See Jane Snap

by Crandell, Bethany

His eyes fall from mine for a quick beat before he slowly pulls his hands away and settles back into his seat. “I never meant to make you feel that way. I just wanted to see how you were doing, that’s all.”

  Nothing in his tone or demeanor suggests he’s lying, but . . .

  “Then why do you always look like . . . that?” I motion to his face.

  “Ah hell,” he sighs, then drops his head and gives it a little shake. “This stupid mouth has gotten me into more trouble . . .” My gaze instinctively shifts back to the image of him and his buddy partying it up in New Orleans. I’d venture to say his stupid mouth has served him pretty well . . .

  “This,” he says, reclaiming my attention as he taps his dimpled cheek with his finger, “has nothing to do with what I think about you. I mean—it does. I’m always happy to see you; it’s just that this smirk is sort of my default expression.”

  I’ve heard of resting bitch face—even seen it in action with my Zoloft-, er, ecstasy-hoarding pal, Heather—but resting smirk face?

  “I know it sounds like bullshit,” he continues, clearly tuned into my doubt. “But it’s true. I used to get into trouble all the time as a kid because my mom thought I was laughing at her when she was trying to be serious punishing me or whatever. And my teachers—man. They used to get so mad at me. Do you remember our sophomore year when someone pulled the fire alarm during that antidrug assembly, and the sprinklers came on in the gym and got the entire school soaked?”

  I shrug; my high school memories—especially those from my brief stint at South Glenn High—are a bit muddy. As much as I would have liked to have been enjoying the teenage antics that other kids were enjoying, I was too busy trying to keep my world from spinning off its axis: a difficult task when your mom insists on shaking it like a snow globe whenever things start to feel the slightest bit settled.

  “Well, I took the hit for that,” he goes on. “The principal figured out that it was someone on the soccer team, but because I couldn’t keep a straight face when she questioned me, she figured I had to have been the one to do it, even though I told her I didn’t.”

  “It wasn’t you?”

  He scoffs. “No. It was Brian Metcalfe. That dick. I got suspended for a day and missed two games.”

  I sigh, unexpectedly relieved and beyond grateful to learn this information. “Okay, well . . . wow. That’s actually really good to hear. I’ve been worried this whole time—since that night in Morris Creek—that you’ve been thinking I was a raging lunatic or something.”

  “Well . . .”

  His smirk deepens into something different from what I’ve seen before. Something playful and . . . charming?

  “So, you do think I’m a raging lunatic?”

  He chuckles. “No, but it was pretty funny. Not how messed up you were,” he quickly clarifies. “That wasn’t cool. Mistaking ecstasy for Zoloft is definitely not funny, but attacking a woman with oranges because she didn’t put her cart away . . .” He shakes his head, now very clearly amused. “Well, I’ve been a cop for almost twenty years, and that’s the first time I’ve ever heard of that.”

  I drop my head, cheeks flushing with deserved embarrassment. “Yeah, well, that definitely wasn’t my best moment.”

  “Nah, it’s okay. I mean, given everything you’re going through, a little breakdown seems pretty justified.”

  My brows cinch, and I raise my head. “Everything I’m going through?”

  “Well, yeah. With your husband,” he says, voice lowering a bit. “I’m sure it’s not easy with him being . . . you know . . .”

  My chest tightens beneath his leading statement.

  “Him being . . . ?”

  His eyes narrow. “Gay.”

  I gasp, quickly covering my mouth with my hands.

  He knows?

  How does he know?!

  Who told him?

  Terror electrifies through my bones. I quickly turn over my shoulder to see who else is in the room with us.

  Someone must be watching me.

  Reporting me.

  Is it her?

  Is it the hairball hacker?

  “You told me right after I put you in handcuffs.”

  Another gasp as I fling my attention back to him. “I did?”

  He nods.

  “I told you that? I—I did?” I pat my chest, hard. “I told you that?”

  “I guess you don’t remember, huh?”

  A petrified wail rises in my chest, suddenly making it hard to breathe. I shake my head, chin quivering nervously.

