’t this be a padlocked diary topic?” I try.
He stares me down, eyebrow raised.
It seems odd timing to bring it up. I’m not certain it needs to be brought up at all. That presidential suite kiss seems like many moons ago, with all that’s happened in the trial and otherwise since. “Okay, so talk,” I say finally.
He licks his bottom lip, and I’m reminded of how he tasted. Warm. Wet. Hoppy.
“Well, you seemed like you regretted it. Like maybe it was a heat-of-the-moment kind of thing.”
I don’t confirm or deny.
“I just wanted to apologize again, if that’s the case. If you really do regret it.” He speaks with intention, like he’s been thinking about it, choosing his words, looking for an opportunity to bring it up.
I think of his fiery tongue, how it spilled into my mouth like lava. “I kissed you first,” I say. “I don’t want you to think you did anything wrong. You didn’t.”
He runs his hand along his neck again. “Other than potentially cause the mistrial of the century.” His eyes flicker in what I’ve come to know as his own form of a smile, and I do the same so I don’t think about the possible consequences of my questionable activities.
“It was fine,” I say, attempting to reassure him again.
“Just fine?” he asks, his face so inscrutable I almost believe he’s offended.
I shake my head and avoid a smile, refusing to give him more.
A new song plays—familiar, but not a Wrong Lyric song. The one that pulsed out the window of my father’s Buick as he backed out of our garage, ending our first kiss. “Thinking Out Loud” by Ed Sheeran. It had just come out and was constantly playing everywhere, a marking of that point in time. I wonder if he remembers.
His face hardens as he looks at me, and we’re silent for most of the song. Finally, he speaks. “Did you have feelings for me? Back then?”
I swallow, continue to hold his gaze. “We were teenagers,” I say.
“And?”
“And you were my best friend. I’d be lying if I said I never thought about it. Never thought about... more between us.”
His pointer finger taps at his thigh.
I clear my throat and ask, “Did you?”
He continues to hold my gaze. “I think whatever we had got cut short.”
“That’s a fact, not an answer,” I press. This moment, this bit of conversation, feels important in a way that’s too complex to define.
He lets out a breath, something between a huff and a sigh. “I did. Of course I did,” he says.
A spark of lightning strikes from my stomach down between my legs at the admission I’ve waited ten years to hear.