See Jane Snap

by Crandell, Bethany

  Starting tomorrow, every journal entry will be a complete fabrication. A one- to two-paragraph snapshot of a life that has absolutely nothing to do with me. A life that can’t possibly cause me any pain when it’s put under the microscope, because it doesn’t actually belong to me.

  And as for Chavez . . . I’ll just have to offer him the sincerest apology I can, then pray that he keeps my real life under wraps while continuing to think I’m the world’s biggest mess. Loser. Idiot. Failure. Fill in the _____.

  “Good morning,” Dan says to me as I make my way into the kitchen Monday morning.

  He’s just returned from a run. His cheeks are flushed from the brisk air, and there’s a heady, manly scent lingering around him. I used to get turned on when I’d wake up and find him like this, but now . . .

  Ugh.

  “Morning,” I mutter back. I head straight for the coffeepot, filling my travel mug to the brim. “What time did you guys get home last night?” I ask, heading toward the fridge for the creamer. With Avery out of school for the week, I’m not too concerned about bedtimes, but I’d still like to have an idea what kind of mood I’ll be dealing with when she finally wakes up.

  “Close to midnight.” He backs up against the counter, allowing me room to navigate.

  “Good game?”

  “Nah. Not really. A couple of Miami’s starters were on the DL, so it wasn’t much of a matchup. We had fun, though. Stopped for banana splits on the way home.”

  “That’s nice.” I give my coffee a quick stir before I twist the lid into place. “I’m sure Avery had fun.”

  “Yeah, we both did. It was a good time.”

  My heart wrenches a little. It’s been a long time since Avery and I had fun together.

  “So, you’re headed down to your meeting?”

  “Yep.” I grab an English muffin from the pantry and drop it into the toaster.

  “How’s that going?”

  “Fine.” There’s no point in telling him the truth, not when I’ve already worked out a game plan to make things better, and it involves being an adept liar. Practice makes perfect, right?

  “Nobody’s asking any questions about why you’re there?”

  “Not specifically, but the entire class is about open communication, so stuff comes up sometimes.”

  “Like what kind of stuff?” The sudden rise in his voice grates against my nerves. I grab the peanut butter from the cupboard, a scowl tugging on my lips. “You’re not saying anything, are you? Because even something that seems benign could be potentially damaging.”

  I turn and level him with a hard look. “No, Dan. I’m not saying anything potentially damaging.”

  “I’m not suggesting you’re doing it intentionally,” he says, raising his hands defensively. “I just know how you women can get when you’re talking. Sometimes you get carried away, and things come out—”

  “You women?”

  He sighs. “Sorry. That came out wrong. It’s just that I’ve seen you and the second wives in action before. In two hours, you hear more hospital gossip than I hear in a year—”

  “Yeah, hospital gossip. Nothing potentially damaging.” I snatch my muffin out of the toaster, dropping it onto a paper towel before it burns me. “I don’t have many of those kinds of conversations with the second wives.”

  “You don’t?”

  Growing more irritated, I slather a glob of peanut butter onto the muffin. “No. I mean, sometimes we get into parenting stuff or really general conversations about relationships, but we never get into anything super deep.”

  The statement comes out with firm confidence, though I’m not entirely sure it’s true.

  We talk about deep things sometimes, don’t we?

  “Well, whatever. Just be careful, okay?” he continues. “You know how much is riding on this.”

  “Yeah, I’m very aware,” I assure him while taking a bite of the muffin.

  Fatherly warning delivered, he blows out a heavy sigh, then says, “Are you really going to need all of those?” He’s looking at the collection of serving bowls and platters I have stacked in the corner for Thursday’s upcoming feast. “You said it was just us and your mom and your sister.”

  “It isshh just ush,” I answer over another bite. The peanut butter is sticking to the roof of my mouth, making it difficult to talk. I take a drink of coffee to wash it down. “But just because the guest count is smaller doesn’t mean the menu changes. I still have to make all the same things.”

