The Name I Can't Box Up

Someone I remembered was sitting in a courthouse looking at me like I had left a stain on her life, except I was the one who had protected her. That was supposed to feel good. Instead, recognition felt dangerous. The moment Simone said my old name, I could see the version of me she had remembered: younger, photographed, still pretending that beauty was armor. I wanted the diner to swallow me whole.

I raised my hand before she touched me. Not to stop her. To cover my face. How automatic was that? I can walk into hostile rooms and keep my voice level, but one kind look from someone who remembers the girl I used to be can turn my body stupid and cautious.

Her card is beside my notebook now. I have not called anyone. I keep telling myself that I am considering the work, but privately I am measuring the distance between who I am and who she thinks I am. That distance used to be my entire profession. Now it feels like a doorway someone can open whenever my phone records are pulled.

The civil suit frightens me less than I showed Claire. The subpoena frightens me because it is specific. My name, my number, my quiet habits, all arranged into a neat timeline for people who think there is a tidy legal version of what I did. Let them come. If they can make my work look dirty without lying, I will have to admit how much I hate needing a reputation.