Resigned to raw nerves and melancholy, I click on Cheryl’s email. It’s quick and to the point and still messy as hell.
Jane, I haven’t heard from you in a while, so I thought I’d check in. Meg’s last letter asked me to take care of you. Are you doing ok?
God, Meg. Why were you so good? If you hadn’t loved me so well, I wouldn’t miss you this much.
Her last letter. I don’t want to think about that. She sent me a letter as well. I get it out and read it when I need a hit of raw pain to cut through the dull throbbing of this grief.
“Hey.” His voice interrupts my sorrow, and I’m so relieved, I turn to him with a blinding smile.
“Hey, yourself.”
“Should I offer to buy you another drink or is that just irritating?”
I’m about to crack a joke about not needing a drink because I just started my current one, but a glance shows me an empty tumbler and I realize I can still taste gin on the back of my tongue. Sliding my phone into my purse, I look him up and down.
He’s a little shorter than I thought, with the tight body of a runner. What’s more appealing than his body is the way he stands at a polite distance, waiting for a signal that welcomes him closer. He understands women in that very simple way so many men never grasp. He knows we are raised in danger. He views our respect as a gift. He has sisters, probably. I like him.
“I’d love another,” I finally answer, tipping my head toward the empty seat beside me.
He raises his hand to politely wave at the bartender, then slides onto the stool. “I’m Anthony.” He offers a hand, and when I take it, the handshake is quick and firm.
“Jane,” I respond. “Are you here for work?”
“I am. Pitching a new campaign. I work in advertising in Chicago. What about you?”
“I live nearby. Just wanted to get out of my place for a few hours.”
“An extrovert?”
“Something like that. I like a little noise in the background, and I can only deal with twenty-four-hour news channels for so long.”
“I get it. I don’t particularly like sports, but I seem to find myself at sports bars all the time.”
“Do you travel a lot?”
“A few times a month. Nothing too crazy.”
I don’t ask about his relationship status. He doesn’t ask about mine. Our new drinks arrive and we gently clink glasses. “Thank you,” I murmur.
“My pleasure.”
We talk for an hour. You might think I’d be terrible at conversation, but I’m not. I enjoy small talk the way I enjoy books with an interesting narrator. The way other people live and love and think are cozy mysteries, though their stories are as two-dimensional to me as words on a page. I don’t understand the stupid reactions of people. I don’t understand their irrationality. But small talk is light entertainment.
On my side, I normally only have to mention Malaysia and the listener is hooked. But I’m treading cautiously here. My time in Minneapolis will not end well. How many questions will be asked, and who will be asking them? I have no idea, so I keep Malaysia to myself.
Still, there are stories to share, and I share them. Anthony is smart and funny, and he looks a little embarrassed when he finally asks if we should take our last round of drinks to his room.
He needn’t feel embarrassed. I’m not. I pay my tab and leave a nice tip for the bartender before waving goodbye. The ruddy-faced businessman, eyes now bleary with booze, shoots me a scornful glare as I walk past with Anthony, and I resist the urge to tell him to fuck off and grow up. No matter how old he gets, he’ll still want a woman my age, but he resents that I don’t want him. Does he notice his own shitty hypocrisy? No. I’m a selfish bitch. It will always be my fault.
But who cares about him? Anthony and I step into the elevator, and even when we’re alone he doesn’t crowd me, but his eyes are warmer, the lids a little heavier as he lets his gaze slip over my body. I touch a fingertip to his wrist and draw a circle. “I like your arms,” I say.
“My arms?” He’s no weight-lifting type and he seems surprised.
“Stronger than mine, but not ostentatious.”
He smiles as he eases closer. “You’re an odd one.” Boy, am I ever. His lips just touch mine when the doors of the elevator slide open. He hesitates, kisses me again.
“Come on,” I whisper, and tug him into the hallway.
