Page 114 of The Liar's Reckoning

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but is there some sort of problem? A complication I don’t know about?”

I turn back to my mother, confused.

“It’s just surprising she’s not expecting again. She won’t speak to me about it.”

“Agnes, really,” my father chides.

To her credit, my mother does appear to have her foot firmly lodged in her mouth, but she also looks hurt.

I feel the words like a kick to the groin. A direct hit to my masculinity and my ingrained Catholic guilt.

My father pats my back. “Let’s freshen up our drinks.”

I nod and follow him to the bar.

The truth is, Avery and I talked about trying again a month or so after the miscarriage. She said she wasn’t ready—neither was I. It hasn’t come up again. She has her own life now, apart from me.

And I have mine.

If someone had asked me a year ago—on this same night of the gala, whether I thought Silas and I would last this long, I would have said no. I was so sure he’d get sick of my frequent absences—my time constraints. Me in general. But slowly I began to believe in his love. It’s the only reason I’m at the bar with my father talking about the performance and not pushing over tables to punch the choreographer in the face. The buzzing of my phone in my pocket is only more proof we’re constantly thinking of each other.

Silas

I can get us into one of the dressing rooms if you can find fifteen minutes.

I could move a mountain for those fifteen minutes.

Me

How do I get to them?

Silas

Through the performance hall.

It sounds nearly impossible and incredibly risky, but I’ll do anything to touch him before the choreographer can.

I expect my dad to start moving me around the room to make the rounds and shake some hands. Instead, he’s content to gossipat the bar, pointing out people to me and saying things like— “Heard he lost a mint on the Kentucky Derby” or, when he sees a famous movie actress, “Holden went on a date with her once. At least that what he claims. I think I believe him because he said she didn’t sleep with him. Has he told you that story?”

My brother Holden and I don’t talk much about our personal lives. My brothers and I never have had much in common. Holden works for my father’s company as the CFO. Trevor lives abroad, teaching theology in Italy. He comes home for the occasional holiday, but mostly he stays in Rome with his wife who’s from there.

“No,” I tell my dad. “I haven’t heard that one.”

Soon enough, people are approaching us, and my father shifts into meet-and-greet mode, showing me off. While I’m not popular with most celebrities, less famous donors are always happy to see me. Rich people love glad-handing a senator. I’ve never been clear what they think I’ll be able to do for them, but I know quite well what they can do for me—fund my next campaign.

Eventually, we take our seats and listen to the speeches as food is served. A miso-glazed salmon with a delicate whip of potatoes follows a consommé strong with the flavor of leeks. I pick at the food, forever a selective eater. The wine is good, though, as is the chopped salad with mango and goat cheese.

Like he’s pulling a string attached to my chest, I feel Silas stand from several tables away. He heads in the direction of the public restrooms, and I get a text.

Silas

Head all the way to the left down the bathroom hallway to the far entrance to the theater.

A minute later, I excuse myself.

Once I reach the bathroom, I turn, walking to the other side of the lobby, in the opposite direction of where everyone ispretending to pay attention to the celebrity behind the microphone. I assume this is the path Silas took. When the theater door opens easily—not locked, I glance around for anyone else.

Amazingly, the entire place is empty.

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