Page 50 of Gifted & Talented

“You could have been partner in a law firm by now,” Meredith reminded him. “I never stopped you from doing that.”

“Yes, true, I could be overpaid to do absolutely nothing of value,” said Jamie. “Or I could actively destroy society, good point.” He gave her a barbed look of significance as he sipped his own coffee, which was black. Meredith resented now that he’d doused her with sugar. “And you wonder why I developed such a so-called obsession with you.”

A series of obscenities reached Meredith from a deep, profound well of rage.

“I will never be able to explain why dating me made you abetter person,” said Meredith exasperatedly.

“I know,” said Jamie. “Which is exactly why I loved you so much.”

They both sipped their coffees as Meredith remembered that she could leave at any moment. She had left before, which made her the leaver. She was actually very good at leaving, she had so much practice at it,andshe had the motive to leave as well, because according to a bunch of HR paperwork in Tyche’s corporate offices, she was in a relationship.

Her phone buzzed and she glanced at it. Ward again. She shook her head and dismissed the call.

“Do you remember?” asked Jamie. “The night you showed me.”

Did she remember.She could slap him across the mouth just for that. Motherfucker, did he really think there was any detail she had forgotten? That anything between them had ever evaporated into the ether, slipping carelessly away? For a while she had managed to forget the digits of his phone number, but only in the sense that she had to think about it for a while before it came back. Every year on his birthday she wandered around for the day bereft, like she was missing an organ. Like he’d physically stolen one of her lungs.

“I obviously shouldn’t have,” Meredith muttered to herself. “Which is, again, a compelling reason for you to stop calling me,” she added, louder. “What if I’d sent an assassin here, hm? If you’re dead, the article is dead. Nobody but you would even suspect I was capable of doing something like that. If, allegedly, I even did.”

“Again, I appreciate the effort, but I’m ninety percent sure you’re not going to kill me,” said Jamie. “And you can also stop acting like you didn’t do it, because I’m one hundred percent sure that you did.”

Meredith was pleased she retained a ten-percent chance of homicidal tendencies. That was a real relief, all things considered.

“I didn’t do it,” she said, and then, because it was bothering her, “Are we having an affair?”

“Right now?” asked Jamie.

“Yes.”

“I, personally, am having coffee.” He sipped from his cup to prove it. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re doing.”

“How’s everything with your mom?” asked Meredith listlessly.

“How’s everything with your dad?” Jamie replied.

She longed for the shorthand of sex. There was so much that could be telegraphed with contact and motion that she could never—wouldnever—say out loud. She knew that if she fucked Jamie right now, he would know exactly how she felt about her father’s death, and he would know why she had lied, and he would understand that it wasn’t a grift, it was another utterly talentless act of cold-blooded certainty, a mistake that she would make again and again and again if it meant she could still claw her way forward, so long as there was a finish line to drag herself across. Maybe if they had sex, he wouldn’t publish the article? Maybe if they had sex, he’d feel it all like it had been born in his chest and he’d know, of course he’d know. All of this sitting around and talking, it was such a waste of time, unless you considered time to be an accumulation of moments you’d rather die than go without.

Though if that’s how you saw time, then holy shit, yeah, this was an affair.

“I never really liked my dad much,” she said.

Jamie gave her the same look he’d given her when she met his eye that day in philosophy class, after the professor had finally taught her something. It was actually just a really effective example of pathos, rhetoric used to appeal to an emotion that was already felt, and in the end, Meredith got an A− on the exam.

“I know, Meredith,” Jamie said. “I know.”

22

When Arthur awoke in a haze sometime in the late afternoon, he found he couldn’t move his legs. Or his arms. Or lift his head. Or move his fingers. Alarming. He was unsure whether he could actually find the means to panic, though it did appear his lungs were theoretically within reach. He considered screaming and didn’t. The energy for it, usually conjurable under these or any circumstances, simply did not arrive. He awoke to his thoughts in a sequential way—I’m awake, it must be afternoon, oh shit, my legs—before they began to creep outward, weblike and familiar, per Arthur’s usual patterns of thought. He began to have several thoughts at once, about the well-being of unborn Riot and the loss of his father and the drowsiness that accompanied a post-orgasmic haze. He still had not heard from Gillian, although in fairness he seemed to have fallen asleep. He would check his phone as soon as motion returned to him.

He did not, at the time, doubt that it would, and this faith was rewarded when eventually a sticky pins-and-needles sensation crept around from his spine to his toes, radiating outward. He did not feel confident that he would be able to stand, but did manage to turn his head toward the alarm clock sitting there on the nightstand, a totem of his youth. It blinked 12:24, which meant that was not the correct time. Arthur impressively moved his pinky.

“There you are, Brother Slothful,” said Meredith, bursting into his room just as Arthur summoned the feats of strength to lift his head. “Did you get the email from the lawyers? Absolutely ridiculous. Did you bring a suit? I’m assuming Gillian brought one for you… I don’t see it. Ah, there it is.” She was riffling ineffectually through his wardrobe. “Can I ask you something?” she remarked into the custom armoire, a question presumably directed at him.

“Mm,” said Arthur inconclusively.

“How hard would it be to have someone, you know, eliminated?” Meredith turned to look at him then.

“In a squash tournament? Very simple,” said Arthur.

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