by Jody Gehrman
With a shrug, he steers the slice back toward his own mouth and bites into the tip experimentally. “Mmmm. Food of the gods.”
I grab a couple plates from the cupboards and two cold Heinekens from the fridge. “Liquor before beer, in the clear, right?”
He pulls a silver opener from the pocket of his jeans and uses it to pry the caps off.
I freeze.
It’s not just any bottle opener.
It’s a silver key chain. With a mouth on it. Lips open. Tongue lolling. The Rolling Stones logo.
I’ve seen it before. In this kitchen. Opening Heinekens.
I go cold all over. It’s as if somebody just threw the door open and let in a storm front.
“Something wrong?”
I force my gaze up to meet his. He’s staring at me with his usual appraising intelligence. Except now there’s something different there. Wariness. The predator sizing up his prey.
“No! Why do you say that?” It comes out too bright.
He puts the opener back in his pocket and hands me a beer. Then he raises his in a toast. “To new beginnings.”
“New beginnings.” I tilt my bottle toward his, willing my hand not to shake. The necks touch with a soft clink. We both drink.
I have to get him out of here. God, my heart’s racing. I can feel cold sweat pooling beneath my breasts and under my armpits. What the fuck? How did he get that bottle opener?
He’s unstable and invasive and cocky and obsessed. But a murderer?
Is it possible?
Calm down, Kate, I remind myself. It could be a coincidence.
I try to imagine myself telling Detective Schroeder what I know. It wouldn’t be real evidence, would it? You can’t prove murder with a trivial detail like that. It’s circumstantial at best. So they have the same bottle opener. So what?
I know it’s not that simple. My gut churns. Do I ask him about it? What if he decides I’m onto him? If he killed once, he can do it again.
Fuck, my mind’s racing. Thoughts blur past before I can catch hold of them. My mouth’s dry again. I take another swig of beer, just to moisten my papery tongue. What do I do, what do I do, what do I do?
“Should we, um, eat here or…?” he asks.
“No, let’s take it into the living room.” I can’t go to the police with nothing but a bottle opener. He’s got no motive. They didn’t even know each other, did they?
Unless.
Oh, God.
No.
His Honda was parked down the street when Raul dropped me off that first night. What if he was watching the whole time? Maybe even—the thought lands like a bowling ball in my stomach—the other time. When Raul and I had sex.
The night Raul died.
The walls feel like they’re closing in around me. Panic tickles the back of my throat, a scream trying to escape. I take another long pull off my beer.
There’s only one thing I can do. Try to work the conversation in that direction, see what I can get out of him. Maybe the booze will loosen his tongue. A bottle opener’s inconclusive, but a confession? That’s something else entirely.
I take my plate of pizza, my beer, and follow him into the next room.
SAM
You’re trying to get me drunk.
This makes no sense. You’re not doing it for the usual reason—to coerce me into having sex—since we both know I’d fuck you against the wall or bent over the couch or out in the middle of the freezing goddamn street if you’d let me. You keep the beers coming, though. I caught you dumping yours in a potted plant when you thought I wasn’t looking.
You’ve got something up your sleeve, but what?
Two can play at that game. I get up several times and dump my beers out in the sink, refilling them with water so you won’t get suspicious. Thank god Heinekens come in green glass. I want to know what you’re up to, so I pretend to slur my words and lose focus. The key to playing drunk, as any decent actor will tell you, is subtlety. You have to remember that drunk people try to behave like they’re sober; you have to keep reining it in, not go balls-out like an amateur. A real drunk will talk with more precision, more concentration, just to be sure his syllables line up. The trick is to show supreme concentration and let the sloppiness leak through.
I’m not a trained actor, have never wanted to be onstage, but I’ve always embraced the art of artifice. When you grow up with a string of Motherfuckers posing as the authority figure, you learn to prevaricate with your whole body, to lie with such conviction even you begin to believe. I read Constantin Stanislavsky and Stella Adler, and I’ve watched all the DVD commentaries where the actors talk over the movie and explain what they’re doing. My life is one big performance, and I’m proud of that. Some people might fault me for dishonesty, even slap me with the dreaded “pathological liar” label, but I maintain we’re all playing a role; some of us just do it better than others.
You, for example, are not a natural liar. In fact, you’re bad at it. You’re furtive and clumsy, and I love you for it.
