Creep

by Jennifer Hillier

  Sheila plucked a Kleenex from the box on the table and dabbed her eyes. “He’s a sociopath, Marianne. How did I not see it till now?”

  “Sociopaths are beautiful liars.”

  “Still. I should have seen this coming.” Sheila laughed bitterly. “I’m supposed to be an expert on human behavior. And I missed this?”

  “You’re also human.”

  The soft lighting in Marianne’s office suddenly seemed too bright. Sheila rubbed her eyes. “Is this what rock bottom feels like?”

  “Yes,” the therapist said. “I won’t bullshit you. And there’s only one way out.”

  “Maybe I should just leave now.” Sheila sniffled. “You want me to go to Oregon? Why don’t I take off now? And write Morris a letter when I get there? Because honestly, whatever courage I thought I had just dissolved. I don’t know how I’m going to face him with all this.”

  Marianne’s voice was careful. “That would be cowardly, Sheila. It would really hurt Morris if you left without telling him. I think your fiancé deserves better.”

  “It will hurt him anyway when he finds out the truth.”

  “There’s no easy answer, is there?” Marianne’s face was filled with regret. “Except to say that no matter what happens, I promise I won’t let you down again.”

  Sheila managed a small smile. “What would I do without you?”

  Her friend reached over to give her a hug. “You’ll never have to find out.”

  The entire conversation was worked out in her head by the end of the day, but Sheila honestly had no idea if she’d actually be able to say the words. Assuming she even got the chance.

  The little red light on the cordless extension in her kitchen was flashing. Setting her purse on the counter, she grabbed the phone. She had messages—just one, as it turned out, but it was the one she was waiting for.

  “I’m home,” Morris’s recorded voice said through the speaker. Finally. “Sorry I didn’t tell you I was going out of town. It came up pretty quick. The Japanese investors wanted to meet in Vancouver—oh, hell, you don’t give a horse’s ass about that. Call me back, let me know if it’s all right to come over.”

  It was more than all right. Twenty minutes later, Morris was ringing her doorbell.

  She opened the door to see him standing there with the rain at his back, his dark hair plastered to his scalp, face haggard from a long day. But his smile was genuine and, to Sheila, he looked like Christmas morning.

  He stayed on the porch, not moving. Without hesitating, Sheila stepped outside in her bare feet. He met her halfway, wrapping his arms around her and nuzzling her hair.

  “Hi, darlin’,” he said softly in her ear. It was the best sound in the world. “I’m sorry I went AWOL on you. I’ve been an ass.”

  Sheila pulled back and looked up at him. His blue eyes were kind. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. “Let’s talk in the kitchen. I ordered Thai food but it’ll be another thirty minutes.”

  They sat across from each other at Sheila’s round kitchen table. His shoes were kicked off, his jacket thrown carelessly over the back of his chair. He had taken both her hands in his and was massaging her palms gently with his thumbs.

  As she looked at him now, even though he was disheveled and tired, Sheila’s heart swelled. “Should we talk about what happened Saturday afternoon?”

  Morris’s gaze dropped to the table. He withdrew his hands quickly, placing them in his lap. Something he did when he was nervous. “Of course we should.”

  “It was my fault.” She was glad her voice didn’t waver. “You were right about me.”

  “Oh, darlin’, I shouldn’t have—”

  “Let me speak for a moment.” Sheila took a deep breath. “I was aggressive. You were right. You hit it on the head. I was aggressive because . . .” She paused, searching for the right words. “Because that’s what I can be. In bed. Not always, but sometimes.”

  “Well, so am I!” Morris said, incredulous. “Most of the time, anyway. I don’t know what the hell happened. I’ve been waiting a year to get into your panties and the moment you drop them, I fold like a burrito. I think I was just nervous.”

  “But I made you that way.” She kept her eyes steady on his face. “Because I held out for so long. Of course you think I’m shy about sex. The truth is, I’m not.”

  “Okay, then. Well, that’s good to know. I’m relieved, actually.”

