I watch her. She watches me. She blinks slowly. Looks away. Then she yawns as if she’s bored with the whole situation. I grin at the way she stretches her body long and hard before rising to her feet to approach me.
Instead of coming all the way to the grate, she sits down six inches away. I press my fingers to the metal and she stretches out to smell my skin. After a moment’s investigation, she rubs her cheek against my fingertips in one quick stroke, then settles back on her haunches as if the interview is over.
She’s marked me, but she doesn’t need me.
I want her with all the fullness of my dark and twisted heart.
A door opens at the far end of the hall and a young Hispanic woman with a bouncy black ponytail rolls a mop pail into the space. Her name tag just says VOLUNTEER. “Hello! Did you want to see one of the cats?”
“I’ve found one I like. This gray one.”
The girl ditches her mop and hurries over. “Oh, that’s Bunny! She’s gorgeous.”
Bunny? Good God, the indignity this poor queen has suffered.
“Have you filled out the adoption paperwork?” she asks. When I shake my head, she claps her hands. “Then let’s get you started!”
Started? How much paperwork is involved in taking home a cat that no one else wants?
A lot, apparently. The paperwork isn’t a problem. I had to set up this false identity to get a job, and I kept it close enough to my true information that everything is easy to recall. The background check won’t show anything suspicious, but I’m intensely irritated that I can’t take the cat home right now. She’s mine.
But, mine or not, I have to wait until tomorrow so they can be sure I’m not running an international stray cat smuggling ring, I guess. I do my very best to act grateful for their careful stewardship when I just want to shove past this woman to grab my cat and go.
I pay $35 and tell myself this delay will give me a chance to buy what I need. The shelter has a printed sheet for what a “Good Cat Owner” should have on hand. They don’t have a handout for a “Bad Cat Owner,” so I take the offered paper and push through the exit door, hoping my cat won’t change her mind about me by tomorrow.
According to my phone, there’s a small pet store just a quick detour from the path home, so I head in that direction. The route takes me out of the way of the Italian restaurant and down a little tree-lined street where gentrification has crept in. Lots of people are eating brunch at outdoor café tables nestled under propane heaters.
I stop to gaze wistfully through a boutique window at a pair of black leather boots I’d love to own, but this Jane isn’t a knee-high, stiletto-heeled-boot kind of girl. Well, she might be that kind of girl in the bedroom if Steven tells her to slut it up a little and stop being such a cold fish all the time. But we won’t be together long enough to reach that point.
I’m busy imagining which of my old outfits would go best with these boots when I hear a man say my name. My actual name, including my real surname—not the fake one I’m currently using.
“Jane?” he calls more loudly. “Is that you?”
I’m so startled that I turn toward the voice instead of pretending not to hear. Damn it.
“Hey!” he says.
A man is approaching from a few doors down. He’s white, about my age, brown hair, average height. He extends his hand as if he’s trying to get my attention or stop my flight. I don’t recognize him until he smiles. That’s when I know him.
My kind aren’t easily alarmed, but I definitely feel surprised. “Luke?”
“It is you!” he says, seeming more delighted to see me than anyone else ever has been.
“Yes,” I say. “Hi.” His friendliness has cast me into an uncertainty I’m not used to. Luke is an old friend. Or something like that. We dated for a couple of months in college, just before I left Minneapolis for a summer internship before law school. I liked him just fine then, though I haven’t thought of him since. But now here he is.
He gathers me into a hug and I return the embrace even as I blink rapidly in confusion. It feels like I’ve been flung back into my past.
“What are you doing here?” he asks as he sets me back on my heels.
“Here? I just adopted a cat.”
He laughs. “No, I mean here in Minneapolis!”
“Oh. I . . . I’m working on a temporary project.”
“Temporary?”
“Yeah. I won’t be in town long.”
“Long enough to grab a drink, I hope.”
I shouldn’t. It’s not smart. If my stay here ends badly, Luke can identify me. But he was always going to be able to identify me, it seems. I may as well be friendly and get him on my side. Maybe I can earn his loyalty.
“Actually”—he swipes a hand through his hair as if he’s nervous—“how about lunch right now? I’d love to catch up.”
I should say no and walk away and hope he has short-term-memory issues. I can’t form any real connections while I’m here. Not that I ever form real connections. No one is ever thrilled to see me now that Meg is gone. No one wants to catch up. But Luke does. Which is . . . an odd experience for me. But he was the nicest guy I ever dated, so maybe warm and welcoming is his default.
He’s not a very good judge of character, obviously. But, unwise or not, I suddenly want to have lunch with him, and I always do what I want.
“I’d love to, actually,” I say, and his face lights up. Nobody has looked at me like that since the last time I saw Meg. My throat tightens in a strange way.
“The place on the corner is one of my favorites,” he suggests. “We could sit outside and enjoy the nice weather.”
I’d just been walking past people sitting outside with friends and enjoying the day, and now I’ll be one of them. I nod, trying to swallow the strange obstruction in my throat, and we turn toward the corner.
“So you said you just adopted a cat?”
“Yes. A terrible idea when I’m here temporarily, but I couldn’t resist.”
