Sacrifices of Joy Read Online Free Page B

shot of it, hoping the warm liquid that had hints of chamomile and lemon would wash away the growing pangs of guilt I felt.
    I was disappointing my son.
    A series of pings, dings, buzzes, and beeps sounded from deep inside my bag. My phone was fully on, updated, and informing me of various notifications. Before I reached for the lifeline that connected me to the rest of the world, I motioned for Skyye to come back to my table one more time.
    â€œDo you sell anything here that a sixteen-year-old girl would like?” I had to at least make an attempt to assuage my guilt, placate my son. I had no idea what a café would offer other than food, but the ambiance of the place gave the impression that they wanted their customers to leave with more than a full stomach.
    â€œI know just the thing.” Skyye beamed and then disappeared behind a doorway covered with strands of orange beads.
    I took a deep breath and took out my phone.
    I’d missed six calls, five of them from Laz Tyson. There were two messages waiting, one from Laz and the other from a phone number I did not recognize, my visual voice mail app informed me. I didn’t even recognize the area code of the second message. Is that a Houston exchange? I forced myself to breathe, and knew that I would be checking that message last.
    What did it mean, this constant hope upon hope that Leon was somewhere thinking about me? That he would suddenly call me? It had been three years since we last talked. Three years of complete silence from him. What exactly was I hoping for?
    He’d moved on.
    And I’d given him the green light to do so. I had not moved fast enough to get the answers, the truth about RiChard.
    I would come back to the message from the unknown caller. I listened to Laz’s message first as planned.
    â€œSienna, please call me and tell me you are okay. I know you were flying out of BWI this morning and I haven’t heard from you all day. I’m in DC covering the story with the help of one of my sources in Homeland Security. Please call me as soon as you get this message!”
    Laz Tyson. An outspoken, controversial journalist who’d found his way back into the national spotlight following his coverage of my son’s disappearance a few years ago. He was a member of my old church and, after Leon left for Houston, a frequent attendee of my mother’s Sunday dinners. Somewhere along the line, he started introducing me to his friends and colleagues as his girlfriend, a term I hated, but never corrected. For one, calling me his girlfriend made both my mother and Ava stop asking me painful questions about Leon, and, two, I don’t think Laz would have heard my protests anyway.
    Our “relationship” consisted mainly of him filling me in on his latest news stories; me showing him my latest art project, which he would critique; and us spending time at museums and cultural events on the increasingly fewer weekends he was actually in Baltimore.
    It was a courtship of convenience more so than comfort. He needed a constant audience and I needed a continual noisemaker that could drown out the deep moaning of my heart.
    Admittedly, I was kind of touched that he cared enough to leave me a message on a day of breaking news, the kind of day he lived for. But then again, I guess a man should at a minimum check to make sure that his “girlfriend” was alive following a terrorist attack that occurred at her last known location.
    I dialed him right back. I had my own reasons to check in with him. With all of his DC connections, perhaps he had some knowledge about the suspect in custody. It was time to put my paranoia to rest.
    He answered on the first ring. “Sienna?” he asked, sounding out of breath.
    â€œLaz.”
    â€œGood, you’re alive. I gotta go. The press conference is starting.”
    Silence. He’d hung up.
    I could have gotten offended by the brevity of our conversation, but I accepted him for