For a moment I’m a real person. I’m excited, happy, close to another human, nearly breathless with anticipation. He’s kissing me before his hotel door is fully open, and I try not to think or plan or analyze. We’re not frantic, but we waste no time in exploring, undressing each other as we kiss and touch.
Right now I could be any woman taking a chance with an attractive man. This could develop into something deeper. We could fall in love and marry and live the age-old dream. I like the brief fantasy of it as much as the sex, but after I climax, this intimacy will evaporate along with the sweat on my body. I learned this long ago.
The funny thing is a lot of people are sociopaths when it comes to sex, aren’t they? And I’m the odd one? At least I’m consistent.
My instincts are good, and Anthony doesn’t let me down. He gets me off before we have sex, then again at the end. I like his body all tight and slick with sweat, and he uses a condom without my having to ask. If he weren’t flying out in the morning, I might come back again tomorrow night, but when he asks if I want to keep in touch, I reluctantly shake my head. He’s said he only comes to town once or twice a year and I won’t be here that long.
“You sure?” he asks. “I thought this was pretty nice.”
“It was really nice,” I reassure him, stroking a thankful hand over his arm and then his chest and stomach. My reassurance is so effective that he’s hard again within minutes and we do it one more time, and this round is rougher, harder, and even better than really nice.
I leave his room with a grin, and I smile the whole way home. What a great night. The memory may even get me through a few days of playing with Steven.
CHAPTER 8
I’m thankful Steven avoids me for most of the day. Tonight we’re going on a date, and he’s likely being careful not to send signals to anyone in the office, but his distance helps me as well. My body is still moving with the warm lethargy of a satisfied woman, and I can’t let him see that.
But let’s be honest. Steven probably wouldn’t recognize the cause or effect.
All in all, though, last night’s fun was a good idea. Playing the submissive mouse is going to be a lot easier when I’m not tight with tension and always on the edge of snapping and telling Steven what I really think of him.
If there was any chance of regularly finding a partner of Anthony’s caliber, I’d hit the bars every night, but Anthony was a long shot. Every one-night stand is a roll of the dice. I’m good enough at recognizing fellow monsters that I rarely put myself in danger, but no woman can avoid the risk of a seriously bad lay. It’s like some of them are trying to be terrible in bed.
All those jokes about the clitoris being hard to find? Come on. It’s right there near the top of the vulva every time. There’s maybe one square inch of possibility, and they still can’t work it out. The sheer incompetence astounds me.
Of course, there are plenty of men who don’t even bother to try, but it’s gotten easier and easier to spot them at first glance after years of practice. I’m pretty sure Steven is one of them, so I’ll put off sleeping with him as long as I can. Luckily, resistance fits my narrative.
I want to spend my lunch hour reading, but I stupidly open my email and there is that note from Cheryl still waiting for me. I could just delete it. I don’t care about Cheryl. But I do care about Meg, and Cheryl is the only link to my love for her. We could stay in touch. Have coffee. Talk about Meg.
Meg was the closest thing I had to a soul. She blew into my life like a hurricane. Is that too clichéd? It is, but the worse sin is that a hurricane is destructive, and Meg wasn’t. So
. . . she exploded my cold, quiet world with all the beauty of a fireworks show.
She was my sophomore roommate in college. My freshman roommate had been ignorable. We had nothing in common, but nothing that made us enemies either. That year was quiet. Forgettable.
But Meg . . . Meg was a new universe. There was no question we’d be friends, because Meg was friends with everyone. I didn’t want to go out dancing with her the first night we met, but she had decided we’d go dancing, so we did. It was more fun than all of my freshman days smashed together.
But fun was just the start. With Meg I could almost imagine I was normal. She was hopeful, positive, and loving, and if I tried hard when I was with her, I could pretend to be those things too. Only for short moments, of course. I stole brief glimpses of the world through her eyes, and it was like reading the best book. I could lose myself in her story.
