It would be a decent revenge. Painful and sordid.
Decent but not perfect, because Steven would just blame it on women being whores and he’d forgive his father and learn nothing from it. The wound wouldn’t be fatal, maybe not even disabling.
Still, it’s a fun idea. I’ll keep it in mind as a sort of . . . appetizer. Something to accentuate the main dish.
There are two more uplifting songs to help end the judgment and hypocrisy on a positive note. Baskets make their way around during the music, and I could easily slip a few hundred dollars out as I pass them along. I don’t need the money, but I love a good thrill. I mentally slap my sticky fingers and smile benignly at my neighbor as I hand over the basket. Patience is a virtue.
When the service ends, the place erupts into a low roar of conversation as parishioners stand and make their way to friends. Steven is in a scrum of people near the lectern, shaking hands and slapping backs. He’s a minor celebrity here. Son of the chief. He catches my eye and waves. I wave frantically back, thrilled that he’s bothered to notice me. He doesn’t call me over, so I hang back and try to look uncertain about all these strangers.
His father is in an even larger group of worshippers, but I notice that the woman I’ve pegged as Steven’s stepmother is only talking to a few women. I move closer.
She has a lot of makeup on, but I try to look past it to the woman beneath. Steven’s father looks about sixty, but his wife looks younger than forty. No big surprise, as I already know it’s a second marriage.
The women begin to drift off and I make my move. Keeping my hands clasped uncertainly together, I sidle over. “Hi! I’m Jane. I work with Steven.”
“Hello. I’m Rhonda Hepsworth.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hepsworth. Steven invited me to attend the service, since I’m new in town. It was lovely.”
“Oh, thank you so much!” The bright words and big smile don’t match the coolness in her eyes.
“You must be so proud of this church,” I say. “Your husband is a great man.”
Her stiff smile doesn’t budge. “Thank you.”
“And your stepchildren. Well, I only know Steven, but I’ve heard all about his brother and sister.”
She clears her throat, and I wonder if she’s uncomfortable with the stepmother title. She’s only a few years older than Steven, after all.
After glancing around as if she’d like to escape, she clears her throat again. “Are you . . . ah, are you and Steven dating?”
I drop my head in embarrassment. “I wouldn’t say that. We’re just friends.”
“Well, it was really sweet of you to come to the service. I’d better go check on—”
She’s cut off when Steven approaches. “Jane! Hi!”
“Hi!”
He looks from me to Rhonda but doesn’t introduce us. “What do you think of the church?”
“It’s beautiful! And everyone’s been so nice.”
“I was just saying I’d better go . . .” Rhonda lifts both hands to show that she’s helpless. “But it was lovely meeting you, Jane.”
Once she’s out of earshot, I turn to Steven. “She’s really nice.”
He shrugs.
“What? You don’t like her? She seems like such a great lady.”
“Yeah. Yeah, she’s great.” That’s all he says. His lips twist a little. Boy, am I intrigued. Does he think she’s a gold digger? A social climber? I hope I’ll see her interact with her husband, so I can figure out these dynamics.
“Steven!” the pastor booms from behind us. We both swing around and Steven greets his father warmly, hugging him with a few loud claps on the back as if they haven’t seen each other in weeks.
“Great sermon, Dad.” A little father-son bonding over the failings of women. Touching.
The pastor’s eyes slide to me and widen with curiosity.
“Dad, this is Jane. We work together. I brought her to check out the church today.”
“Pastor Robert Hepsworth.” He shakes my hand gently and doesn’t ask me to call him Bob. “A pleasure to meet you, Jane.”
“It was a lovely service. Thank you. And it’s such a beautiful church. Everyone is so nice.”
“We started this church when Steven was only six. It was just a little storefront back then. The Lord has blessed us.”
“He truly has,” I gush; then I pull out a prosperity gospel quote for him. “‘Whatever you ask in prayer, believing, you shall receive.’”