  “Oh. Well, you know what, I’m sure it was just the drugs talking. People say all kinds of crazy stuff when they’re strung out. Forget I said anything.”

  My own fuzzy memories from that night assure me that what he’s saying is true—people definitely say (and do!) crazy stuff when they’re strung out—but with regard to this . . .

  With regard to Dan . . .

  Shit.

  That’s definitely not the case.

  I know it, and Chavez does too.

  I drop my head, suddenly terrified by the decision in front of me.

  He’s just provided me the perfect “out.” Freedom from the blanket of fear I’ve been hiding under for the last ten days, served up on a silver platter, with a shiny gold ribbon slapped on top. It’s the best gift I’ve ever been given. Yet for some inexplicable reason, I’m not sure I can accept it.

  I don’t think I can lie to Chavez.

  Or maybe I don’t want to. I’m already drowning in so many lies that the idea of telling someone the truth—grabbing a lifeline—sounds so liberating and . . .

  Shit.

  So dangerous.

  My throat swells with a deep-seated ache as I slowly raise my head to look at him. His smirk is softer now, more sympathetic than amused. Tears prick the backs of my eyes, but I don’t say anything. I can’t.

  He gives me an understanding nod, then reaches for the box of Kleenex on the corner of his desk.

  “I’m not going to say anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he assures me as I tug a tissue from the box. I quickly dab at my eyes. “What happens between you and him—whatever brought you to that parking lot that night—that’s your business. I was just there to get the orange-throwing lunatic off the streets.”

  Despite my mood, I laugh. “Yeah. You don’t want her running loose around the city.”

  “No way. We have to protect our citizens, and our citrus supply.”

  I press the tissue across my sniffly nose and then inhale a shuddery, yet surprisingly deep, breath.

  “Maybe it would help to talk to someone,” he offers. “A therapist or—”

  I’m shaking my head before he can even finish the thought. “That’s not an option.”

  “Oh. Okay . . . then, I guess it’s a good thing you’re in the class with Bates. She’s pretty good at helping people work through stuff.”

  I snort. “That’ll never happen. She hates me, and that whole class is just . . .” I blow out a heavy sigh and collapse against the seat, shaking my head. “That’s why I was so upset on Friday. The discussion got a little heated and stressful, and . . . shit.” I offer him a pleading look. “I am really sorry for treating you like that. I’m normally a very calm, kind person. I guess I’m just not managing my stress very well these days.”

  He shrugs off my apology. “I totally get it. Some days it feels like my middle name is stress.” He motions to the files on his desk and the ones behind him, as if to suggest that everything surrounding him is stressful. Given his profession, I have no doubt that’s true. “You just need to figure out a way to get rid of that stress without the use of oranges, or rubber bands.”

  My eyes snap wide, and I instantly reach for my wrist. “What? How did you know that?”

  “I’m a detective, remember? It’s my job to solve mysteries.”

  I level him with a tired look that prompts his grin to soften again, though this time it doesn’t appear to be motivated by
sympathy but rather sincerity. Already I’m learning how to differentiate.

  “I felt the welts when I was putting the cuffs on,” he says. “At first, I didn’t think much of it, but once I got you to the station and got a good look at them, well . . . I thought maybe you had . . . that you tried . . .” His dark brows furrow, and he slowly averts his eyes away from me. Like he doesn’t want to say what he’s thinking.

  That I had what?

  What would I have tried to—

  Oh god.

  My heart twists. I shake my head. “No. God, no. I would never do that. I have a daughter. I would never leave her—”

  “No, no, I know.” He returns his attention to me, hands raised in a calming gesture. “I figured that out once I saw the rubber band. It was pushed up high on your forearm, so I didn’t see it at first. But I know now it’s just one of those techniques people use to ward off stress and panic attacks. I looked it up online when I got home that night.”

  “You looked it up when you got home?”

  “Yeah. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  His response is so easy—so automatic—I can’t help but feel a little flattered. And then I catch another glimpse of that Mardi Gras picture. Relax, Jane. Good-time guys are always masters of flattery.

