Page 86 of Every Silent Lie
Dec looks at me in alarm. “You said that like it’s perfectly normal for people to leave turkeys in the snow outside their house.”
“It is for Mr. Percival. He’s ninety-nine, Dec. Ninety-nine! Can you imagine being that old?”
He huffs. “No. I feel pretty ancient now.”
I laugh. And stop. “I don’t know how old you are.”
“Thirty-nine. It’s been a long day at work.”
He looks like a healthy thirty-nine-year-old. Mature. Worn in. Perfect. “What were you merging or acquiring today?”
“I’m acquiring you.” He allows a smile to break, letting his eyes fall down my front. “I like this.”
“The coat?”
“No,” he says, the word stretched, as he takes the sides of my long black coat and pulls it open. “This.”
“It’s a black dress.” One I’ve been known to wear to work on occasions. Nothing special. Hence, I wear it to work. Truth be told, I have no differentiation in my wardrobe. No work clothes section, casual section, evening section. It’s a mash-up of workout clothes and workwear. The odd pair of jeans. A few jumpers and sweaters.
All of it black.
“I like it,” he declares again, pulling me on and opening the door of the Defender. “In.”
I slide across the seat and smile my hello to the driver in the rearview mirror.
“Langans, thanks, Ron.” Dec shuts the door and goes to his phone, his face down. The glow of his screen shines up onto his face, making his lashes seem especially long. I leave him to whatever he’s doing on his mobile, despite being able to watch him all evening, and look out of the window. A rainbow of colours shoots like darts through the windscreen into the back as Ron turns onto the main road, the Christmas lights making a disco in the car.
Dec’s phone rings, he sighs, and my eyes naturally turn to the screen. “Dad,” I say, assessing his strung form. “Ready to unpack that?”
His head turns slowly toward me. “Nothing to unpack. My mum died, he remarried a woman half his age a year later, had two entitled brats with her, and he can’t seem to figure out why I don’t like him.”
I blink, quite alarmed by how he reeled that off with such little emotion. “I’m sorry. About your mother.”
“Me too. She was a wonderful woman.”
“So why’s your dad calling if you don’t speak?”
“One of the brats got engaged.” The look he turns onto me is quite amusing, especially since it’s coming from Dec, Mr. Indiscernibly Thoughtful. There’s a smidge of irony that I don’t understand but perhaps will one day. There’s mostly incredulity, though.
“Have you told him how you feel?” I ask.
“Should I need to?”
“Yes, if he’s insular.”
“Insular,” he echoes, amused. “That’s a nicer way of putting it. I’ve always called him a self-important wanker.”
“To his face?”
“Once or twice.” He smirks. It’s a terrible attempt to convince me that his father is of no consequence.
“Dec Ellis, do you have daddy issues?” I ask, surprised by my playfulness and thrilled more when he laughs lightly, making those gorgeous eyes of his twinkle under the sporadic glow of London by night through the window. And yet, whether it delights me or not, it’s another bad execution of indifference.
“Camryn Moore, I definitely do not have daddy issues.”
“Hmmm.”
Dec reaches for my knee and squeezes in playful warning, and I yelp, bucking up in my seat.
