He’s got a childish streak in him that I want to hide away from the
rest of the world, an innocence I want to protect. “I didn’t,” he
starts, and then he falls silent again, like he’s changed his mind
about what he wants to say. “Neal.”
“Yes?” I ask. I’m falling back on my
professional air, it keeps the distance open, keeps us apart. When
he doesn’t answer, I add, “We’re on a steady course. The signal’s
getting stronger. I don’t think it’ll take too long to get to the
origin—”
He sighs as if I’m boring him. “Is that all
we have to say to each other?” he wants to know.
I shrug. It’s your fault,I think.
It’s easier to lay all the blame on him. Trying to steer the
conversation to something more personal, he asks, “How have you
been doing?”
“Okay,” I lie, but I’m sure he sees
right through that one, it’s in the way I can’t quite meet his
eyes. “You?”
“Okay,” he echoes. Now we’re both
lying to each other, has it come to this? Softly, he asks, “Are