Wille’s the last in a long line of liars. He’d cut his teeth on dishonesty, learned it like a first language. He’s good at it. (Or, at least, he used to be.) Simon has no reason to trust him. But Wille could give him, at the very least, something true in an unsteady breath against his shoulder. Wille could lay all his cards on the table. It should have happened under better circumstances. He wishes I love you didn’t sound like an apology—like an excuse.
(Wille hadn’t expected to hear it back. He hadn’t done anything to earn it.)
“I hope you have a nice Christmas.”
That’s—that’s fair. He gets it. This is his mess to clean up. (And God, what a fucking mess.) His scarf is too tight. He unwraps it and tosses it onto the leather seat beside him.
If it’s Wille in the video, it’s a national scandal. (A cry for help or attention.) If it’s not , then Simon and an unknown second party are the unfortunate victims of a crime. (Nobody important.) And then they’ll stop broadcasting it on the news. A better story will come along. Simon might not be happy , but at least he’ll be safer when this all blows over.
It will blow over.
Building Houses out of Matchsticks Ch. 1
