“Did Stagger help you get the Ron Kochman identity?”
“Yes.”
“So you ended up living a lie anyway.”
“No, Kat,” he said. “It was just a different name.”
“But now you are, right?”
Jeff said nothing.
“These past weeks with me, you’ve been living with the lie. So what were you going to do, Jeff? Now that we’re back together, what was your plan?”
“I didn’t have one,” he said. “At first, I just wanted to be with you. I didn’t care about anything else. You know?”
She did know, but she didn’t want to hear it.
“But after a while,” he said, “I started to wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
“Would it better to live a lie with you or a truth without you?”
She swallowed. “Did you ever come up with an answer?”
“No,” Jeff said. “But now I’ll never have to. The truth is out. The lies are gone.”
“Just like that?”
“No, Kat. Nothing with us is ever ‘just like that.’”
He moved toward the bed and sat next to her. He didn’t try to embrace her. He didn’t try to get too close. She didn’t move toward him either. They just sat there, staring at the wall, letting it all rush over them—the lies and secrets, the death and murder and blood, the years of heartbreak and loneliness. Finally, his hand moved toward hers. Her hand closed the gap, covered his. For a very long time, they both stayed like that, frozen, touching, almost afraid to breathe. And somewhere, maybe on a car radio driving by, maybe just in her head, Kat could hear someone singing, “I ain’t missing you at all.”
“Yes.”
“So you ended up living a lie anyway.”
“No, Kat,” he said. “It was just a different name.”
“But now you are, right?”
Jeff said nothing.
“These past weeks with me, you’ve been living with the lie. So what were you going to do, Jeff? Now that we’re back together, what was your plan?”
“I didn’t have one,” he said. “At first, I just wanted to be with you. I didn’t care about anything else. You know?”
She did know, but she didn’t want to hear it.
“But after a while,” he said, “I started to wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
“Would it better to live a lie with you or a truth without you?”
She swallowed. “Did you ever come up with an answer?”
“No,” Jeff said. “But now I’ll never have to. The truth is out. The lies are gone.”
“Just like that?”
“No, Kat. Nothing with us is ever ‘just like that.’”
He moved toward the bed and sat next to her. He didn’t try to embrace her. He didn’t try to get too close. She didn’t move toward him either. They just sat there, staring at the wall, letting it all rush over them—the lies and secrets, the death and murder and blood, the years of heartbreak and loneliness. Finally, his hand moved toward hers. Her hand closed the gap, covered his. For a very long time, they both stayed like that, frozen, touching, almost afraid to breathe. And somewhere, maybe on a car radio driving by, maybe just in her head, Kat could hear someone singing, “I ain’t missing you at all.”
