Confessions on the 7:45(77)

“I’m tired,” she said. “I want to just ‘be’ for a while. Travel. Take some cooking classes in exotic places. Learn how to ski. Whatever. Whatever it is people do.”

He laughed a little—gently, not unkind. Never unkind. He loved her, in the way that he was able. “Life’s not like that for people like us, kitten.”

“I’m not like you.” It came out edgy, defensive. Softer, “I’m not.”

“Oh, no?”

“I can live without it.”

“Are you sure?”

One of the burner phones jumped and danced. Ben.

She’d been out of contact since their last chat. He’d called several times, texted, emailed. Then he’d gone silent for a while. She could imagine him sweetly worried, but also desperate. She’d given him something—hope that he could love someone again, that he could be loved. She fed his broken ego with her words, her need for him, their talks when she’d asked his advice, the photos they’d exchanged. She’d given him the free flight of fancy. What might be.

Pop always said that you couldn’t con an honest man, but that wasn’t the whole truth. You couldn’t con someone who didn’t need something, who didn’t want something badly enough to believe it was possible.

“You like him,” said Pop. “Is that it?”

She didn’t answer him.

“Big mistake.”

She picked up the burner phone, scrolled through Ben’s texts.

“What?” goaded Pop. “You think you’ll get married. Settle down. Leave this life behind?”

She could just let Ben off the hook right now. Never answer him again, close down her profile, cancel the email she used for him, trash the phone. He’d be sad that he’d lost “Gwyneth.” He’d get over it. Eventually. But she didn’t want to let him go.

I’m so sorry, she typed. I’m okay.

I’ve been so worried.
My sister, she overdosed. She’s in the hospital. Just dealing with all of this. I’ll call you later.
Her phone rang. It was Ben but she didn’t answer.

“He’s ripe,” said Pop. “He’s hooked. Right now, he’ll give you anything. He’s desperate to keep you in his life. Don’t give that desperation time to turn to anger. You know how men get when something gets taken away from them.”

Sorry, she typed. I can’t talk. I didn’t want to say it like this.

?
But this situation with my sister. Life is short.
What are you saying?
I love you, Ben.
It almost felt true. Even though she wondered if she would recognize a true feeling within herself. She waited, a little breathless.

I love you, too. I wanted to tell you in person.
Soon. I promise.
Looking at the words on the screen, she felt the utter disconnection of the text message. How it floated in space, no touch, no tone, no expression. It was perfect for the con, a blank slate that others could fill with meaning. But so flawed for true connection. And, yet, she felt a connection to Ben. Didn’t she? She wanted to tell him her real name. Her real story. But how could she now?

“Wow,” said Pop. “I stand corrected. You’re the master. Keeping him on the line, driving that hook in as deep as it can go.”

Her other phone pinged. She picked it up. It was from Selena.

Who are you? it read. What do you want?

Good questions. Truly.

“Too many balls in the air,” said Pop. “Didn’t I teach you never more than one? How many do you have going—three?”

It was just two now. Ben and Selena. She’d let the others go—the family who thought she was a long-lost cousin, the guy who thought she’d hacked his camera and caught him watching porn.

“This is it, Pop. Just this one last thing. And I’m done.”

“Yeah. That’s what they all say.”

The silence expanded between them. She almost killed Ben’s burner phone, but then didn’t. He was her escape hatch. She could easily become the woman he thought she was. She could disappear into that life if she wanted to, couldn’t she? Maybe she could even stay there. Maybe she even wanted to.

“So, who are you, kitten?” said Pop. “What do you want?”

She caught a reflection of herself in the window over the kitchen sink. Just a dark form, lit from behind.

“Maybe it’s time for me to find out.”

He issued a soft chuckle.

“Start peeling back those layers, you might not like who you find.”



THIRTY-ONE

Oliver

Stephen was stupid. He was snoring, mouth wide open, arms flung over his head, cheeks flushed. Oliver watched him, wished he was sleeping, too. But he couldn’t. Because his mom was in the room next to them, and after an evening of closed doors, and lowered voices, he heard her crying through the wall. She’d come in to read to them, give them kisses. She lay with them a while, as long as they promised not to talk. He knew when his mom was upset—when she was sad, when she was tired and cranky, when she was mad at Dad. When she was mad at them. He knew. Stephen never noticed anything because he was stupid.

Oliver wished that he was stupid, too.

He knew that something was wrong, and no one would say what. He’d talked to his dad earlier that day. Take care of your mom, he’d said, his voice on the phone sounding strange and far away.