Chapter 12: Written First

"There's one more thing," Eli said. "It's smaller. It's the only thing I'd like to get right."

He walked up the steps and came down with a pen and a folded sheet of paper.

It was the guest list for the Madrid show, typed and stapled.

At the top, in black marker over the printed name that had been there before, he had written: *Wingate, Louisa.*

"It's not a favor," he said. "It's a correction. Somebody put the wrong name on this list for two weeks. I wanted yours first."

"You said no names."

"You've got the folder. The rule's dead." He tried to smile, and didn't manage it. "I'll write whatever you tell me to write."

I read the line three times.

Then I folded the sheet and put it into the gray folder with the rest of it.

"I'm not forgiving you," I said.

"I know."

"You looked into my life without asking. You kept my picture for three years and let my best friend wear my name."

"I know."

"You don't get to be forgiven for that by saying you're sorry. You get to earn it."

"What do I do?"

"Everything in the open," I said. "No more secrets behind me, even kind ones. And no more names I haven't given you."

"Done."

"And you don't talk to Brianna. Not once, not for the label, not to be polite. I do that."

He nodded.

I thought, he agreed too fast, and then I thought, he's tired.

We left Lisbon that afternoon.

I slept the whole way to Madrid, in the upper bunk, with the folder under my pillow.

When I woke, the bus was parked in a yard behind a hotel with its engine off, and it was dark.

Everybody else had gone in.

I climbed down with my hair in my face.

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