  Normally, Dan’s parents fly in from Scottsdale to spend the holiday with us, but this year Dan surprised them with a six-months-early anniversary cruise through the Panama Canal. (Apparently fifty-three years is a bigger milestone than fifty, when we gave them a gift card to their favorite restaurant.) Of course, they didn’t question the strange timing—even wealthy people like free trips—and I didn’t have to. It’s hard enough to manage Dan’s lie in our regular life, but adding his parents into the mix would be next to impossible.

  He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and starts heading toward the stairs. “Well, don’t go overboard,” he says over his shoulder. “You know I’ve got plans for dinner Thursday night, so I’m not going to be eating a whole lot here.”

  Once again, I’m wise enough to know what his dinner plans are—or, rather, who they’re with—without asking, but that doesn’t take the sting out of hearing about them. Last I heard, Thanksgiving was about spending time with your family—with your child!—but apparently that’s not the case when Dan’s involved.

  “Yeah, I know,” I grumble as I shove the rest of the muffin into my mouth.

  I know . . .

  “Girl, you are seriously jacked if you only like hanging out with your girlfriend when you’re stoned,” Lina scoffs at Maya, who was stupid enough to share her honest response with the class.

  I stare down at my 100 percent, grade-A bullshit response and grin:

  WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE THING TO DO?

  Go to the movies by myself, especially horror movies. I love all the blood and gore. Decapitations are the best! No one in my family likes them, so I treat myself whenever I can.

  Not only do I cringe at the first sight of blood and guts, but I haven’t been to a movie by myself in at least fifteen years.

  “I didn’t say it was only when I was high.” Maya pauses from her incessant nail-biting long enough to counter the accusation.

  “What?” Lina bolts upright in her chair, palms raised, black-lined eyes bulging. “You just said that. Didn’t she just say that?” She turns to the women on either side of her, looking for confirmation.

  “You did,” Angel confirms over a drawn-out nod.

  “Yeah, honey, you did,” Donna agrees.

  “Ya did,” Burty reluctantly confirms.

  Maya sighs. “Okay, well, maybe I said that, but I didn’t really mean it. I like my girlfriend when I’m not high; it’s just . . .” She raises her hand back up to her mouth and starts working on her thumbnail again. “I don’t know. She’s kind of boring when I’m sober.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing with her?” Lina questions. “Why are you hanging out with someone you don’t actually like?”

  And this is why I will never answer another journal entry honestly. Because a truthful response like Maya’s—“My favorite thing to do is play Mario Kart with my girlfriend”—will quickly evolve into an interrogation about her personal life, and I’m not about to dive into anything remotely personal with any of these women ever again.

  As soon as class is dismissed, I head down to the lobby to seek out Chavez so I can deliver my apology. I assumed he’d be in the lobby stalking me as usual first thing this morning, but he wasn’t here. And he’s not now. I guess my outburst on Friday left an impression on him too.

  I punch my attendance card at the front desk, hoping that Officer Moore will be here to offer me some directions, but instead am greeted by a familiar and unwelcoming face: Officer Bates.

  C
rap.

  She moves faster than I would’ve thought she could . . .

  “What do you want, Holliday? Class is over for the day.”

  “Yes, I know. I was just . . . well, I was hoping you could point me in the direction of Detective Chavez?”

  “What do you want to see Chavez for?”

  Not only does her response come out with a defensive tone, but it’s registering about a thousand decibels louder than I’d like. I drop my head, lean in a bit closer, and reposition myself so my back is facing the time clock, where my classmates are currently punching their cards just a few feet away.

  “It’s a personal matter,” I answer, my voice strained and intentionally low.

  “A personal matter?” She cocks her head. “With Detective Chavez?”

  I nod quickly.

  Yes, a freaking personal matter!

  She stares at me for a long beat before she blows out a sigh and says, “Hang on.”

  With a slug’s urgency, she pushes out of her chair and slowly disappears into the open doorway behind her.

