Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Everything’s a lot,” I say.
He smiles. “Some men like the word.”
I lift a mic, testing the weight. “Did Arby ever talk about a guy named Nico?” There it is: casual, a pebble I toss to see how big the ripple is.
Bob scratches his jaw, fake-thinking. He does it when he’s buying time at work, when he’s pretending he remembers the name of a temp at the copier. “Nico… rings a bell. Influencer crowd is a blur. She kept names out of family dinner, mostly. Your mother’s no fun if she doesn’t like someone.”
Mom, who has returned with headphones that cost rent, inserts herself. “I don’t dislike—I have standards.” She squeezes my arm. “I told Arby if a man can’t set a table, he can’t sit at one.”
I laugh. Bob laughs. My stomach does a slow churn.
“What about now?” I ask, setting the mic down with care. “Any idea who she might’ve been seeing near the end? Blonde hair Arby. The last weeks.”
There’s a flicker—small, nothing, gone. Mom fills the silence, because that’s her job. “She mentioned a Nico once,” she says, surprised at her own memory. “But, sweetheart, you know your sister. She would say she loved a man and then switch hair colors and forget his last name.”
“Right,” I say, smiling like the cut didn’t land. “Classic Arby.”
Bob clears his throat. “Juno, your sister made friends everywhere. I don’t want you chasing ghosts.”
I don’t want you making time at Club Greed, I think, and the words taste like pennies. I keep my voice sweet. “Speaking of chasing—what did you two do last night?”
The clerk’s eyes light up. “We were open late,” he volunteers, oblivious. “If you ever need—”
“Thank you,” I say, and aim my question more directly. “Mom?”
She tilts her head, considers. “Last night? I was in bed early. My skincare says sleep is the most important serum.”
I look at Bob. He sips his water from the store’s little paper cup like he’s auditioning for an ad. “I had a meeting that ran late,” he says without blinking. “Committee thing. At Stonehouse.”
There it is, the clean lie laid on a linen napkin. He doesn’t flinch. I don’t either.
“Fun?” I ask, because I’m a menace.
“Nothing about Stonehouse is fun,” he says, and I almost bark a laugh, because that’s exactly how a man would describe a very fun night he wants to call a meeting.
Cardigan returns with a boom arm demo and bless him, he is earnest. I let him show me how it doesn’t squeak, and I nod solemnly as if I care this much about shock absorption because right now I do. Mom oohs at the little felt pads. Bob taps the edge of the counter obviously bored.
“Let us get it,” Mom says when the clerk totals the pile (arm, mount, pop filter, braided cable that costs like a brunch). “Please. I know we only said one boom arm, but let us get you all of it. I know you hate when we do, but let us.”
I should say no. I should refuse. I should hold out for some medium of ethics that makes me feel less like I’m laundering guilt money through retail therapy. Instead I let her hand over Bob’s card because it makes her happy to be a mother who buys protection against plosives, and because I’m tired of paying for everything with my own blood.
Outside, the day is brighter than it has any right to be. We load the bag into Bob’s trunk. Mom tucks my hair behind my ear like I’m seven. “Dinner Sunday?” she asks. “Roast chicken? Or tofu. We can be modern.”
“Sunday,” I agree, because I want to see her again, and because I want to see if Bob mentions Stonehouse or any other house by name.
He closes the trunk and looks at me for a long second like he’s trying to align a photo in a frame. “You doing okay?” he asks. It’s not nothing. It also isn’t everything.
“I’m working,” I say. “I’m recording.” I don’t add I’m hunting the men you may or may not know, because we are playing the long game and I refuse to win it by shouting in a parking lot.
On the drive back, Mom hums along to the radio and Bob tells a story about a vendor who thought procurement was a synonym for magic. I throw one more pebble. “You ever hear the term check used like a joke?” I ask, watching him in the mirror. “Like—finger guns at a fundraiser. Men who think they’re clever.”
He blinks, annoyed at the image. “Grown men doing finger guns need hobbies,” he says, and for the first time today I believe him. He might be lying about rooms. He isn’t lying about taste.
We pull up to my building. Bob puts the car in park. Mom twists to kiss my cheek and reassure me I look, quote, “alive enough.” Bob clears his throat. “We’ll get out of your hair.”