  “Don’t be. There’s more.”

  Morris sat back in his chair, his eyes searching her face. “What is it? You trying to tell me something?”

  He had the gift of reading people, which made him so good at his job. “Yes. But I don’t know how to say it.”

  The phone at Morris’s hip rang.

  “Shit,” he said, detaching it from his belt and checking the call display. “Honey, I’m sorry, I gotta take this. It’s one of the Japanese investors—he’s so goddamned squirrelly. I’ll just be a minute. Okay if I use your office?” She nodded, and he ducked out of the kitchen and into her study, closing the door behind him.

  He was gone for exactly eighteen minutes. It felt more like eighteen years. When he finally came back into the room, she hadn’t moved from her chair. She saw the amused look on his face.

  “Hey, I can’t believe how big Mercury is!” Morris said, chuckling. He was referring to the goldfish that lived in an oversize bowl on her desk. “I gave him some food because he’s looking a little skinny. You might want to get him a bigger bowl, because he’s—”

  Sheila couldn’t hold back any longer. “Morris, I’m a sex addict.” The words, once unleashed, came out in a rabbity rush she couldn’t control. “I’ve been in therapy to deal with it. And for the most part, I was doing okay. But then I messed up. I had an affair with one of my students. I’m so sorry. I love you.”

  Morris stood in stunned silence, his phone still in his hand. The grin faded from his face, so slowly it was almost comical. He reached out, placing a beefy hand on the counter to steady himself.

  “Hoo-ah.” Morris’s voice was heavy in the silence of the kitchen. “Well now. That’s a big problem.”

  As if to punctuate his words, the doorbell chimed. The food had arrived.

  CHAPTER : 11

  The documentary chronicling Yale psychologist Stanley Milgram’s experiment on obedience to authority figures was at the halfway point. The video was part of Sheila’s undergraduate social psych course, and she always found it interesting to observe her students’ faces in the dim lights of the lecture hall as they watched it. A handful of kids snoozed; nothing could be done about that. But most were fascinated by the evidence that so many normal, morally conscious people could be coerced into severely electroshocking another human being simply because a person in authority told them to.

  It was endlessly fascinating what people would do under pressure.

  Ethan was in his usual seat in the first row, his face calm as he watched the giant screen above Sheila’s head. The son of a bitch looked well rested, as if he’d slept twelve hours the night before without a single disturbing dream. If only Sheila could say the same. She was horrified to see the bags under her eyes when she woke up that morning. She knew she looked like hell, because it was exactly how she felt.

  She hated Ethan Wolfe. If she could hook him up to a machine and electroshock him with a thousand volts, she would. She had no doubt that he was a sociopath, a classic antisocial personality just as Marianne Chang had suggested. His superficial charm and extreme sense of entitlement mirrored Ted Bundy’s. Looking at him now, the comparison to the infamous serial killer didn’t seem at all absurd.

  The student with the long, blond ponytail sitting next to Ethan murmured something in his ear, and he favored her with a smile. Even in the darkened room, Sheila could make out the faint blush that spread across the girl’s apple cheeks. Her resemblance to the late Diana St. Clair was striking.

  Sheila was struck by a creepy sense of déjà vu. As she thought back on it now, hadn’t
Ethan had a thing with the swimmer? He’d never mentioned it, and Sheila had never asked him, but hadn’t she picked up on something back then? Overheard something, maybe? With a familiar pang the memory flitted out of her consciousness as quickly as it had entered.

  Not that Sheila thought Ethan was capable of murder. Or did she? Did the police even talk to him? He’d been Diana’s TA, after all. They’d spent a lot of time alone together. He’d proctored at least two of her early writes and had provided extra tutoring at the swimmer’s request. . . .

  Sheila shook the thought out of her head. The last thing she needed was to become paranoid on top of everything else.