“Why should you? It’s a noble cause. When do you get to pick it up?”
“Tomorrow. I wanted to take her home today, but I guess this will give me time to buy everything I need.”
“You always were good at quick decisions.”
I smile at his wording. That’s the nicest way anyone has ever said it. “I think you mean I’m impulsive.”
Luke shrugs. “Let’s just agree that you know your own mind.”
I laugh. Genuinely laugh. And I remember how much I liked him in college. He was funny. And he was decent in bed. I thought he was naïve, of course. Time hasn’t toughened him up much. Meg was like that too. Always seeing the good in people, even when she shouldn’t. Especially when she shouldn’t.
Luke leads us to the outdoor hostess station and the woman greets him with surprise. “Hey, welcome back!”
Luke’s cheeks tinge with pink. “I met a friend here for coffee earlier,” he explains.
“Oh,” I drawl. “A lady friend?”
“Yes, but not a girlfriend.”
“Such a player.” I sigh and shake my head at the hostess, and the color in Luke’s cheeks deepens when we both laugh.
“Come on, player,” the woman says, grabbing two menus before leading us to a little wrought-iron table.
We sit and she hands us the menus, and my mouth is already watering at the breakfast selections. I like food more than people.
Luke clears his throat. “I honestly wasn’t here on a date.”
He’s very eager to make that clear. I drop the menu a little and stare at him over it. “Are you saying you’re still single, Luke?”
“Not still single. I mean, I’m not in a relationship right now, but I have been. Obviously.” He shakes his head and mutters, “Jesus,” and I’m laughing again. Then he’s laughing at himself, a self-deprecating chuckle, and I’m struck by how absolutely different he is from Steven.
I didn’t miss him when I left Minneapolis. I had an internship to complete and
then I was going to law school, so that was that. But I feel happy to be sitting with him now.
“So what did you do after college?” I ask.
“I went straight into IT.”
“No reason not to in this economy.”
“Exactly. I decided I could always go back for a master’s later. But, to be honest, I haven’t thought much about it since. Too busy.”
A waiter brings us water and I order a latte, then fall silent to look at the menu. It never takes me long to decide, and I know immediately that I’ll have the French toast and bacon. In general, I do what I want and worry about consequences later. If I gain more weight than I like, I start a workout regimen, but it’s usually not a problem. I don’t stress-eat or try to smother pain with food. Whatever pain I have I ignore until it goes away. I tried that for months after Meg. It didn’t work.
“What about you?” Luke asks. “What did you do after law school?”
“I jumped right into trade law. I’ve been overseas for a few years. Malaysia.”
“Wow! Now I feel provincial. I never left Minneapolis.”
“Honestly, it’s still one of my favorite places.” I spent four good years here. And my soul lived here with Meg.
The waiter appears to take our orders, and then Luke and I study each other for a moment.
“You’re really only here temporarily?” he asks.
“I’m doing work on a confidential contract.” The lie comes easily to me, as they always do. “A merger with lots of moving parts overseas. I’m not sure how long it will take. A couple months at most.”
“Well,” he says as his cheeks color again, “I’ll just jump right in, then. Are you single?”
I’m about to say yes when I realize this is a problem. If he’s going to ask me out—and he is—I can’t be seen in a romantic situation with him. And there’s still that little issue of how my plans will culminate and whether I’ll need to flee an investigation.
He’s watching with one raised brow, his gaze direct and patient. Shit.
“I am dating someone,” I answer.
“Oh.”
“Not exclusively.”
He smiles. “Oh.”
“It’s complicated,” I add, but he doesn’t care. I’ve made clear that I’m open to something and he’ll take that. He’s a man. “Why are you so interested?” I challenge him with a small smile, just to see how he’ll react.
“Because,” he answers, “you’re the one who got away.”
I almost choke on my latte. He’s surprised me again. “What? Me?”
“Yes.”
“Like a fish that escaped?”
“No!” He shakes his head hard. “No, not like that. I just liked you a lot, and then you were gone.”
I honestly had no idea I was anything special to him. As far as I can remember, we dated for about two months, we both knew I was leaving, and we said goodbye with little fanfare. “Really?” I press.
“Really really.”
I stare at him. I don’t like knowing that I missed signals, even if they wouldn’t have meant much to me at the time. But as I study his face, I remember that he made a couple of jokes about long-distance relationships and I ignored them. What’s the point of a boyfriend if you can’t have sex?
He winces at my continued silence. “And now I’m getting the idea you didn’t feel the same connection.” When I smile, he laughs again, easy and unperturbed.
“No, it’s not that I didn’t like you,” I say, “but I was moving, so I guess I never thought of it as something long term.”
“I get that. Maybe that was what made you so appealing to a twenty-two-year-old guy. You were elusive. Unattainable.”
I laugh at that. “If I remember correctly, you attained me quite a few times.”
The joke wasn’t that funny, but he laughs until tears leak from his eyes. I remember he always had a way of making me feel special. Or the opposite of special, maybe: just normal.
“So you’re not seeing anyone?” I ask, even though I don’t particularly care one way or the other.
