Page 83 of Love Her

“Welcome to a taste of the limelight. I would’ve thought someone as posh as you would love it.”

“Believe it or not, I come from quiet money.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

I did my best to disassociate the rest of my entire being from my trapped hand. “Why did you skip the interview for Notable Knot?”

“I was busy. I read it when came out this morning though. You looked beautiful in it—and Zane and Weston appreciated your ability to spar.”

“And what about today?” I asked. “When you sent me into that hive of bees?” I meant B’s—as in bitches. Our waiter came back with our first course, two Greek salads, which Marcus had apparently ordered before I arrived—and which gave me an excuse to reclaim my hand. “Those women hated me.”

“Of course they did. You’re everything they’re not.”

“How…so?” I asked, with a confused headshake.

“Rich—but not trapped. You’ve only got one generation’s worth of trauma wrapped around your neck—they’ve got four or five,” he said, leaning forward, stabbing a tomato with a fork. “Which is why you don’t have to hide behind curated smiles and faked pleasantries. You’re bold—you’re real. And none of them get to be. I take it you didn’t read any of the comments on those articles?” he asked, tucking into his plate.

I shook my head slowly.

“Of course, some people were assholes, it’s the human condition—but you also had strident supporters. People felt things, reading that story. People cared, in a very real way, aboutyou—far more than anyone on the street hasevergiven a fuck about Maribeth, or maybe even me. You’re relatable.”

“Oh,” I said quietly, which gave him permission to continue.

“I think America’s seen enough beautiful women burned in effigy that they’re smart enough to want to stop it in real time when they get the chance. Free Britney, and all that.”

“Ohhhhh,” I said, fighting not to let my voice arc.

“So, none of that frightens me. And it shouldn’t frighten you,” he said, looking at my dress, deprived of sleeves. “Show things off. Start a charity. People will listen to you when you say things. Use that. It’s part of your power.”

“I don’t want this,” I said out loud. The words just came out of me, and I think some small childish part of me believed they would be like some sort of magic spell.

Marcus gave me a sad expression, and reached out to briefly take my hand again. “I know,” he said, and then kept eating.

49

RHAIM

Idropped off my new rental at a chop shop I was familiar with from the old days, and asked them to put a static cling film on the windows so dark people inside could safely perform war crimes. Then I went to Enzo’s place.

The family doctor lived comfortably in a nice walk-up, that even had a little yard in back—I knew, because I’d carried bleeding men through it before.

But this time I was going through the front. I went up onto his stoop, rang the doorbell, and waited for him to arrive.

His red-headed Irish wife opened the door instead, piercing me with a look.

“Good evening Sorsha, is your husband home?”

She crossed her arms. “That depends.”

“This is a social visit. Swear,” I said, crossing my heart.

She didn’t let me in, but she did toss her head back and shout, “Enzo!”

And Enzo, having been married to her for at least twenty years, shouted back, “What?” at full volume, from another room.

“Company!” she hollered—in a tone that meant business.

The good doctor appeared down the hallway behind her, spotted me, and then the color disappeared from his skin. “Hey, Sorsh’—can you go get Mr. Selvaggio here a beer?” he said, slowly walking forward—like I was some kind of dog he needed to subdue.

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