Page 69 of The Circle

“Well, you, sir,” he says. “And Mr. van den Berg, of course. And Ms. Keene. And—”

“You know what I mean, dude.”

His smile becomes more strained and is belied by a kind of… regret?… in his eyes. “Unfortunately, Mr. Fortnight, I am not at liberty to say.”

“At liberty to say if you know? Or you do know and you’re not at liberty to say who it is?”

He closes his eyes, still smiling (toothlessly now), opens them again, and says, “Exactly right, sir.” And then he bows to us and is off again.

I watch him go and then I turn back to the table, pick up my Scotch, and take a huge gulp. I’m not sure what brand it is, but it’s fuckin’ good.

“I don’t like this shit,” I say. “I don’t like any of this one fuckin’ bit.” There is an agitation in my voice that is, I know, out of proportion to the moment. Alec squints at me.

“Don’t like what, my china?” he asks.

“I dunno, this. All of it. It’s fucked,” I say, swigging down more of the sweet, slightly smoky liquid.

Alec, eyes still narrowed, looks at Christine, who turns away. Then back to me. “Everything all right?” he asks. “You seem particularly agitated all of a sudden.”

Of course I do. I just found out that Christine’s carrying a kid, our kid, inside her and we’re… whatever the hell we’re doing. All the lecturing I did earlier about not worrying and keeping present and all that bullshit seems to have gone right out the window now that I understand what’s on the line.

And, at the same time, I’m unexpectedly concerned about the kid, Andra. Alec’s kid. The little moppet who talks with an accent I can hardly understand and who just wants to play fuckin’ hopscotch. Is she okay? And if she is okay, physically, what about the rest of her? Psychologically? Emotionally?

Are these what paternal instincts feel like? Because, if so, I’m already exhausted from having them and I’ve only felt ’em for about thirty minutes.

“What?” I say to Alec, pretending I didn’t hear him clearly.

“I asked if everything’s all right, man. You both seem… Is everything aces?”

I don’t look over at Christine this time. Just nod down at my drink, say, “Yeah, man. Aces. I just… I don’t like not knowing what the fuck’s going on,” and down the rest of my drink in one big gulp, slamming the tumbler down when I’m done.

Alec nods, presses his lips tight together, bringing them inside his mouth, and then, after a few moments of assessing, says, “Well… perhaps we should make a pact then.”

“Pact?” I repeat. “What kind of pact?”

“That when all of this is over and we walk away together—which we will,” he emphasizes, almost as if by saying it out loud he can will its truth into being—“that we see to it that transparency reigns. Rules the day. That we don’t withhold anything from each other ever again. Out of the darkness and into the light and all that.”

He gives a kind of a knowing smile that makes me think he’s aware of what’s happening and is trying to get us to tell him. But, in reality, he’s not. He’s just on a fishing expedition of his own now. I want to say something. I really, really do. But I’ll be able to soon enough, I hope. Because, after all, we’re all in the same boat. As it were.

“Deal,” I say, meaning the shit out of it. “You got it. Out of the darkness—”

“—and into the light,” Christine finishes, putting her hands on the table and opening her palms.

Alec places his hand on top of one of her palms and I do the same with her other, interlacing our fingers. We clutch onto each other, saying nothing for long seconds while the train continues to shuttle us along through the night.

Into the light.

Yeah.

But not yet.

There’s still a little more darkness we’re going to have to endure.