He lights up. “Oh my, yes. Yes indeed. A very impressive coworker, Steven. Impressive and pretty.”
Even Steven looks surprised that I know my Bible, but his eyes dart up and down my body at his father’s compliment.
I bite my lip and look down. Of course I know my Bible. I grew up in rural Oklahoma and I had to blend in.
“So are you two going out for lunch after this?”
Steven chuckles. “I haven’t asked her yet. You’re stepping on my toes, Dad.”
“She’s a nice churchgoing girl. You can’t take that for granted these days.”
Steven sighs and smiles sheepishly at me.
Pastor Hepsworth slaps his son’s back. “Well, I’m happy to see you make such a pretty new friend. Especially after all that unpleasantness.”
I glance quickly down because I can feel my eyes flash with hatred at his words. Unpleasantness. He’s talking about Meg. Dead Meg. As if she were an unfortunate bout of diarrhea that passed through the family during a road trip.
I’m suddenly filled with the joyful idea of killing Steven’s father as a way to take revenge. Kill him for so callously sweeping Meg and her pain aside. Kill him for being so self-righteous about it.
I could trick Pastor Hepsworth into going to a motel room. Bring condoms and blow. Shoot him up with enough drugs to kill him. Scatter a few sex toys. Then Steven can live with that for the rest of his life.
The fantasy is enough to relax my expression. I glance up at Steven with a question in my eyes, pretending I’m not sure what his dad means by unpleasantness. He shakes his head a little.
“You know, Jane,” the pastor continues, “we’re having a small birthday party for my wife next week. Maybe you’d like to drop by?”
“Dad!” Steven scolds, but he’s laughing again. He adores this man.
“I’m just putting it out there!”
“You’re very kind to offer, Pastor Hepsworth,” I say. “But I’m sure Steven wants his family all to himself. I wouldn’t want to intrude on such an important event.”
“We’ll see,” Steven says with a wink. I guess I’d better be on my best behavior until the party if I want an invitation from Steven. “I need to drive Jane home, but I’ll be back for afternoon Bible study.”
I should ask to stay. I really don’t want to, but I open my mouth and try to force myself to volunteer. “Oh, I wouldn’t mind—”
“It’s a men’s group,” he clarifies. “We thought a dedicated time to focus on men’s spiritual needs would really strengthen our families.”
Ah. Thank God for the scourge of internet porn. I’ll escape Bible study this time.
“Can you hold down the fort without me?” Steven asks his dad, and then they slap each other’s backs again in parting.
CHAPTER 15
There are very few people left in the church by the time we leave, but Steven bids farewell to every straggler we pass. They call him Deacon Hepsworth and seem honored when he knows their names. He loves it.
“Are you hungry?” he asks as we walk across the parking lot toward his car.
“A little, but I’m trying to lose weight, so . . . maybe just coffee?”
He doesn’t argue. “Sure. There’s a Starbucks down the street.”
“Perfect.”
Once we’re pulling out of the parking lot, Steven reaches for my hand. “My dad really liked you.”
“I was so nervous!”
“You were great.”
“That’s really sweet, Steven. Thank yo
u. I just didn’t want to embarrass you. Do you . . . do you bring a lot of girls to church?”
“Only if I’m thinking about dating them. I wouldn’t want to start something with a woman who couldn’t fit into my life.”
“So . . .” I glance at him and then quickly away. “We’re dating?”
His fingers squeeze mine. “Are you leaving it up to me?”
I smile and shrug. In the first years of our friendship, I was fascinated by the way Meg interacted with men. She always made herself smaller, and they always loved it. At first I admired it as manipulation, but I later realized that once she’d established herself as small, she couldn’t make herself bigger again.
With me she was larger-than-life and bursting with goodness. I never understood this other side of her. She would shrug and say she felt shy with men she liked, but that wasn’t it. It wasn’t shyness. It was fading. She dimmed her light to make a certain kind of man feel vibrant.
And it worked.
