Elias shook his head.
“Crazy.”
I looked at Adrian.
“Did you choose that warehouse because you knew?”
“No.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“It had lower delivery fees.”
“That’s it.”
For once, the universe itself appeared responsible for the dramatic timing.
Outside, I said:
“You could have told me without the shoes.”
“I know.”
“Any day.”
“Yes.”
“For fifteen years.”
“Yes.”
“So why didn’t you?”
Adrian rubbed the edge of one shoe with his thumb.
“At first, I was going to tell you when they came back.”
“When they disappeared, I thought I’d tell you eventually.”
“Then every year that passed made it feel more ridiculous.”
I stared.
“It was already ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“Five years?”
“I know.”
“Ten?”
“I know.”
“Fifteen?”
“I know.”
He looked at me.
“But eventually the secret changed.”
“What do you mean?”
“At first I was hiding that I lost my job.”
“Later I was hiding that I had hidden it.”
That made terrible sense.
Shame compounds.
The first lie creates a second problem.
Then avoiding the second problem creates a third.
Eventually, the original thing almost stops mattering.
The hiding becomes the issue.
I said:
“Are there more?”
He knew exactly what I meant.
“Secrets.”
He looked away.
My heart dropped.
“Adrian.”
“Not like that.”
“How many?”
“Small things.”
“That phrase is now banned.”
He sighed.
“I didn’t tell you when I was rejected for the promotion eight years ago.”
“I told you I decided I didn’t want it.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“Same reason.”
“I didn’t tell you how worried I was when Dad got sick.”
“That one I knew.”
“Not all of it.”
“What else?”
He hesitated.
Then:
“My department may be restructured.”
