Page 61 of The Lies We Tell
I laugh in spite of the story. “That’s awful.”
He shrugs. “So’s beating your kids because they can’t immediately bring 2 Chronicles 6:1 to mind.”
I lean across the arm rest and kiss his bicep. “You had to remember all that?”
“Then said Solomon, the Lord hath said that he would dwell in the thick darkness.”
“I’m so sorry you had to exist there,” I say.
Saint chuckles. “No. That’s 2 Chronicles 6:1. His approach may have been cruel, but it was effective. Twenty-five years later, and I still remember it.”
A cab cuts us off, and Saint mutters a curse. “The traffic’s a shit show.”
“I wanted the chaos and the hustle and every TV show I’d ever seen about single women living here with all the shoes. Mainly the shoes. But it was a life so much bigger than mine. I knew at some point in my life, I was going to live here.”
“And now?” Saint asks, turning onto the block the agency is on.
I look down at my bag with my laptop in it, the one filled with ideas I’m prepared to pitch. “This should feel like my best life. But somehow it doesn’t.”
Saint pulls up at the double yellow lines in front of the ad agency. A car honks, but he turns to face me. “Only you get to decide when you are done with this part of your dream. Don’t let them take that from you.”
I glance towards the building. There’s a wide expanse of sidewalk between the truck and the entrance. It’s maybe thirty feet. It feels like miles.
“Hey,” Saint says. “Small steps. Literally and figuratively. Now go kick ass in your meeting, and I’ll be right here.”
“You shouldn’t have to wait. You shouldn’t have had to bring me. If I want to be here, I’m going to have to get comfortable with the train and the subway and the dark and—”
Saint presses his lips to mine. They’re soft and comforting. “Steps, Rose.”
The use of my real name shakes me out of the panic I was spiraling into. “Thank you.”
“Anytime. Now go. I’ll grab food for the trip home. Your work, it’s good. Don’t let them tell you otherwise.”
And I remind myself of his words all the way to the agency’s reception.
23
SAINT
Honestly, I hate New York.
As I lean against the truck, all I can hear are car horns and traffic and the rumble of the subway beneath my feet. There’s a weird-ass yeasty smell coming from some nearby drains, and people are walking past a woman sitting amongst all her bags and belongings and her ratty sleeping bag as if she doesn’t matter. As if she’s inconsequential. I bought her a loaded bagel from the deli to eat, but she looks like she needs another fifty of them to fill out the gaunt hollow of her cheeks.
I can’t decide what the fuck is wrong with this place.
The tall buildings with their flashy designs and glossy finish shout money.
The people sitting in their shadows are broke. Or broken.
Everyone’s heads are down, focused on their phones. They have no clue of the world going on around them. I feel like sticking my foot out and tripping one of them to see what happens.
I look up at the building Briar went into. I know she’s proud of her designs. I admire her ability to park everything else and focus on her work. On Tuesday, she was sitting on a stool at the kitchen island when I got home with a mild hangover. Her shirt was slipping off her shoulders, and I was feeling horny.
I stepped up behind her and slid my hand beneath her shirt as I kissed her neck. She tilted her head, gave me a little room to work, sighed, and then yanked her shirt back up her shoulder before asking me which shade of purple looked better. Not gonna lie, they both looked the exact same goddamn shade, but apparently that was the wrong answer. I got an eye roll and no sex.
I smile to myself, thinking about the way we came together later that morning.
“Preacher man.” The Irish accent tells me exactly who is speaking to me. “What are you doing in my neck of the woods?”