  “Hey, Chavez, Chief wants to meet with—oh! Sorry. Didn’t realize you had company.” I follow Chavez’s gaze over my shoulder to the doorway, where an older bald man is leaning into the room. He smiles. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  I smile at him.

  “What’s up?” Chavez asks him.

  “Chief wants to meet with us about the Belleview case—says he’s got a lead on a next of kin.”

  “Great. I’ll be right there.” Chavez returns his attention to me. “Sorry about that. Duty always calls at the worst time.”

  “No, it’s fine. I need to get going anyway.” Suddenly feeling self-conscious, I quickly stand and secure my purse over my shoulder. Chavez stands up too. “Thanks for talking with me,” I say. “It helped a lot.”

  “Yeah, of course. Any time.”

  My inclination is to offer him a parting handshake, but that feels a little too formal, considering what’s just transpired. I give him a smile instead, then turn and head for the door—

  “Hey, Jane,” he calls after me.

  I turn back.

  “If you’re ever interested, there’s this place I go when I’m really stressed that I think you might like. No pressure,” he quickly adds, a soft blush now accentuating his smirk, “but I’d be glad to meet you there sometime. It might help.”

  Under different circumstances, I might feel like a tenth grader who’s just been asked to the dance by the school’s most charismatic ladies’ man, but I know better. The little flutter in my chest has nothing to do with hormones or hopeful expectations, but rather how uneasy I’m feeling. While spilling the proverbial gay-beans offered me a twinge of relief, more than anything it’s leaving me feeling incredibly exposed and even a little . . . reckless. Like I’m about to rip off a Band-Aid I can’t put back on.

  “It was just a thought.” He jumps back in, astutely reading my hesitation. “It’s not a big deal. I’m sure you’ll find something else that helps—”

  “No, wait,” I cut him off with a shake of the head while quickly reorganizing my thoughts. Chavez knows the truth, and he’s not going to say anything. He’s assured me of that, and I trust him. If he says he has something that might help me, then I should at least consider it; otherwise I’ll probably end up on suicide watch, with the way I’ve been snapping my wrist lately. “I think maybe I’d like to try something different.”

  “Yeah?” He actually smiles this time. Not a smirk, but a full smile, so I can see his teeth. They’re very straight and very white. “Okay, great. Here, let me give you my number.”

  He grabs a pen from the Hooters mug, scribbles his number down on a Post-it, and offers it with his left hand. Given his desk accessories, I’m not surprised to see there’s no wedding band. “Call me anytime,” he says.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  I tuck the note in my purse but don’t bother to look at it until I get to the car. And when I do, I can’t help but flash a big, toothy grin myself. There, below his home and cell phone numbers, he’s written the name Officer Poncherello.

  Very funny.

  CHAPTER 12

  It’s three thirty in the afternoon. The dining table is centerfold-worthy, decked out in crystal stemware and our rarely seen wedding china. Soft candlelight pours from the autumn-themed centerpiece onto the wooden tabletop beneath it. The air is thick with the smells of Thanksgiving: oven-roasted turkey, baked apples and brown sugar, overly buttered potatoes. A relaxing fire crackles in the adjoining living room, and I’ve just poured a glass of pinot—pleasantly dry, with just the right amount of spice. By all appearances, Norman Rockwell could have painted this scene. It is truly a day to give thanks.

  Unfortunately, the atmosphere isn’t fitting the mood.

  The turkey took about two hours longer to cook than anticipated (it always does!), so Dan’s grumbling about, annoyed by the delayed schedule. He’s got places to go and men to do—er, see—after all.

  Avery’s mad because I won’t let her spend the night at my sister’s, a post–turkey dinner tradition they’ve maintained for the last six years. (If she’d just confessed that she’d gotten detention last week instead of trying to hide the slip in the bottom of her backpack, it wouldn’t be an issue!) And Julie’s tap-dancing around directly asking me for money, even though it’s obvious she needs to. Her rent is due in six days, and she can’t cover it.