  Checking her watch, Sheila walked over to the blackboard and jotted down the chapters to be read for next week’s class. Drowsy heads popped up immediately at the sounds of her chalk squeaking, and a few of the faces showed panic. Sheila smiled reassuringly at no one in particular. The smile would make the students feel better, even if there was nothing behind it.

  Ethan caught her smile and grinned.

  She shuddered.

  Morris’s car was in her driveway when she pulled up to her townhouse. Her heart soared, though her stomach knotted like a ball of twine. She hadn’t seen or spoken to him in five days, not since the conversation where she’d finally told him everything. Were they still getting married? She was about to find out.

  He was sitting on her porch steps, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The front door was locked. He’d never had a key because most of the time they went to his place. He was dressed for work, his wool overcoat unbuttoned even though it was chilly. Thrilled to see him, Sheila went to greet him with a kiss. But he turned his face away at the last moment and her lips only brushed his cheek, prickly with a day-old beard. He hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. A bad sign. Normally he was fastidious about his grooming.

  His eyes matched hers—red and puffy from lack of sleep. Before she could open her mouth to say something, he beat her to the punch.

  “I can’t do this,” he said.

  Pausing only for a split second, Sheila walked past him and unlocked the front door. Dropping her purse and briefcase on the foyer tile, she kept her voice calm. “Will you come inside? I’ll make coffee.” She paused. “I also have to feed Mercury.”

  It was a calculated move on her part to mention the goldfish. Morris had won him for her at the Puyallup Fair the year before, on their first official date. It was a subtle reminder of their history and all the beautiful moments they’d had before she’d infected their relationship with her lies and unfaithfulness.

  Morris did as she asked, closing the door behind him. But he made no move to take off his coat and he wouldn’t enter the house past the foyer. “I don’t want coffee. I need to sleep on the plane tonight. I’m flying back to Okinawa to try and get the Taganaki deal closed.” His voice was filled with exhaustion.

  The house felt unbearably hot and she realized she was still wearing her coat. She took it off and hung it in the hall closet, then bent down to zip off her stiletto boots. She moved slowly, wondering what to say, what to do.

  She felt Morris’s eyes on her. Other than his obvious fatigue, his face was impassive. Unreadable.

  “I can’t do this,” he repeated.

  “Can’t do what?” she asked, standing in front of him in her stocking feet. Her voice was shaking. She could lecture in front of hundreds of students without one slip, but now, in front of her fiancé, her whole body was quivering. “You need to be more specific. You can’t do us? This relationship?”

  Morris was quiet. The seconds ticked by like hours while she waited for him to respond. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady.

  “When I met you, I was in trouble. You helped me. You got me through AA and the twelve steps, you helped me see what I had to lose if I didn’t get sober. Because of you I was able to salvage my relationship with two of my sons. That’s more than anyone else could ever have done for me.” He paused, his eyes gazing past her to some invisible spot on the wall. “I admired your strength, your confidence, and not just in yourself, but also in me. You believed in me. You somehow helped me put my life back together. You helped me save my job. You reminded me that I’m a decent person. For that, I owe you everything.”

  His face hardened. “But that doesn’t change the fact that everything I thought I knew about you is a goddamned lie.”

  It was over. Sheila could feel it in every bone in her body. He was ending it. She was losing him, and the pain was so excruciating she thought she might vomit. “Morris—”

  He held up a large hand. “I’m not finished.”

  Sheila nodded weakly and took a seat on the stairs.

  “You’re a sex addict.” His voice was heavy. “I did a little reading on it—gotta love the Internet—and I get that it’s a viable addiction. Like alcohol. Like drugs. Like gambling. There’s even twelve-step meetings you can go to. Do you go to those?”

  Sheila nodded again, afraid to speak.

  “As an addict, I get the shame. I get the desire to keep the addiction a secret, to not want to admit it to yourself or to anyone, to keep that part of you compartmentalized so that you can try and have some semblance of a normal life.” He took a breath. “But what I don’t get is how you could have kept this from me. We’re supposed to get married.”