“No one serious,” he answers, and I know I can have him if I want. And I might want. He’s a nice palate cleanser after spending time with Steven.
We fall into a comfortable conversation, reminiscing about our college days. We’re just digging into our food when he asks how Meg is doing.
“She died,” I say before I remember I’m supposed to soften it up.
His fork clatters against the plate. “What?”
“Meg died. In February.”
“But . . . how?”
“She killed herself.”
His face has drained of color, and I slowly set my fork down because if I take another bite that would seem callous. I feel genuine grief, but it’s muffled in a way that others wouldn’t understand. It’s there, but I can always function just fine.
“My God,” Luke whispers. “Were you still in touch with her?”
“Yes. She was my best friend.”
“Jane, I’m so, so sorry.”
He’s the only person I’ve told. No one else would have cared. But he knew Meg, and he knew what she meant to me. “She took pills,” I say, though he didn’t ask.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. You must be . . .” But Luke doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, and I can’t finish it either. I’m not sure what I must be. In pain, yes. Lonely. But angry too. Vengeful. And always, always cold. I’ll go on with my life; there’s no question of that. I’ll be fine. But everything has shifted.
“That’s how I ended up here,” I say, and that small part is the truth, at least. “I just . . . I needed a change. When I saw an opportunity in Minneapolis, I took it as a sign.”
“I’m so sorry you lost her.”
Lost her? Did I lose her? It’s more like she made herself disappear. I know exactly where she is. She’s not here. And that was what she wanted. Should I even be sad about her when she got her wish?
I pick up my fork and dig into the French toast again before it gets cold. It belatedly occurs to me that I should have cried or broken down in some way, but it’s too late now, and frankly Luke seems relieved.
“She was so kind,” he says after a minute of silence. “I should send flowers to her grave.”
It makes no sense to me. Meg won’t know the difference. But I tell him the name of the cemetery, because I’ve learned to keep thoughts like that to myself. There are so many human rituals I don’t understand.
My grandmother died when I was twenty, and I managed not to tell my mother she’d be better off using the funeral money on anything aside from putting a corpse in the ground. Groceries, car repairs, bail money for my worthless brother. Hell, she could even have contributed one goddamn dollar to my education instead of throwing money at a dead harridan.
While I managed not to tell my mother, I did spill my contempt for the burial rites to the funeral home director. I told him we should just cremate the body and get it over with. His mask of polite respect slipped for a moment to reveal arrogance and revulsion, but I wasn’t the one bilking grief-stricken idiots out of thousands of dollars. Of course, the joke was on him. The check bounced, and Grandma was already embalmed and interred. No taking that back.
“Are you okay?” Luke asks, and I am. But now I’m thinking about Meg dead and decaying in the ground, and I don’t want to think about that. I didn’t come home for the funeral. There was no point. I would’ve felt nothing but selfish rage. I didn’t want to see her strange, rubbery face in the casket. I didn’t want to see her being lowered into dirt.
Now I’m thinking about it even though I was so careful to avoid it. I don’t want this.
“Do you live nearby?” I ask suddenly.
“In St. Paul. It’s not too far. A condo on the river.”
“Can we go there?”
“Go there?” He’s confused, a puzzled half smile on his mouth.
“Yes,” I say. “Now.”
And he gets it then. His
eyes flare wide, his lips part. He doesn’t answer.
“Do you live with someone?”
“No, of course not. It’s just . . . I mean . . .”
I shrug one shoulder. “Just for old times’ sake?”
“Jane.” I’m not sure if he’s scolding me or just reminding himself of my name. It makes no difference to me. I watch him the way my cat watched me today. I want what I want when I want it. He leans back a little, trying to figure me out.
“Come on, player,” I finally drawl, and Luke smiles. Then he laughs.
“My car’s around the corner.”
And that’s all the answer I need.
CHAPTER 12
The boy has learned a thing or two since college. He had been fine, but now he’s good. He took me enthusiastically—just what I needed. Then he went down on me and worked us both up to another round.
“I am so glad I ran into you,” he says breathlessly as the sweat cools on our skin. He seems to remember that I don’t like to cuddle afterward and settles for splaying one hand on my hip. I don’t even mind. In fact, I kind of like it.
“That was slightly better than shopping for cat litter.”
His low, satisfied rumble of laughter shakes the bed. I stretch hard and then rise naked to walk to the row of windows overlooking the river. I know he’s watching my ass, the sway of my hips. I like that. Men love a show and I love an audience. I stretch again, half hoping someone on the street is watching too.
“You’re sexy as hell,” he says. Lots of men have said this to me. They like a woman with no shame. We’re rare, you see, because we’re told to be ashamed of everything every day by everyone. Ashamed to give them what they want, ashamed not to want to give it to them. Ashamed to show our average bodies, ashamed not to have a perfect one. I have no idea how normal women date. The world seems like it’d be an unbearable place for people with real feelings.
But it’s simpler for me, so I watch a sailboat skim the water below and wonder when Luke will be up for another round. Probably not for hours, sadly.
Jane Doe Page 5