She sighs, then gives in. “Okay, fine. I love Donna Tartt.The Secret Historyis kind of a comfort read, even though it’s dark as hell. Also Zadie Smith. And anything by Toni Morrison. What about you, Mr. Running-Back-turned-billionaire?”
I glance down at my coffee like it might give me a neutral escape route.
Then I say, “I read.”
She blinks. “Wait—seriously?”
“You sound shocked.”
“You don’t exactly give off ‘book club’ vibes.”
“Good,” I murmur, meeting her gaze again. “I hate being predictable.”
“So… what do you read?”
“Everything,” I say honestly. “Nonfiction. Psychology. Poetry, sometimes. Nabokov. Baldwin. Some sci-fi when I want out of my own head. But mostly the classics. Stuff with teeth.”
She stares at me like I just recited a Shakespeare soliloquy in flawless French.
“Jesus. You actuallyread,read.”
I shrug. “Had to learn early how to be comfortable alone. Books made it easier.”
Something about the way I say it hushes her for a moment. She looks down at her coffee, then up at me again—something softer in her expression now. Not pity. Something closer to understanding.
“I didn’t expect that,” she says quietly.
“Yeah, well.” I tap the side of my cup. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
She nods once.
I wait a beat and then ask the question that’s been sitting at the back of my throat for the past ten minutes.
“You said used to be obsessed.”
Her head yanks up and I see the surprise.
“What?” She frowns, reaches for her coffee cup, then realizes it’s empty.
“Your brother. You said that he used to be obsessed with football.”
She’s tracing the rim of her coffee cup, though her eyes move to the folder on the table. I watch her in silence, not pressing, not pushing.
Her eyes lift to mine. They’re shadowed. Guarded. I’ve hit a nerve. Now’s the time to push a bit.
“Past tense,” I add.
She exhales. Long and low. The kind of breath you take when you’ve already decided something’s too heavy to carry, but you’ve got no choice but to pick it up anyway.
“Billy,” she says finally, voice quiet. “That’s his name.”
I nod, saying nothing even though I already know everything.
“He was in a motorcycle accident a couple of ago,” she continues. “Late summer. He’d just turned twenty-three. New bike. Dry roads. No helmet.”
That last part hits a bit even though I don’t want it to. I guess a part of me is still human, because I know exactly how fast a perfect day can turn into a fucking nightmare.
“He wasn’t reckless,” she adds, almost defensive. “He was careful. He was serious about bike safety. He was good at it. But a car ran a red light, the man was texting and…”