It’s just one more reason we fit, Kate. When we’re together, I will do the lying, and you’ll be the childlike innocent who lets every emotion show on her luminous face. Together, we’ll be unstoppable. You’re transparent and I’m opaque. You’re yin and I’m yang. Opposites really do attract.
You’re steering the conversation in a specific direction, and I try to oblige you by stumbling into your trap.
“Did you read about the guy who got murdered here in Blackwood?” You’ve been inching toward this for a good ten minutes, bringing up random tales of small towns where bad things happen—a murder in your hometown growing up, a friend of a friend who was abducted in college. You give me a wide-eyed, innocent look, and I want to laugh at how obvious you are, but I manage to keep a straight face because I’m good at this.
“Outside of town, right? Over in the eastern hills?”
You nod, and I see your throat move as you swallow hard.
That’s when it hits me. You’ve connected me with Raul. You must have stumbled on it sometime tonight since you can’t act your way out of a paper bag, and you wouldn’t have let me in if you suspected me earlier. Something shifted in you about an hour ago. After the pizza came—that’s when you started thrusting beers at me and dumping yours and watching me with the cagey skittishness of a kidnapped child.
Fuck me. I scan everything I’ve said and done in your presence in the last hour, replaying it all like a surveillance video on rewind. But no, I’ve been careful. I’ve been so damn careful. I play it all again, my brain heating up like a cheap computer working beyond its capacity. What have I done, what have I done? Everything was going as planned, my life’s work coming together, our escape to New York imminent, maybe even tonight—board a train and never look back, land in Grand Central and walk the streets until we find a seedy hotel. We’ll register under fake names, laugh about how it’s the perfect setting for a thriller. We’ll take notes on all the smells, the suspicious stains, the Band-Aid curled up in the shag carpet because even the grubbiness will enchant us when we’re together; we’ll listen to fights and animalistic grunting through the paper-thin walls, and then we’ll add our own fierce sounds to the New York night.
I pull free of my fantasy and freeze on a single image: the bottle opener.
That fucking bottle opener.
Most of the stuff I took from Raul was impersonal and easy to sell—a stereo, a TV, a video game console. Only the bottle opener I snagged from his pocket was distinct; everything else I’ve pawned. It’s the one memento I took to remember him by. My trophy.
I recall feeling the weight of it in my palm, seeing that open mouth and tongue, a symbol of Mick Jagger’s fuck-you sensuality, his rock-star recklessness. To think this cheap, womanizing prick with his cologne and his restaurants and his Range Rover and his blow jobs from BAGs in parking lots carried a talisman of raw, masculine power—it pissed me off. In that moment, I knew I had to keep it, the way soldiers in Vietnam kept the sawed-of
f thumbs of their kills. I had to remind myself who deserves you. Not the Rauls of this world, but me. I’m the one willing to kill for you. I’m the one with a tongue that will fit your pussy like a lock and key—if only you’d stop dicking around with these cheap imitations of real men and give me a chance.
For a moment, I’m filled with pure, white-hot rage. You let Raul fuck you. I watched as he pushed your lily-white thighs apart and stuck his inadequate dick inside you. What is it with you, Kate? Why can’t you see that Range Rover–driving asshole never loved you? He didn’t know anything about love, not the kind that burns inside me, the kind that’s made me your slave for five years, ever since I read the first line of Pay Dirt. My love for you has shaped me; it’s made me who I am. What kind of stupid bitch doesn’t recognize her soul mate when he’s sitting on her couch pretending to drink her beer?
The rage recedes. The hiss and whisper of a retreating wave fills my head.
You can’t be blamed. It will take time. Everything worth having takes patience and work. All you see now is ugliness and loss. You’re staring at a black-and-white picture, honing in on the negative space. You lost your job. You lost your agent. You lost the only guy you’ve had sex with since Pablo. You’re looking at me, the source of all your loss. I can see the terror stirring behind your dilated pupils. You want me, and you fear me. Lust and caution.
It’s only a matter of time before you open yourself to me. You’ll see my actions for what they are. You’ll know I killed Raul to ensure our future.
I can wait. Patience is my strongest virtue.
KATE
“So you did?” I try to sound casual. “Read about the murder, I mean?”
He’s been quiet so long I wonder if he’s even listening. His stare’s far away, preoccupied. The glimmer in his eyes as he comes back to me makes the lump in my throat return.
“Sure. Yeah. Sounded like a random burglary gone wrong?” The statement comes out with a question mark attached.
