Diz.
Ha. He cracked first.
Don’t call me Diz.
His body’s turned away, but that frosted window sends his reflection straight to me, so the way his face tightens isn’t a secret.
Not to me, anyway. After years together, our bodies speak a language no one else does. You don’t forget how to interpret someone’s sharp little exhale and rounded shoulders and thin-lipped, unhappy mouth, just because now you can put “soon-to-be-ex” in front of “husband.”
I straighten up and slap on a neutral expression. For good measure, I turn my chair away from his, heads turning at the scrape of wooden legs on weathered boards. No way am I speaking any body language to Tobin, accidentally or on purpose. Magic is what I’m going for, and an illusionist only shows people what she wants them to see.
Even my text had too much truth in it. It doesn’t just say,I revoke your access to the nickname level of this relationship.It says,I’m angry and hurt. I care so much you can trigger me with one word. Three letters.
I wish I’d self-edited before I pressedSend. That’s what I thought people were supposed to do in their marriages, and their jobs, and their lives. Saying whatever you think is for dick heads and CEOs. The rest of us practice a little decency.
I’m spiraling. I need to forget about my marriage, forget about myself, be someone else for this scene. Someone not named Diz or Liz or Hey, Ops.
My name is…
I immediately get stuck.
As a teenager, I wanted an interesting name so badly. Everything about me was awkward or odd; I was dying to be a boho Leta, or a stylish Lisbet, or a sporty-cool Loops.
I tried Lola at summer camp the year I was sixteen. For one glorious week, it worked. Until I got off the camp bus, and Amber was there to pick me up instead of Mom.
“Lola Lewis?That’s what you told them?” she guffawed. Everyone looked at me like I was a total fake. I understood in that moment that I didn’t get to choose who I was, because the person I’d always been would follow me everywhere.
I open my Camera app, flip to selfie mode, and train the phone over my shoulder.
Tobin’s staring at his screen. His hair flops over his forehead, maple and rye mixed up with gold. My heart skips like it did when we were twenty-two, when he was still a guide and I was now the cook.
He left the campfire sing-along to help me with the dishes, which he didn’t have to do. When he looked at me through that fall of sun-streaked hair, everything I’d told myself about not giving it up to a good-time guy who was king of the cool kids—all that vanished in a puff of woodsmoke.
My name is Lola.I should have a name that sounds good with “The Great” slapped on the end of it.I do a magic act for a traveling circus. I come to—where would circus performers congregate online? I can make up a place, it’s not like it matters—BigTopChat to unwind on nights the show is dark. And you are…?
Ben. Elephant trainer. Wouldn’t it be weird if we worked for the same circus? Maybe we’ve been barely missing each other for years.
I ignore the twinge in my chest that would like this to be the truth.
We’re doing improv,I remind myself sternly. I’ve got to get this scenario going, and get it finished. This is how I make an identityfor myself that isn’t bound to his, or Amber’s, or anyone else’s, for that matter. This is not the time for me to take deep breaths, trying to find Tobin’s smell under the wafts of dark roast and cinnamon rolls.
You smell nice.I type it to get that particular troublesome idea out of my head so I have room in there for Lola, then punch theDeletekey.
Swoop!says my phone, the volume cranked down to minimum.
I stare at the checkmarks beside my message. Tiny keyboard sounds come from behind me. Crap, he’s replying.
I mean, your *coffee shop* smells nice. The one you recommended on the main channel. Haha, autocorrect.
I’m glad you like it. Everything smells amazing there. My favorite is the lemon loaf.
I tell myself Tobin is not suggesting he can smell my lemon shampoo, and that the dip in my stomach is hunger.
The people-watching is good too. There’s a couple on a first date being all awkward and cute.
There isn’t, not really. I hope he understands none of this is real.
One of us should come back this day next year. See if they’re celebrating their anniversary.
