Page 102 of The Five Year Lie

Zain’s only response is:

Zain: Thanks.

Impatience bubbles up inside me.

Ariel: Zain! Did you watch the video? Who was on it?

He doesn’t answer me. At all. Even at lunchtime, he doesn’t emerge. He’s avoiding me.

I’m going to burst. So I keep myself busy hauling away empty boxes from our move. It’s about as emotionally fulfilling as rearranging the deck chairs on theTitanic, but I have a good view of Zain’s office door so I can pounce when he emerges.

Still, I’m full of nervous energy. On one hand, nothing has changed for me. My job is the same as it ever was, making regular deposits in my checking account. My child is happy. Tomorrow we’ll be serving watermelon to the preschool-aged population of Portland, Maine.

On the other hand, I’m not the same person at all. One text—a single burst of electrons lighting up my phone—and nothing will ever be the same. And I can’t stand it anymore. The unknowns are killing me.

Leaving my work behind, I grab my handbag and trot down the stairs of the building. I hoof it a block or so until I find a mailbox.

From the depths of my bag, I pull the letter I wrote to Drew’s lawyer. It’s already addressed and stamped, so all I have to do is open the mailbox’s hinged door and fling it inside. When I let go of the handle, the mailbox closes with a metallic thump.

There. It’s done. Whatever the fallout, I’ll survive it.

I retrace my steps toward the office building. And out walks Zain, punching the crosswalk button before glancing guiltily up and down the street.

When he spots me, he flinches.

“Zain!” I hustle over there before he can step off the curb.

“Hey. I was just running out to pick up my Bagel Tree order.”

“Seriously?You waited for me to leave the office. You’re ducking me. What happened to the video?”

He crosses his arms and scowls. “It’s just a really bad day, Ariel.”

“Answer this question to my face—did you watch that video this weekend? Who was on it?”

“Ariel, Jesus,” he says with a red-faced scowl. “It’s not about that. I haven’t slept more than four hours in three nights.”

“Uh-huh. Note the lack of a denial. I’ve had a lot of practice being lied to by men. I know what it looks like. So let’s try again—did you watch that video?”

“You’re not listening,” he growls. “This network attack is bad, and it seemspersonal, okay? So I have to fix my shit before I can fix your shit.”

At that, he steps off the curb and stomps across the street.

I watch him go. Either I’m a bitch, or he’s a liar.

Actually, both could be true.

I look up at the office building, and the rage I feel for that place is so red-hot that I can’t walk back inside. So I turn around and head for the only place where I still feel like myself.

I let myself into the empty studio. I change into an old T-shirt and check all the temperature gauges before grabbing a pipe and propping it into the warmer.

When I step on the pneumatic pedal that opens the furnace door, molten glass greets me with its orange glow. I dip the pipe into the blazing liquid and twist, forming a tidy ball of burning hot glass.

It’s tempting to hurl it across the room, like a fire-breathing javelin. Right now I’d rather break things than make things.

Breaking things is so much easier. Just ask Officer Ward.

I put my mouth on the tube and blow. This is where I need to be—right here with the pipe in my hands. I’m going to stand here forever, blowing piece after piece. And never, ever think.