Page 59 of Double Apex

I amend, “Okay, I mean Iwon’t.”

When she roots in her purse for a tissue and dabs under her eyelashes, I can’t tell if she’s legitimately distraught, or playing it up. “It’s over, and it didn’t even really begin,” she confides. “I know I’ve said it before, but this seemed like it was going to be different.”

Her shoulders draw up, and I know better than to say anything negativeorpositive, as much as I’m tempted to spill out some unhelpful bullshit likeIt’s for the bestorAre you sure?

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I venture.

A dance of about four different emotions flits across her face. Finally she looks up, everything stilled into determination. “No.And that’s enough of my BS anyway—let’s talk aboutyou. I’m so sorry about your dad. How is he?”

I prod my breakfast. “It’s… he has a rare kind of brain tumor. And detected late, because he’s a stubborn old Southern boy who let the symptoms rage for a year until he couldn’t hide them.” My throat catches with fought-back tears, and I swallow. “He’s got a few months left. He’s onlysixty, Nat.”

“Oh, God.” She takes my hand. “I know there’s nothing I can do, but—”

“I still need you.” I risk an embarrassingly vulnerable moment, adding, “Please don’t go away again. I promise I won’t be an asshole.”

“You aren’t! And I’m not goinganywhere.”

As the waiter delivers the drink and scone, something catches up to me: Why didn’t Nat seem shocked about the specifics?

“Hey, Nat?” I clear my throat. “Did Klaus tell you about Mo before my email? Or is there some kind of press leak?”

“What? No! As if that ice sculpture Klaus Franke would tell me anything.” She breaks off a chunk of scone, crumbling it into smaller and smaller morsels without eating any. “You weren’t kidding about him having a thing against journalists.”

I drag my fork through some hollandaise sauce. “Yeah. I love Klaus and everything, but he’s kind of an elegant luxury car you should only lease, never purchase.”

I’m tempted to ask Nat if Klaus said anything about buying the team, but if she’s to be believed about him not discussing my dad’s illness, the subject wouldn’t have come up. It sounds like he didn’t trust her. I’d want to be loyally indignant about that for her sake if it weren’t for the tiny, wary part of me that’s hesitant to trust her either right now.

“I’m sure I don’t have to say this to you,” I begin, trying for casual, “but everything I’ve told you about Mo is off the record. That’s obvious, right? I know you wouldn’t—”

Her hands have frozen in the act of lifting a piece of sconeto her mouth, and I fall silent when I see the unmistakable hurt on her face.

“I’m your friend, Phae. Would I betray you—or anyone—for…a scoop?”

“Of course not. I know that.” I jab at an egg yolk, trying to hide the uncertainty prickling my gut. “Wouldn’t even be much of a ‘scoop.’ He might be in hospice care in weeks—there’ll be no keeping it out of the public eye then.”

She makes a noise of pained sympathy through the bite of scone, nodding and doing her gesture that’s so familiar to me, pressing a hand briefly over the center of her chest with the fingers flexed, like she’s trapping her runaway heart in a cage. In this moment, everything about her is the Natalia I’ve known fourteen years, and I wonder how things got so off track with us.

Is this my fault?

We became inseparable in college when I was eighteen and she was twenty. I was sure I saw a future in which we’d be weird old ladies together. Has it only been the physical distance, all these years I’ve been working for Emerald, that allowed us to sustain an untested “besties in name only” status?

Hoping to put the subject to bed, I unwisely make it worse, because of course I fucking do. “Anyway, if you keep it under your hat for now, I’ll ask Reece if we can give you an exclusive. Uh, when the bad thing happens.”

Nat sets her coffee cup down with such pointed gingerliness that it feels almost louder than a slam. She studies me for a full three blinks before speaking.

“You don’t think I’d keep my word without a payoff?”

“Oh, shit. Nat, I didn’t—”

“It’s painful, being punished for working in journalism. You’re being just as weird to me ashewas.”

“Fuck.” I put both hands over my face and slide them off. “Can we—”

“I’m a person,” she interrupts with crisp emphasis. “I’m not my job.”

“I totally agree, and I’m sorry. Let’s pretend I didn’t phrase that like a tacky bribe. My head isn’t working right. I’m all fucked up over the, y’know, Mo being sick.”

I’m not sure if she’s really sympathetic, or just understands that according to the social contract, when someone plays the Cancer-Dad Card, you stop what you’re doing. Nat has always been a little selfish—she can’t help it because she had a neglected early childhood—but she has a good heart.

---