Steven brings my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. “If it’s up to me, I’d love to try. Maybe we could have dinner again?”
“Tonight?”
“My dad is giving a sermon at a homeless shelter, and I’m helping him out there.”
“Oh, I see. Sometime next week?” He wants to take me to dinner, but now I’m the one asking for it.
“Sure. How about Thursday? I’ll pick you up at your place this time.”
“That would be really nice,” I say.
We reach the Starbucks quickly and I order a nonfat latte and a mini-scone. Steven raises his eyebrows. “What?” I protest. “It’s tiny!”
“Sure,” he answers, but his eyebrows stay high. I eat the whole thing before our drinks are ready. It’s only two bites.
The wind has picked up since this morning. A cold front is moving in and we can’t find an inside table in the post-church crowd, so we take our drinks back to the vehicle and set off for my apartment.
My phone buzzes and I see it’s a text from Luke. Maybe I’ll get lucky tonight after all.
I fell asleep and forgot to check if you made it home okay.
I did, thanks, I write back.
“Who’s that?” Steven asks and I realize I’m smiling. Oops.
“It’s the animal shelter. My cat is ready!”
“You have a cat?” This isn’t a question. It’s disgust.
“I adopted her yesterday.”
“Cats are disgusting.”
“They are not! They’re great!”
“They walk through feces and then jump onto countertops.”
“Cats are very clean. Their saliva has antibacterial properties and they constantly clean themselves.”
He shudders. “Right.”
“I like cats,” I whine defensively.
He laughs. “Yeah, you’d better be careful. You’re on your way to being a fat cat lady.”
Even I’m surprised by how quickly he’s turned from flirting to insulting me. I cross my arms as if to protect myself. “It’s one cat. And I’m not fat.”
He snorts. I look out the side window.
“It was just a joke,” he eventually says. When I don’t answer, he huffs. “Come on. Don’t pout. I was kidding.”
“That was really rude.”
“I’m sorry. You surprised me, that’s all. I don’t like cats.”
He’s sorry, but apparently it was my fault the whole time. I should have known he hated cats and conformed to his preferences. Shifty or not, it’s a peace offering, and I’m supposed to take it. Accept the blame and swallow my hurt and be ashamed of my weight and my cat.
“I’m sorry,” I respond quietly.
He pats my hand. Everything is fine now. “You’re not still pouting, are you?”
I sit straighter and force a laugh. “I’m not pouting.”
“Good. It was a really nice day.”
It was. And I came so close to ruining it.
“How about lunch tomorrow?” he offers.
I smile in response. “That would be nice.”
He drops me off and I wave as I let myself into the lobby. As soon as the door closes behind me, my bright smile twists into a sneer.
I can’t wait to take him down.
CHAPTER 16
She’s finally here. My cat.
They gave her to me in a cardboard cat carrier, and during the walk I imagine her crouching inside, furious and ready to attack. Certainly that’s how I would react to being dropped into a box with only a few holes to see out of.
I set her carefully on the floor and pop open the little tabs keeping the cardboard handle closed. I ease the flaps open and step back, trying to avoid an attack. But she doesn’t leap out. She only stretches her head through the opening and looks around, alert but faintly bored. She’s so incredibly cool.
Once she’s assessed the room and deigned to glance in my direction, she hops elegantly up and out to land silently on the floor. She swipes her tongue over her gorgeous gray fur a few times and then, blatantly ignoring me, begins to explore the room. I love her already.
It’s common knowledge that sociopaths can’t love. I’ve known this since I was seventeen. But this fact no longer feels sure to me. I feel like I loved Meg. I may not have been empathetic or understanding, but I cared about what happened to her, and I liked the way I felt when I was with her.
Was I just using her for what she brought to my life? Maybe. But how is that different from how most people love? I look around and see people loving others because it feels good to be with them. Isn’t that mercenary? Isn’t that selfish? How am I so different?
