Chapters (43)
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Contents
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Books by Ben Philippe
- Back Ad
- Copyright
- About the Publisher
It probably looks how it does to me right now. A little dimmer than usual.
Twenty-Nine
I ride the train home, and only after catching a darkened reflection of myself in the subway door windows do I realize I’m still in my FATE uniform. This is the longest day ever.
Dad’s first sign of life comes in the form of a text in the family group chat: OMW HOME. Ma’s entry comes a few moments later: I was running errands, now at station. Home by noon. Good night, fam.
At library, I lie. Headed home soon.
It’s a mode of communication our family mostly keeps for basic information like OUT OF MILK or 1 TRAIN DOWN and other bits of news that deserve to be passed on to the rest of the unit. The fact that Dad is choosing this platform to contact me makes the subtext pretty clear: not ready to talk yet. Even Dad knows the meaning of a period at the end of a text.
“Shit, shitty-ass, shit of a day.” I sigh aloud at the sight of the Wyatt. For some reason, I text out the sentiment to Ming too, which makes it all feel marginally better.
Venting at Lionel had felt good in the moment, but it hadn’t dissolved the pit in my stomach. Corinne’s words have been eating away at me. When I sent that email to Michael Connelly, I didn’t just mess things up for myself. I messed things up for Chantale too. There’s one more conversation I still need to have.
And that’s how I find myself ringing the bell to the Troys’ apartment. It takes a moment after I say my name, but eventually I hear the bolt being undone, and Chantale Troy slowly opens the door. She’s wrapped in a shawl, with reading glasses on and her hair in a purple scarf that’s not unlike Ma’s.
“Hello, Henri.”
“Hi, Mrs. Troy.”
She’s always been impervious to my smiles, genuine or trademarked.
“Um, I just wanted to return my key. Your key, I mean. I imagine you want it back.”
She unwraps her hand from the doorknob, one deliberate finger after another, and extends it forward. I place the lone key in her palm. Transaction completed.
“I imagine there’s no copy?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I will nevertheless be changing the locks. You understand.”
“Right. No, I get it.”
“Good night, Henri.”
“I’m sorry!” I say before she can fully shut the door in my face. “I just . . . want to apologize.”
The door widens again as deliberately as it had been closing. “What for, Henri?”
“Um, what?”
“What exactly are you apologizing for? I’ve found that people, men specifically if we’re being honest, really like to apologize,” she says. “Four syllables that cover everything and prevent any introspection or itemization. So I’m asking: what are you sorry for in this instance?”