The most important thing about Meg, though—the thing that kept me tied to her—was her reliability. Meg was there for me every single time I needed her. She was the first person in the world I truly trusted. She was the only person. And she’s gone.
I’ve never missed anyone before. What do I do with that? Without Meg, I’m no longer sure who I am. She was my connection to a future. To love and children and marriage.
One day Meg would get married. I’d be her maid of honor. She’d have kids and I’d be their aunt Jane. Meg was my only hope of loving children, even if that love was seasonal and sketchy. I’ll never have my own. What would be the point in creating more people I’d barely connect with?
But I knew I’d love Meg’s kids through her. Enough to be there on Christmases and birthdays. To celebrate with them. To have a link to family and traditions, even if they weren’t my own.
Without Meg, my future is a cold march of nearly identical days. No true family. No holiday gatherings. Is that a reason to hang on to Cheryl? Is that what other people would do?
She promised Meg she’d take care of me, and I know she’s a more-the-merrier type, so if I keep in touch I’ll at least have the chance of a warm and raucous Christmas in the future.
But strangers aren’t family. Meg will never be there. I’ll never belong. I’ll be a stranger everywhere I go for the rest of my life.
Still, I don’t delete Cheryl’s email. I have no idea what that means.
By the end of lunch I’ve lost a little of my glow, but that’s a good thing. Hobbies are well and good, but I need to get back to the work of keeping Steven on my hook.
If I could get this all over with quickly, I would. Fall into bed with Steven and get close to him right away. Find out what makes him tick. This could all be over in days. But if I don’t resist sex, I won’t be worthy of love, and I need him to love me in his own little selfish way. I need him to show me his weaknesses.
So no sex tonight. Maybe a kiss. I’ll keep my cardigan buttoned up to my neck until Steven talks me into having a glass of cheap wine with dinner. Then I’ll get warm and unbutton it too far and he’ll think he made that happen.
This relationship will be tedious and nearly unbearable, but the end will justify the means. Maybe I’ll destroy his family. Maybe I’ll set him up for embezzlement. Maybe I’ll kill him.
I’ll find what’s most important to him and then I’ll take it away. However that plays out is fine with me.
CHAPTER 9
I’ve never killed anyone. I’m not that kind of sociopath. But you never know. Desperate times . . .
CHAPTER 10
Steven promised a hole-in-the-wall and he delivered. It’s a little Italian restaurant on a side street in downtown Minneapolis that’s either going to serve the most amazing food I’ve ever had or food that will reveal why this place is slowly dying.
To ensure I look eager to please, I arrive early. The tables are topped with honest-to-God Chianti bottles dripping with old candle wax. The host leads me to a tiny table and pulls out my chair before lighting the candle on our bottle. I ask for a glass of water and sit primly.
I wrote back to Cheryl before leaving my apartment. I told her I was doing well aside from missing Meg. I didn’t mention Minneapolis. Cheryl lives in Duluth now, and it would be an easy drive if I wanted to visit. I don’t. But I ask how she’s holding up and whether there’s anything I can do for her. I don’t tell her that the terrible example she set as a mother helped lead to Meg’s death. Even I am not that cruel. She has enough guilt to carry. So do I.
Meg committed suicide. She became so hopeless and broken that she killed herself, so we’re all to blame. Any one of us could have saved her, given the right timing.
But I wasn’t here, was I? I’d only returned to Minneapolis once in the past two years. If I’d come back more often, would she still be alive? What if I’d called more regularly? What if I’d been more empathetic, caring, human?
It had been a struggle to understand Meg’s problems, yes, but I’d tried. I swear I had. Still, patience is not my virtue. Nor is sympathy. Maybe I was her weakest link. Maybe her mother deserves none of my anger and I deserve all of it. I’ve never experienced regret before, but I do now. Missing Meg for the rest of my life will be my penance.
We were both thirty when she killed herself, and she’ll be thirty forever now. I will age and age and age without her.