  The only one not causing any trouble is my mom, and that’s because she’s not here. My chest crimps sadly. Apparently, she refused to get into the car with a “perfect stranger” (Julie) to be carted off to “Lord knows where” (my house) to eat dinner with a bunch of other “strangers” (me, Dan, and Avery), so she stayed at the nursing home. I’ll visit later this weekend, assuming she’s agreeable to strangers by then.

  I’m not sure there’s an actual description for my mood. I’m landing somewhere between annoyed, disappointed, frustrated, and restless. Like I’ve got an itch I can’t seem to scratch.

  I press the wineglass up to my lips and take a long drink.

  Thanksgiving should not feel like this.

  “Come on, Danny boy, there’s gotta be someone you can set me up with. I’ll even take a proctologist, so long as he’s cute.”

  It’s not the first time Julie’s tried baiting Dan for a hookup with one of his colleagues. I guess this means last week’s firefighter didn’t pan out.

  “No,” he grumbles over a forkful of stuffing. “Nobody at the hospital is available.”

  “What’s a proctologist?” Avery questions. “That’s what my friend Jasmine’s dad does.”

  “A butt doctor,” Julie answers, smirking.

  “Ew, gross!”

  “It’s an essential medical position,” Dan chastises them. “Though far from a surgeon.”

  I roll my eyes and take another drink.

  “You’re seriously telling me there are no single men in the entire hospital?” Julie asks.

  “Nope.” Dan shakes his head, holding firm.

  Julie casts me a wry grin. I shrug and stab a piece of turkey with my fork.

  “Well, what about one of the guys you play basketball with?” Julie hammers on, pausing to load her fork with sweet potatoes. “One of them has to be single.”

  “Sorry,” he grumbles.

  “They wouldn’t be interested in you anyway,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Jane—”

  At least I thought that was under my breath.

  From the head of the table to my left, Dan blasts me with a stern look that sends a shudder up my spine.

  Whoops.

  “Why wouldn’t they be interested in me?” Julie asks, confirming that I was a lot louder than I realized. Thankfully, she doesn’t pick u
p on Dan’s reaction.

  I quickly shake my head. “Oh—um. Well, I didn’t mean you specifically; it’s just that all those guys are in committed relationships, right, Dan?”

  His gaze is lasered in on me, lines of restraint splintering across his forehead like cracks on a windshield. Clearly my lies aren’t up to par today. I reach for my glass and take another long drink, washing down the lump that’s quickly building in my throat.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” he finally replies, thankfully rerouting his attention to Julie. “None of them are in the market either.”

  She sighs dramatically. “Fine. I guess I’ll just get some cats and start watching Wheel of Fortune.”

  “Oh, stop it,” I grouse.

  “Oh, yes! Auntie, please get a cat!” pet-starved Avery jumps in. “Please, please, please.”

  “Aw, honey. I would if I could, but they’re not allowed at my apartment.”

  “You know, if you’re that desperate, I’m pretty sure the guy who pumps my gas is single,” Dan offers over a sardonic grin and a mouthful of potatoes. “He said something about needing a good woman to clean the grease out of his jeans. Of course, that means you’ll have to up your laundering game.”

  He says this knowing full well that our dryer is currently tumbling a load of Julie’s laundry. The second of the day.

  “Very funny.” She scowls back at him.

  I take another drink.

  Christmas is going to be freaking fantastic!

  “All right, time for me to get going.”

  Twenty minutes into the meal it took me fourteen days to plan and prepare, Dan pushes himself away from the table, laying his napkin next to his still relatively full plate. So much for stuffing yourself on Thanksgiving.

  “Where are you going?” Avery asks.

  I turn to Dan, a smug expression on my face.

  Yes, Dan. Please tell your daughter where you’re going . . .

  “Work. I’ve got patients I need to check on,” he says easily. So easily it makes my skin bristle.

  “But it’s Thanksgiving,” Avery counters. “Can’t you skip and stay home? The Bulls are playing later. I wanted to watch the game with you.”

  “Sorry, kiddo. I can’t.”