Page 179 of The Liar's Reckoning

I’m not being paid for my time here, and I don’t really care about that. It’s enough to share a bed with a man who cares about me in whatever small way Gil does.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t want more than spooning last night. The memories of my last encounter with Graham are slowly consuming me. Nothing’s ever hurt the way that kiss did. It was beyond devastating. There’s no way to describe it exceptmaybe to say that the kiss was like offering a man on the brink of death by starvation a wax apple.

I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I was reminded I have an appetite, and then I was able to feel every bit of starved anguish.

And yet, it was worse than that, because it wasn’t only physical.

I drank myself to unconsciousness after Graham left, trying to numb the pain back into non-existence. Trying to erase all the words he’d said.

But I woke the next day—sometime in the afternoon—and relived the entire experience in full vivid color. The push and pull of love and hate. Want and repulsion. Desire and disgust. The immense disappointment.

The only way I’ve gotten through the past few weeks is work—Gibson Hayes gave me full-time hours—and the lawsuit. But the closer we’ve gotten to today, the more impossible it feels to win.

My lawyer hasn’t said I should drop the suit, but he’s asked me to come up with a lower dollar figure I can live with. A much lower figure.

Lilah remains belligerently optimistic while I’m ready to fold for a month’s rent.

The mediation is scheduled for one o’clock this afternoon. I need to get home, shower, put on a suit, and brace myself. Slipping out of bed so as not to wake Gil, I pick up my clothes from where I folded and stacked them on a chair and go into the bathroom to get dressed.

My reflection in the mirror makes me wince. I look like shit. Exactly like I haven’t had proper meal or a good night’s sleep in weeks. I’ve been drinking too much, which means my appetite’s been shit, and last night was the first time I slept through until morning.

Trixie’s been encouraging me to join a dating app to meetnew people. She’s been enjoying dating in Florida—thinks it’s a blast. She’s gone out with both men and women, which blew my mind, especially when she said she’s leaning toward settling down with a woman eventually—if she finds the right one.

I couldn’t help but ask if there was a sexual component to her interest, or if she was just looking for companionship. She’d told me it was none of my business but also added she still has “needs,” and that I might want to take another look at women, too. I changed the subject after that. She and Lilah are all the women I need in my life.

It’s not just my utter lack of sexual attraction to the opposite sex, but their never-ending emphasis on my emotional well-being. They all seem to want me to be more complex than I actually am. No one needs to examine themselves that closely. I should get in touch with Drew again. He knows how to keep a conversation simple.

But I’m too busy obsessing over Graham and the lawsuit to make time for reconnecting with old friends. I’ve been watching cable news like it’s another full-time job, listening to the analysis of pundits in the context of what I learned from Lilah—who does this benefit? Who does it hurt? Money and power.

Graham’s father has made it into the discourse—well—him and Catholics. People much smarter than me are pointing at how much money a certain political action committee is pouring into advertising in the states with senators who may be wary of the human trafficking bill. Some say the bill doesn’t go far enough to address the root of the problem, and that it’s a massive overreach that risks punishing the victims—even stands to profit off them.

It’s all disgusting, and Lilah is right. The religious ideology driving the legislation is unsettling, and I could easily see it leading to the infringement of gay rights specifically. If there’s anything Christians hate more than hookers it’s queers.

If they manage to gain this inch—they’re likely to run with itand take a mile. Lilah’s been joining every protest she can find. The culture war is in full swing.

I wonder how Gibson is dealing with the churn. He hires sex workers for his club. But something tells me he’s rich, powerful, white, and male enough to buy his way out of any consequences.

I’m determined to stay angry. It’s the only emotion that has a chance of competing with the fresh onslaught of grief.

Lilah’s handcloses over my clenched fist on top of the conference room table. Avery’s clear blue eyes flicker to take in the gesture before she meets my gaze. Maybe there’s sympathy there? If there is, it’s got a condition attached.I’m sorry, but…

I’m sorry, but I’m rich and you’re not.

I’ m sorry, but you should have known better.

I’m sorry, but Graham made this not my problem.

I’m sorry, but I win. You lose.

They file out of the conference room leaving me, Lilah, and my attorney with the paperwork I need to sign to dismiss my claim for which I have no proof of Avery’s involvement. Since the video was supposedly altered with AI, there’s also no proof it took place in the Chelsea apartment Graham owned. Avery further contends she was never in possession of the recording.

“You don’t have to sign it,” Lilah says softly.

“Why did I think this would work?” I wonder aloud.

“BecauseItold you it would. This is on me.”

“You were drunk.”

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