  “Everything okay, Jane?” Burty presses a hand against my shoulder, demanding my attention.

  Shit.

  I inhale a quick breath through my nose, then turn to face her. And Iris. Iris is staring at me too.

  Double shit.

  “What do ya need to see that detective for?” Burty asks. “You didn’t get into any more trouble, did ya?” The concern on her face is so genuine I can’t help but smile a little.

  I shake my head. “No. I’m not in trouble; I just, um . . .” I swallow hard. “I just have to talk to him about something. It’s . . .” I toss a flippant hand in the air. “It’s not a big deal.”

  Iris’s eyes narrow in that knowing way of hers—just like they did during class when I professed my love for creepy dolls with big, blinking eyes—but thankfully she doesn’t say anything.

  “Oh good. I’m glad it’s nothin’ to fret over,” Burty says over a relieved breath. “We’re gonna get some pie at the diner around the corner, if you wanna come? You could meet us when you’re done.”

  Sweet as her invitation is, I have no interest in spending any time in a seedy diner with two women I barely know.

  “Sorry, I can’t. I need to get home. I’ve got a lot to get ready, with Thanksgiving and everything.”

  “Oh, right.” Burty forces a smile over her now-pouting lower lip.

  She looks like Avery.

  “Maybe next time?” Iris suggests, undoubtedly aware that my response is going to be a lie. Which it is.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe next time.”

  “I hope you have a real nice Thanksgiving, Jane.” Burty suddenly throws her arms around me and gives me a hug. A really tight hug that forces my ribs to compress against my lungs.

  I sputter over the sudden loss of breath and say, “You too, Burty.”

  I give her a reciprocating pat on the back that I hope signifies the end of our spontaneous lovefest, but instead it prompts her to squeeze even tighter, so now our torsos are completely smashed together and her soft blonde curls are pressing into my face. The sweet tang of her strawberry-scented shampoo floods my nose.

  “I’m so glad to know ya,” she goes on.

  I glance up at Iris, who’s wearing a smirk despite my obvious distress, and again say, “You too, Burty. You too.”

  They disappear through security and out the front door. My other classmates do the same, thankfully the rest of them oblivious to or unconcerned with my presence.

  Officer Bates finally returns, looking more perturbed by my presence than she did a few minutes ago. “He says you can go back,” she grumbles. “But don’t think this is special treatment, Holliday,” she’s quick to add. “He’s got lots of women that come through here wanting to talk to him. He’s not doing you any special favors.”

  Again, I’m not clear why Bates feels the need to single me out, but I’m not about to inquire. I simply accept her instruction with a “Thanks for your help” and get on my way.

  Chavez’s office is located in an entirely different building—a three-minute walk from this main building—and requires a special visitor’s badge and passing through two more security checks to get into. I had no idea stalking me required so much effort.

  I’m buzzed inside by a uniformed officer who looks about sixteen years old, then am told I can find Chavez down the hall behind the second door. My heart beats unnervingly hard as I head down the long linoleum-covered hallway, silently reciting my apology along the way:

  I’m sorry I snapped at you.

  I was having a particularly stressful day and lost my cool.

  I am so grateful for the opportunity to be in this class.

  Please forgive me . . .

  . . . and please don’t destroy my life.

  I pause just outside the door.

  You can do this, Jane.

  You can do anything you set your mind to.

  I give my rubber band a few plucks for good measure, give my hair a little fluff, and then step inside.

  The room is relatively small and split into four workspaces that are divided by four-foot walls, a narrow walkway running down the middle of them. Like cubicles but without an ounce of privacy. The space on my immediate left sits vacant—just an empty desk and chair filling its ten square feet—while the one on my right is occupied by a woman who’s got a phone pressed to her ear and is talking loudly. I have no idea what language she’s speaking, but it sounds like she’s trying to clear a hairball from her throat. She’s too engrossed in her call to even notice I’m here.

