The Good Liar(53)

“I feel like a criminal,” he says, his white teeth flashing in the dimmed light.

“I feel like a zoo animal.” I indicate the bottle of red wine sitting on the counter. “You want?”

“Sure.”

I pour him some, listening to it glug into the stemless glasses I used to think it was so important to have. I’m nervous, and my hands are unsteady.

“Should we sit?”

He nods, and we go to the couches in the family room. I’m suddenly conscious of all the things I have, how this room is full of them. This couch, so comfortable and soft and six months sought after. The TV, large and flat and wall mounted. All the money in this room, all the things we wasted it on because we could, and even when we couldn’t. And this lie I carry around, all the little lies it’s spawned, it’s because of the money, too.

“How are you?” Teo asks.

“I feel strange, to be honest.”

“Strange?”

“Like I’m outside of myself. Like this one time in college when I took acid by accident and I thought I was floating around the room. Which is probably saying too much, as usual.”

“It’s fine. I wish you wouldn’t worry about that.”

“But it’s not fine. I’m so sorry I didn’t call you today or text. I should’ve checked in.”

He takes a sip of his wine and puts the glass on the table.

“You already apologized.”

“I know, but not face-to-face. A text. A text doesn’t mean anything. Ha! You see, I don’t mean that at all. A text can mean everything.”

Teo puts a hand on my arm. I cover it with my own. His fingers are still cold from outside.

“You must think I’m nuts.”

“It’s been an odd day.”

“Yes, very odd. Indeed. Good grief, we sound like characters in a Jane Austen novel.”

He smiles. “No one’s ever accused me of that before.”

“I meant so stiff and formal and thinking things all the while . . .”

“You’re going to have to help me out here.”

“I would if I could.”

I burst into tears. Teo’s grip tightens.

“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t worry, I’ll be all right in a second.”

I turn away from him, lifting my shirt up to wipe the tears away. What must he think of me? What am I thinking of myself?

“Perhaps a drink?”

“Yes. That might help.”

He hands me my wineglass, and I take a large gulp. A sort of calm spreads through me, which must be a placebo effect—no wine could work this quickly—but I’ll take it.

“I think I can control myself now.” I give Teo a tentative smile. “Thank God you don’t have your camera with you.”

He frowns.

“Or, oh . . . Did you wish you were filming me falling apart? The ice queen cracks at last?”

“Of course not. It’s . . . Why don’t you tell me everything that’s happened first.”

I don’t like the sound of the word “first,” but I fill him in on the almost break-in, the guy across the road, my day at work, the Supra Board’s decision, and the reappearance of the camera at drinks with Franny and Joshua. I speak quickly, but the note of crazy has left my voice. Teo listens, asks a few questions, sips his wine. I meet his eyes tentatively, trying to prolong I’m not sure what.

“So, in all the confusion, it didn’t occur to me to call you. Which sounds like I forgot about you . . . But I don’t want you to think that. I had a nice time last night, despite everything.”

“I did, too, but . . .”

“Yes?”

“I feel bad about saying this, especially given the day you’ve had, but I think . . . I think we can’t see each other again. Not like that, anyway. Not as more than friends.”

There are two bright spots of color on his cheeks, as if he’s embarrassed to be adding anything negative to my day. My own face feels hot.

“Why?”

“It’s the film.”

“The film?”

“It’s wrong of me to get close to you. It hurts my objectivity.” He looks at the floor. “I feel terrible. But . . . right now, no one knows who was in that picture with you, but if it came out . . .”

“The Initiative might cut your funding?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. But that’s not the point. It was . . . wrong of me to take advantage of you like that.”

“I don’t think you were.”

“What I do, it makes people vulnerable. It creates a false intimacy. Kind of like therapy.”

“Teo, what are you talking about? Where’s this coming from?”

“I know it seems sudden. I know I was the one who suggested we go out.”

“Yes, you did. But that doesn’t mean you took advantage of me. If you’re not interested, you can say so.”

“I promise you that’s not it.”

“I’d almost rather it was,” I say. “It’s better than being passed over for the sake of a stupid documentary.”

He grimaces. I’ve hurt him, but it feels justified.

“I’m sorry,” he says.