Page 7 of Say My Name

That earns the beginning of a smile, but it disappears when she realizes I’m still looking at what she’s holding.

A blue tab sticks out near the top. There are red ones down the side, yellow ones across the bottom, and enough of them that the pages don’t lie flat. Whatever it is, she hasn’t thrown it together over lunch. She’s spent time on this.

Months, if I know Elena.

Which I do.

Her calendar reminder flashes again.

“I need to take this,” she says.

“I know.”

“And you need to leave.”

“I know that too.”

Neither one of us moves.

“El.”

Something changes in her face when I call her that. It always does. Her mouth softens before she catches it, and for half a second she looks at me like we’re somewhere other than her office.

Then she exhales, sets the binder on the desk, and keeps her hand planted over it.

“It’s personal.”

“I gathered that when you nearly dislocated your shoulder trying to keep it away from me.”

“I did not nearly dislocate anything.”

“You hit your knee hard enough that I heard it from across the room.”

“My knee is fine.”

Her knee isn’t fine. She’s favoring her left leg, but if I point that out, she’ll either accuse me of hovering or stand on it out of spite. Possibly both.

I look at the binder. “I won’t ask again.”

She studies me, suspicious because we both know that isn’t the same as saying I’m no longer curious.

“Thank you.”

I turn toward the door.

Behind me, papers shift. There’s a sharp little inhale followed by the snap of the binder closing again.

I should keep walking.

I almost do.

Then I hear her mutter, “Shit,” and glance back.

The binder is angled toward me now. Most of the title is covered by her hand, but the two visible words are enough.

Donor profiles.

My brain supplies the rest before I can stop it.