  His voice began to tremble. The next words to come out of his mouth were at a volume a hundred times louder than the words before. “Did you not think, somewhere in that large, intelligent, sensible brain of yours, that I had a goddamned right to know?” The boom of his voice echoed throughout the quiet townhouse, and Sheila cringed.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, Morris. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” Her words caught in her throat. She could barely look at him. His face was full of accusation and loathing. “Sex addiction . . . it isn’t like drinking, Morris. You tell people you’re an alcoholic, they get it. They won’t hate you, or think you’re gross. But you tell people you’re a sex addict, and suddenly you’re sick. You’re a pervert. Or they want to take you out back and fuck you. It’s not an easy thing to tell people.”

  “I’m not people.”

  “I know. I’m just trying to explain.” In frustration, she ran her fingers through her hair and her diamond bracelet tangled up in the strands. She yanked, ripping out two glossy black hairs. “I wanted to tell you, I did. But I couldn’t.”

  “What’s your specific addiction anyway?” Morris’s gaze never left her face. “Porn? Chat rooms? Multiple partners? What?”

  “Yes.” Never had a word tasted so poisonous. “All of it.”

  “That’s great. Just fucking great.” Morris rubbed his head. “And how many men since we’ve been together?”

  “Just one.” Sheila’s voice shook. “I swear. I was celibate for a long time before we met.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Until the affair with your student.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Morris’s face was expressionless. “All those things we did last Saturday. Did you do them with him?”

  Sheila kept her eyes glued to the floor and refused to answer.

  “Look at me. I want to know.” Morris was eerily calm. “Did you?”

  Reluctantly, she nodded.

  “Other stuff, too?”

  She didn’t move, didn’t speak. Which she knew would be answer enough.

  “Fuck!” he yelled, punching the wall beside him hard. A fist-size dent appeared in the drywall. White powder flew everywhere. He hit the wall two more times, adding to the damage. Sheila cowered. Glaring at her, he rubbed his raw knuckles, chest heaving. “Was he of legal age at least?”

  “Of course!”

  “Should I get tested for STDs?”

  It was a low blow, but she had no right to be offended. “We used protection.”

  “Can’t blame me for asking.”

  “I don’t.”
/>
  Morris massaged his red knuckles and spoke carefully. “Here’s the thing, darlin’. Even if I could get past your addiction to sex—which I’m not sure I can—I still don’t understand why you weren’t having any kind of sex at all with me. You told me you wanted to wait till marriage. I respected that. In fact, even though there were times I thought I’d pass out from blue balls, I’ll admit I liked that about you. But now I look back at all of it and realize it was a goddamned joke. You weren’t saving yourself for me. You cheated on me. You had an affair with your student. You were willing to put your career in jeopardy, which has always meant more to you than anything, to have sex with some goddamned kid, rather than be with me. So tell me, how am I supposed to get past that? How am I supposed to forgive you? And how in the hell can you expect that we’ll get married in ten fucking days?”

  Sheila wiped the tears from her face, trying not to appear as pathetic as she felt. “I don’t know.” It was the only thing she could think to say.

  “I don’t either.” He turned and opened the door. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

  “Don’t go.” She stood up in alarm. “Please, don’t go. I am so, so sorry. More than you could ever imagine.” She was unable to hold it in anymore; her chest racked with sobs.

  Morris looked at her. Beyond the anger and betrayal and broken trust, she saw the pity in his face. That was the worst thing of all. She cried harder, barely able to breathe.

  Softening slightly, he finally came to her, pulling her close. She clung to him like a drowning rat, which she pretty much was.

  “I know you’re sorry. I do,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head just once.

  “Tell me we’re going to be okay,” Sheila said into the soft wool of his overcoat. “Tell me we can get past this.”

  Morris broke away. He didn’t answer, but his jaw was working tightly. Finally he sighed. “I don’t know. Give me a few days.”

  A glimmer of hope blossomed in her heart, so small she thought it might dissolve if she took another breath. She nodded before he could take it back. “Whatever you need.”