  There’s no one in the cubicle behind her, though based on the cluttered desk and cup of coffee steaming next to the computer, its occupant has just stepped away for a minute. And then, in the back-left corner, sits Chavez.

  He’s also on the phone but, unlike his colleague, is very aware of my presence.

  My breath catches nervously as he locks eyes with me and waves me over, that amused grin, as always, tugging on the corners of his lips.

  You can do this, Jane.

  He can make fun of you all he wants, so long as he doesn’t blow up your life!

  “Yeah, I know,” he says into the phone while motioning for me to sit in the guest chair on the opposite side of the desk from him. “Yeah, it’s definitely a long shot, but it’s worth looking into. She was his last known contact, so—yeah. Yeah. Right, I know . . .”

  While Chavez finishes up his call, I hug my bag against my chest and cautiously eye my surroundings. On the desktop in front of me sits an orange Hooters coffee mug that’s loaded down with pens and pencils, a stack of hot-pink Post-its beside that. There’s an open file spread out in front of him, a stack of handwritten notes piled up on top of it. His writing is very neat—all capitals.

  On the credenza behind him are stacks of file folders and notebooks, a thirsty-looking plant, and three framed photos. One is of Chavez standing on top of a rock, a stunning mountainous view behind him; the other is of a darling little boy with enormous brown eyes and dimples deep enough to get lost in—the mini version of Chavez—and the last picture is . . . oh my. There’s a grinning, glassy-eyed Chavez and another guy (looking equally drunk), each weighed down by countless layers of Mardi Gras beads, beers raised as if toasting the photographer. And in the background are several very voluptuous, scantily clad women who look more than a little eager for their opportunity to earn some of the beads the guys are wearing. It seems Officer Sexy Pants enjoys himself a party.

  “All right, well, call me if you find anything. Yeah, okay. Okay. Thanks.”

  Chavez drops the phone into the cradle with a heavy sigh, then turns to me. My chest tightens, and my gaze immediately zeroes in on those dimples. Those forever-deep dimples that are just begging to explode into laughter over what a complete fool he thinks I am.

  I shift in the seat.

  Do it, Jane.

  Just get it over with.

  Just say what you have to say
and get the hell out of here.

  His lips start to part like he’s going to say something—

  Do it, Jane!

  Do it before he starts talking and you lose your nerve—

  “I’m so sorry for the way I acted on Friday. I was stressed and upset and I just lost my cool and I’m so sorry—” The words are erupting out of my mouth like vomit, fast and furious, without a pause between them. “Please don’t kick me out of the class. I’ll do anything. I’m so sorry but please—”

  “What? No, Jane—”

  “I can’t have a record,” I go on, too consumed by my own desperation to hear what he was trying to say. I plant my palms on the edge of the desk and lean forward, bracing myself against the barrage of pleas. “It’ll destroy my whole life. You have to understand that I was just stressed, that’s all it was—”

  “Jane—”

  “And I took it out on you. And I swear, I didn’t mean to,” I carry on, shaking my head emphatically. “I just—I lost my mind for a minute, but I swear it won’t happen again. Please don’t kick me out of the class. I need this class—”

  “Jane.” He leans across the desk and firmly presses his palms against the tops of my hands. I’m not sure if it’s the heat of his touch or the fact that his hands are perfectly controlled while mine are trembling, but one of the two instantly steals my words, leaving only winded breaths coming from my mouth. He locks his eyes onto mine and in a firm voice says, “I’m not going to kick you out of the class. And I’m not mad about what happened on Friday.”

  Heart hammering against my sternum, I blink hard. “Wh—huh?”

  He shakes his head, an earnest expression settling in his eyes despite the smirk still sprouting across his cheeks. “I’m not mad about Friday,” he repeats. “If anything, I’m the one who owes you an apology.”

  My jaw sags. “What? Why? What do you have to apologize for?”

  “For making you feel uncomfortable, like I was mocking you somehow . . .”