I put my hand on his chest. “I can’t do this yet… I’m still mad at you for everything you did to me. I can’t help but still picture…” I say trailing off. A tear rolls down my cheek. I wipe it away and sidestep him, quickly leaving the house.

“Sarah, wait!” His voice rings loud from the house, but he is trapped, an invisible perimeter preventing him from pursuing me.

I climb into my car and slam the door closed. What the fuck am I doing? I need to clear my head, and this is not the place to do it.

32. Adam Morgan

32

Adam Morgan

I’m sitting on the couch, sipping my second glass of scotch and eating a New York strip with my hands. Sarah left over an hour ago, and it took fifteen minutes to beat the memory of her out of my dick. It felt good to be close to her again. Like there was a chance at reconciliation, but she left suddenly. She’s always leaving suddenly. Mom called to check in on me. She would have come over for dinner, but apparently she has a massage appointment. I have a feeling she’s up to something though. She would never turn down dinner with me, her only son.

The phone rings. It’s either Sarah or Mom. Those are the only two people that call me these days. I scooch over to the corded phone on the end table and with no caller ID, I’m forced to pick it up to find out who it is, like some mystery. “Hello.”

“Adam?”

“Yeah, who is this?”

“It’s me, Daniel. How the hell have you been?”

Ahh, good ol’ Daniel. Daniel is my literary agent and has been with me since day one. In the beginning, I was a gamble. Then, I became a hot commodity and people tried to poach me from Daniel, but I stuck with him. Now, it’s him who is sticking with me. I have been hearing from him at an ever-decreasing rate over this four-year lull, and I don’t blame him. “Oh, hey, Daniel. Fine, fine. I’ve been fine, how about yourself?” I resituate myself on the couch to get comfortable.

“Forget about me. What’s this I hear you’re on trial for murder?”

“Yeah, unfortunately, it’s true but I didn’t do it, this is all…” I take a drink of scotch.

“That’s great!”

“What? No, Daniel, I said it’s true. I am on trial for murder.”

“Oh, I heard you, buddy boy, and it’s the best fuckin’ news I’ve heard in ages.”

“What? Why?” I press the phone harder against my ear to ensure I’m hearing him correctly.

“Think about it, Adam. This is a murder. You’re a writer, put ’em together, and whattaya got? A tell-all, the likes of which has never been seen before.”

“But, Daniel, I didn’t do—”