Chapter 12 #4
A laugh almost breaks through the pain.
Of course, Halston built himself an archive while trapped inside his own life.
“Good,” I say. “Keep it hidden.”
“It is.”
“Do you have a lawyer?”
A pause.
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“There was one. Years ago. Everhart. I thought I was calling him.”
The room narrows.
“Fitzhenry Everhart?” I repeat.
“Yes. That’s the one.”
I scoff.
Fucking Everhart.
What did you do, you old meddler? What did you give him? How long have you been waiting for him to find his own door?
“You thought this was his number?”
“Yes,” he confirms. “He said to call when I was ready.”
My grip on the phone changes.
He gave Halston a number and let him believe it belonged to a lawyer, but it called me. That man is brilliant in his own twisted way. If only he had been able to help me get to Halston back when I asked him to. I haven’t forgotten about it. He told me I would understand someday.
Today, apparently, is someday.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “That’s good. You being able to reach out to me is good.”
“It doesn’t feel good.”
“No. It feels like shit. Good and shit aren’t mutually exclusive.”
A sound moves through the line.
Almost a laugh.
It hits me harder than any sob could.
“You always this charming?” he asks. “I think I like it.”
There he is.
Just a flash.
Just enough to make me ache everywhere.
“Don’t get sentimental,” I tell him.
“I don’t remember if I was.”
“You were insufferable.”
“Was I?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Did you love me anyway?”
I can't answer.
Not because I don’t know.
Because the truth is too big for a phone line, too alive for the room I am sitting in. Too dangerous to hand to a man who is being watched and can't remember which parts of his life were stolen versus which parts he signed away under someone else’s story.
I close my eyes.
“Yeah,” I say. “I love you despite everything. Or because of everything, Hal.”
A small sound.
Then nothing.
“Hal?”
The line is still open.
“Hal, stay with me.”
Breath.
But fainter now.
“I’m tired,” he says.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I know enough.”
He lets that stand.
“Can you stay awake?” I ask.
“Maybe.” He sighs. “I saw a picture of you with a woman. I couldn’t see her, but her tattoo—I have one on my wrist too.”
“We all do, Hal. The three of us. It’s a symbol—” I pause and swallow hard— “of us, our forever.”
He makes a sound but says nothing.
“Don’t force it. Listen to me. Do not call from this number again if you think they can see it. Do not tell anyone you called me. Do not write my name anywhere they can find it.”
“I will.”
“And Hal?”
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow, Everhart will contact you,” I say. “You hear me? This is important. He’ll tell you what to do—give you a phone we can use, tell you who to talk to, and who not to. We’ll do this slowly. At your pace. Your call. You tell me what you need, and I do it.”
Silence.
Then, so quiet I barely catch it: “I need to know if I almost killed her.”
The words go through me clean.
Livia.
“No,” I say, and this time I know it. “You didn’t, Hal.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because you loved her fearlessly. You would never have done anything to hurt her. Not in a thousand lifetimes. Not with a thousand drinks in you that you didn’t actually have.”
A long beat.
“And if I almost killed you?” he asks.
I can't answer.
For a second, I can't speak.
He has been carrying this. Not just, “Did I hurt the woman I’m not allowed to remember?” But “Did I hurt you?” The man on the other end of the phone he was not supposed to find. The man whose name, somehow, was already in his drawer.
“Halston, I wasn’t even in the same vehicle as you,” I managed. “Whatever they told you is a lie. The only thing you have ever done to me is leave for ten years, and you didn’t even do that on purpose.”
Silence.
Then a sound that breaks me—small, shapeless, very far away.
“Okay,” he says.
The line holds that.
So do I.
For a while, there is only breathing. His and mine. Rain and distance and the impossible fact of him alive on the other end, held together by fear and old instinct and whatever part of him remembered me before his mind could catch up.
I don’t know how long we stay like that.
Long enough for my hand to stop hurting around the quarter.
Long enough for me to understand that wanting to see him is less important than making sure he survives long enough to choose it.
Eventually, the breathing changes.
Not sleep.
Decision.
“I have to go,” he says.
“Okay.”
“I don’t know when I can call again.”
“I’ll be here.”
“That sounds impossible.”
“It’s not.”
“Creed.”
“Yeah?”
A pause.
“If I forget this tomorrow —”
“You won’t.”
“If I do.”
I want to cry because if this is the only time I have him back, I want to tell him that I love him. That I haven’t forgotten. That I need him more than I need my next breath. That living without him and her has been fucking hell.
I don’t.
“Then I’ll remember for both of us.”
The line goes silent.
Then the call ends.
No goodbye.
No promise.
Just absence.
I sit there with the phone against my ear until the screen goes dark.
For one full minute, I don’t move.