Would I take her place if I could? Well, hell. I’m not given to selflessness, but I think I might. There’s no hope for me, after all. I’m not going to someday blossom into a happy, whole person. But there was hope for Meg.
Or maybe there was no hope at all. Maybe she was destined to marry shitty men and put her children through divorce after divorce and boyfriend after boyfriend. My life will be less destructive than that.
Still, I wish I could bring her back.
Melancholy is draping over me like a spiderweb that drifted in on the breeze, and if Steven doesn’t get here soon, I’m going to break character and order a carafe of table wine. If I’m quick, maybe I can drink it all before he arrives.
No such luck. Behind me I hear his loud, over-friendly greeting for the host. The host responds just as loudly. Everyone loves Steven! This could be a hilarious sitcom.
I stand and turn awkwardly to wait for him, as if I’m nervous. I’m probably overdoing this, but my instinct says to behave exactly the opposite of how I’d normally interact with a man. So far it’s working.
“Jane!”
He walks over quickly and gives me a long hug. Too long. I’m very proud of myself for not shoving him onto his ass. I’m not a hugger.
“You look gorgeous,” he whispers into my ear just as he’s pulling back. The anger in my cheeks looks like a blush.
“It’s just my work clothes,” I protest.
“You always look gorgeous.” I can see how women fall for him. He’s attentive.
“You drink red wine, I hope?” he asks as we both sit down.
“Not often.”
He ignores that and calls out to the host for a bottle of his favorite red. That’s when I realize this is a place he brings people so he can show off. Be the big man. It’s perfect.
“I’m glad you came,” he says.
“Did you think I’d chicken out?”
“You did seem pretty nervous.”
“I am nervous. I can’t afford to lose this job.”
“Don’t worry about it. Come on. No one really cares. As far as I know, nobody’s ever been disciplined for interoffice dating. It’s fine.”
“Do you think so?”
He reaches across the table to take my hand and tug it closer. “Trust me.”
His smile is meant to reassure me, but his words have the opposite effect. Why would I trust a man I’d just met? It’s a warning sign that he’d even ask me to. I give his hand a little squeeze as if I need someone to hold on to. When a waiter appears with a menu, I act embarrassed to have been caught in an intimate moment.
I fully expect the waiter to hand the menu to Steven so he can order for both of us, but he hands it to me inst
ead. Steven winks. “I already know what I’m getting. Everything is good, by the way. You can’t make a bad choice.”
Oh, what a relief.
The waiter arrives. I order spaghetti Bolognese and my mouth waters at the thought of it. Please let this place be a hidden gem. This relationship doesn’t have to be all work and no play. I may as well enjoy what I can.
Garlic bread arrives. Honest-to-goodness hot, toasted garlic bread, and in that moment the future bad sex with Steven is all worth it. I grab a piece of bread, close my eyes, and bite.
“It’s good, right?” he asks.
“Oh my gosh, it’s so good.”
His smile lights up his whole face and I see his charm on full display. I see what someone could love about him if they didn’t look too closely. Sometimes I wish I didn’t always look so closely. I wish I could lose myself like other people do. But there’s no point in wishing for something that can never be. It’s a waste of energy.
“Is everything this good here?” I ask.
“Everything.”
“Then thank you for bringing me.”
The host brings a bottle of wine and pours us each a modest glass. Maybe I’ll walk here by myself one evening after work so I can overindulge in everything, but tonight I take a small sip. Patience. Self-control. The payoff will be worth it.
“Tell me about your family,” he says.
“You’ve heard most of it. I grew up with my mom. My dad wasn’t in the picture. My grandparents died recently, but I used to stay with them during the summer so Mom could work. And you know . . . I hated it then, but now I’m glad I got to spend so much time with them.” An acquaintance had once told me this story.
I had a grandmother, but she was mean and drunk most of the time. She had a weakness for Twinkies, though, and I appreciated the supply whenever my family dropped by her house to beg for money.
Jane Doe Page 3
