70
Lillian
I have to talk to Cyprus before we head out for the night.
It’s been all joking, pestering and prying from her and Quinn.
But as the evening went, Cyprus got incrementally more distant.
When I put my jacket on, she’s leaning against a wall watching something on her phone with a bunch of images of Alexander Ash in that weird helmet while a voice fires off a barrage of hot takes.
“How’s the trial going?”
I ask as a feeble icebreaker. I can do better than that.
“Have they gotten the younger brother on the stand yet?”
Cyprus puts her phone in her back pocket.
“Not yet. Looks like they might not need to. The Channel lawyers are pushing really hard to have things wrapped before the new year. They must be confident.”
“That soon?”
I say. Is it soon? Maybe that’s slow for this sort of trial.
“That soon,”
echoes Cyprus, adding nothing more.
I guess I’ll have to plunge in.
“Look, I’m really sorry. Not for being with Sasha, but I could have —”
“It’s okay, Lillian. You’re good.”
She takes out her phone again but doesn’t switch it on.
“Just remember how this stacks up. You said there was no risk to adding Sasha. I can’t go through this all again.”
“You can’t?” I say.
“Maybe none of us can. Maybe we can’t.”
“I do remember. It’s friends then lovers then bands.”
Cyprus pulls on a big fur hat.
“I’m not sure you’ve got those last two in the right order.”
“It all bleeds together.”
“I’ve noticed that,”
says Cyprus.
“I’d rather it didn’t bleed at all.”