I decide not to ask her. Not yet.
If George wanted me to know something, he would have said it outright. If my mom wanted me to know, she would have told me years ago. The fact that neither of them has means they are hiding something. I just do not know if it is the same thing.
Until I figure that out, the napkin stays folded in my jacket pocket like a loaded weapon I am not ready to fire.
I feel its presence even when it is not on me, like it hums with the weight of whatever truth it holds. I think about it while I eat dinner, while I lie awake staring at my ceiling, while I lace my skates the next morning.
By the time I step into the rink, I have convinced myself that I will keep my mouth shut until I have leverage. Until George needs something from me more than I need something from
