Page 71 of The Liar's Reckoning

“I make terrible coffee.”

“It’s pretty hard to mess up.”

“Tell that to anyone who’s ever had my coffee.”

“I’m willing to risk it,” Silas says.

“Your funeral,” I say, heading into the kitchen to make a pot of flavorless tar.

23

SILAS

The coffee is bad in a way I want to call legendary. I can’t drink it without laughing. Ultimately, I use my delivery app to have something better sent over. At eight, the sun is high enough to soak the space, reminding me in a vivid way of the last time I was here.

I’m starting to feel a little more like myself, some of my protective layers sliding back into place. The spit roast with two phone cameras on me in the middle is still giving me thoughts about myself I thought I’d long since shaken off—shame, mostly. Sex work is one of those things you either keep completely private—or—like those guys do—put out for public consumption. It’s obvious which side I fall on in that equation, and I will be speaking to Katia about it.

She can threaten the man who hired me—make sure those videos never see the light of day. But I need my hands to stop shaking first. Graham’s hug helped. I wasn’t trying to flatter him when I said I needed it. I wanted him to pull me into his arms as soon as he got out of the car. I understand why we needed to be inside, but the longer he went without touching me, the more I was afraid he wouldn’t.

When he did, something beyond relief spilled through me. It was something more like absolution. Forgiveness for the things I do to get by.

But now, he and I are on opposite sides of a table eating doughnuts and sipping coffee. I’m waiting for him to kick me out. Tell me he’s got to go—he’s got a busy day or whatever. I don’t want to have sex with him this morning—I feel too disgusting for that. I’ve also been up all night. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to go home, find a place to sleep for a few hours and then go to the gym and try to work the rest of these nauseating feelings out of me, but I’d rather lie down withhim.

Can I just say that? Is that a thing I can tell him? Since the food got here, we’ve been doing the small talk thing. Weather. Thanksgiving plans. Why he sucks so bad at making coffee. The invention of the Keurig.

“That’s what I’ll get you for Christmas,” I tell him, which is pretty forward if the way he looks at me afterward is anything to go off.

I shrug since it probably indicates I’d like to come back here—do this again. Do more, even, which I shouldn’t be thinking about because I know it’s not only wrong but pointless.

He doesn’t say anything, though.

“What’ve you got going on today?” I ask, feeling out the situation.

“Not too much,” he says. “My father and I are leaving for DC tomorrow for the weekend to make the rounds.”

“What does not too much look like for you?”

“I have to pick up some things from the dry cleaners. Go through my email. Nothing pressing.”

“Can you hang out awhile?” I ask.

A brief hesitation and then he says, “You look like you could use some sleep.”

I study his face and try to discern whether I should push this. “Yeah…I should go.”

“Wait,” he says quickly. “No. I do want to hang out with you. I’m not in a rush to go, but I get that you had a rough night.”

“Yeah.”

We stare at each other for a beat.

“I didn’t sleep well last night either,” he says.

“Can you sleep after that?” I ask, nodding at his coffee.

“Probably.”

Here goes nothing. “Wanna give it a try?”

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