Page 67 of Our Last Resort

What do you mean, you can’t ever know what I believe?

Have you doubted me all these years? Is that why you stopped visiting me? Why you stopped writing?

Because you’d convinced yourself that I thought—?

“That’s not fair,” I say.

He shrugs. “Isn’t that why you ghosted me?”

“What?”

Gabriel shakes his head, like,That’s not even the point.But hecontinues: “You never visit anymore. You never call. You never write. What else am I supposed to think?”

You’re the one who pulled away.

Aren’t you?

I tried. I waited for you.

I’m sure I did.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I can’t do this right now.”

He walks toward the bathroom.

“You’ve got to talk to me.”

I rarely speak like this, in the imperative, but in this moment it feels good—so good—to tell Gabriel what to do.

“I don’t need to explain anything.”

“I’m not asking you to. But, Gabriel…” I try to compose myself, but there’s a shiver in my arms and legs that has nothing to do with the cool draft of our AC. “We have to deal with this together. No matter what I do next, it affects us both. If I match your story, I’m lying. But if I tell the truth? Harris won’t care who’s lying and who isn’t. All he’ll see are two stories that don’t match. We’ll both look like liars.”

When Gabriel turns around to look at me, he’s rolling his eyes.

“You know I’m right,” I say.

“Well, I’m sorry,” he says. His voice escalates until he’s yelling, really yelling, this time, on the “sorry,” and it occurs to me that Gabriel and I have never—not once in twenty-three years—had an argument. Not even in our darkest moments. “I’m sorry that I didn’t handle everything perfectly. I’m sorry that I made even more trouble for you,” he continues. “Seriously, Frida, sometimes I wish—”

He catches himself.

“What?” I say. “You wish what?”

“Forget it.”

He moves to shut the bathroom door. I should let him go. Hope that he’ll cool down, try again later.

But I can’t. My hand shoots out, wedges itself between the door and its frame.

“Please,” I say. “Just talk to me.”

A bitter smile slashes across his face.

“I feel you watching me. All day long. Like you’re waiting for—something. I don’t know what. Like you’re waiting for me to let something slip.”

Yes, maybe I am watching you. There are things about you I still don’t understand. How to talk to you. How to bring up the past. How to talk about that goddamn documentary.

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