Page 44 of Married to Lies

I looked down at myself and then arched an eyebrow at her. “No one’s ever accused me of being small.”

“Compared to usual,” she said. “A mom can tell. Must be all that stress you’re under ‘at work.’” She winked at me. “Have you heard of yoga? Tyrone says he does it with the team and it really helps them recover from injuries too. With your hip, I could see it being good.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of yoga.” I picked up the sandwich, taking a bite if only to give myself a break from the conversation.

Mom got up, moving about the kitchen, bringing sandwiches to Dad and Tyrone. I sat in silence, eventually pulling out my phone to check emails and messages. I responded to a few emails and asked Daniel to bring all the files I’d need to my house once he was back from the Christmas holiday.

Bryce had texted to let the founders know that Simon’s treatment was progressing well. The doctor told him she was hopeful he could be released from the hospital in a week or two.

A new message slid across the screen, interrupting my scroll.

Rei: Can we talk?

I ran a napkin over my face, needing to be presentable even though she couldn’t see me. I’d run through traffic just to talk to her again. To see her smile at me before that light fled her eyes.

Quentin: I can call if you’d like.

Rei: In person would be better.

Quentin: Tell me when and where. I’ll be there.

I didn’t care if I sounded desperate. Because I was. The thought of finding someone else to marry made my stomach turn. Even though I didn’t know Rei well, she was the only woman I’d enjoyed spending time with since Claire.

Despite all my doubts, despite my past with Claire telling me no one could be trusted, I looked forward to our conversation. I hoped things with Rei would be different.

20 Jude

I woke up Christmas morning in my quiet, empty room and looked to the square my bedroom window overlooked. Every day since coming here, these three boys came out at six o’clock exactly with a soccer ball. They’d run laps around the block before running ball handling drills up and down the dead-end street.

At first, it was fun to watch them play a sport I used to love. But the more I watched, the more I noticed. Their clothes were worn, holes showing in some areas despite the cold weather.

Their soccer balls were battered and constantly required airing up.

Even the street wasn’t conducive to their practice, with several potholes they had to dodge around, slowing them down.

This morning, as the clock struck six, I watched.

The first boy, tall and lanky with sallow skin and shaggy light-brown hair, picked up the mesh bag of soccer balls, eyeing it skeptically. Another boy with a swarthy complexion and dark curly hair appeared in the square, speaking to the first. The first boy shrugged. When the third boy, pale and sturdy, came, they gestured to the bag and at him.

They all looked at each other, confused, before finding the note.

The first boy read it and passed it around. They stared at each other in awe, then looked around like they might be able to see the person who gifted them a bag full of gleaming black-and-white practice balls.

At the bottom of the bag, they found more. Shin guards and socks and cleats in their sizes, along with winter athletic gear.

Giddy, they put everything on and then started running their drills. The dark-skinned boy stopped in front of the spot where a pothole used to be and pointed at it.

They paused, surrounding the use-to-be hole. One of them pointed at the sky. Another made the sign of the cross.

I smiled genuinely for the first time in what felt like weeks. Maybe it had been that long.

My dad came into my safe house room without knocking, and I looked back from my desk to see him fully dressed in business professional attire. A thick woolen trench coat covered most of the ensemble.

“The threat’s been neutralized,” he said. “Time to go home. We leave in ten minutes.”

He closed the door, and I looked back out the window where the boys were practicing again.

“Merry Christmas,” I whispered.