After she died, it hurt so much that I looked up love and sociopathy online. I was surprised to find new opinions from experts who theorize that even people like me can form connections. We may not have souls, but maybe we’re not completely hollow. There’s something knocking around in there. Unfortunately, that something hurts.
So maybe I love this cat and maybe I don’t, but I at least have a burning crush on her. She stalks the space of my apartment, her muscles bunching and relaxing in a mesmerizing rhythm. She’s a hunter, hyperaware, eyes wide and ears forward.
I sit down on the couch and watch as she discovers the litter box and immediately crouches to pee, marking it as hers. She hops out and gives herself a quick bath before disappearing into my tiny bedroom.
A few minutes later she returns and jumps onto my small kitchen counter. I should take a picture and text it to Steven. I’m still laughing at my own joke when she leaps nearly all the way to the ceiling to explore the top of the cabinets. She settles into a crouch there and finally turns her gaze on me, surveying me from her position of power.
“You little bitch,” I whisper in admiration. She blinks sleepily in response. She’s the best cat in the whole world.
CHAPTER 17
She did a good job of keeping her distance for a few days, only approaching me on the couch for occasional attention. But when I woke up this morning, my cat was curled against my hip, and she was as warm and soft as I imagined she’d be. I stayed in bed an extra ten minutes, just feeling her there. I stroked her back and she purred her approval.
That was by far the highlight of my day. Now I’m off work and an hour into this dinner with Steven and I just want to get home and see what she’s doing.
“Steven?” I ask tentatively as I pick at the last of my french fries. “Do you believe all that stuff your dad said on Sunday?”
“What stuff?”
“About women.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
We had lunch twice this week, but I’ve been waiting to have this conversation as if I’m embarrassed to even bring it up. Finally, I spit out the horrible truth. “I’m not a virgin.”
He blinks in shock at my sudden confession while I hold my breath a little, hoping to make my cheeks go red. “I mean”—I stop to grimace—“you wouldn’t expect me to be, would you? After what your dad said . . .”
“No,” he says quickly. “No, of course not.”
“But all that stuff about women keeping their legs closed to be more godly . . . I just worried . . . We’re supposed to be dating, and I started thinking you wouldn’t like me if . . . I don’t know! I mean, I assume you’re not a virgin either!”
He flashes a smile. “No. Of course, it’s different for men, obviously.”
I nod as if I agree. “I know.”
“But, no, Jane, I don’t expect you to be a virgin. As long as you’re not some slut who’s slept with fifteen different guys.”
I’d slept with fifteen guys by the time I was . . . twenty? Twenty-one? Who knows. But since his guess is way off my current number, I shake my head hard. “No. Definitely not fifteen.”
He settles back in his chair and watches me for a moment. “Okay. So how many guys have you slept with?”
I cover my eyes with my hands. “Steven! That’s . . . that’s really personal.”
“Does that mean it’s too many?”
“No!” I wonder what his ideal number is. One, maybe. Not a slut, but he doesn’t have to worry about being the first time. Or maybe he’d like that. I bet he would. A little pain and blood to prove he’s having sex with a good girl.
“Come on,” he coaxes. “How many?”
“I don’t think it’s . . . God! Why do you want to know?”
“I’m just curious. Shouldn’t we know these things about each other? We’ve been dating nearly two weeks now.” When I shrug, he says, “You brought it up.”
“I . . .” I wilt a little and keep my eyes covered.
“I’m not going to judge you.”
That’s the most ridiculous lie I’ve ever heard, but I pretend to believe him. “Eight,” I say quietly.
“Eight?” He sounds incredulous. He couldn’t even make it one second without judging me.
“Maybe seven and a half,” I correct.
“Wait—how do you have half sex with someone?”
“It wasn’t . . . I mean, I didn’t really want to do it.”
“He raped you?”
“I don’t know. We were making out and I didn’t really want to do more, but . . .”
“But he was already excited?” He says it like it makes total sense to him.
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