I shrug. “That’s what they thought. Nobody knows for sure. He was a friend of mine. In fact, I think you met him.”
“Oh, yeah?” Nothing in his face but mild surprise.
“We dated. A little. Nothing serious.” Goddamn it, I can feel my skin heating up like a steamed tomato. I want desperately to dim the lights, but I don’t move. My heart’s pounding so hard it feels like a drum inside my chest. “That night at the theater, I introduced him to you and Jess. Raul?”
“Right.” He nods, his gaze going vacant, like he’s rummaging around in his memory, trying to find the right face.
“I didn’t really know him that well. We only went out a couple times.”
“Still. That must have been rough.” He pivots toward me on the couch, his body oozing empathy. “Were you pretty into him?”
I breathe out a surprised laugh. Please, God, don’t let me look as terrified as I feel. “I barely knew him, really.”
“Did you sleep with him?” His voice is suddenly hard.
I have to concentrate on keeping my reply calm. “How is that your business?”
“Come on, Kate. You can be honest with me.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” My hands tremble as I gesticulate. I still them on my thighs, willing myself to calm down. If he thinks I’m onto him, it’s over.
“You’re the one who brought it up.” He’s got that cold, icy stare trained on me, and I can see him weighing his options, deciding how much I know and what to do about it.
“Let’s talk about you.” My words sound stilted.
We eat our pizza in silence for a moment. I get up and turn on the gas fireplace.
“How’s your novel coming?” I ask, trying to sound like I’m breathing normally.
“It’s done.”
“Aren’t you revising?”
He looks hurt. “No. Not really.”
“Have you started on something new?” I ask brightly. Too brightly. Fuck, I’m bad at this.
“Of course.” He hesitates. “I don’t talk about what I’m writing until I’m done with a draft, at least.”
“Totally get that.” It’s a relief to land on familiar ground. “And, by the way, when I suggested you revise, I’m not saying that because it’s less than brilliant. It really is amazing.”
“Yeah?” He lowers his chin and looks at me from beneath dark brows.
I nod. “Amazing. And you know I’m stingy with praise.”
“You’re famous for it.”
“Guess that makes me a bitch, in most people’s estimation, but—”
“Fuck them,” he spits, agitated. “Bunch of whiny babies.”
So much for my plan to steer the conversation toward Raul. Did I seriously think he’d confess? Now all I’ve done is put him on guard. Nice work, Kate. Very smooth.
“You’re one of the few people I’ve met who’s willing to be honest,” he says.
“Thanks.” After a pause, I slap my thighs in a gesture of closure. “Well, this has been fun, but I should really go to bed. It’s been a crazy day.”
He ignores this obvious cue. “What will you do next?”
“About what?”
“Your life.” His eyes look darker than usual, almost purple.
I consider the question. During this whole conversation, there’s a hamster racing on a wheel inside my heart, frantically trying to escape. “I’ll go wherever I can get a job.”
“Have you ever thought about New York?”
“What about it?” I ask, surprised.
His shrug is elaborately casual. “Ever thought about giving it a shot?”
“New York City?” I ask.
He nods.
“Not really. I mean, it’s always seemed very glamorous, the heart of publishing and all that.”
“The heart of the entire world.” He says it with such passion I do a double take.
“You’ve lived there?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not yet. But I’m moving there.”
“Really?” I’m caught off guard by that. “When?”
“As soon as I can convince you to go with me.” His eyes are dead serious.
It takes me a second to respond. “You’re joking, right?”
For a long, tense moment we stare at one another, teetering on a precipice I didn’t even know was there.
“Kate?”
“Yes?”
His eyes bore into me. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Trust you?” I think about it. My brain feels like a frozen pond; my thoughts move sluggishly through ice-cold fear. “In general, you mean, or—?”
“Are you afraid of me?” He moves closer.
“A little.”
His fingers brush a tendril of hair away from my forehead. “I would never, ever hurt you.”
“Okay.”
“Never.”
“Sam, I don’t think we should—”
He tilts forward as if to kiss me. I recoil, standing up, bumping my forehead hard against his in the process.
“Look, you really have to go now.”
SAM
You’re so skittish, Kate. Even now, when I’ve cut you free of your moorings. You’re on a sailboat drifting out into the moonlit night, but you’re still grasping at the shore, trying to hold on to the lines.
“Why do you keep pushing me away?”
“Look, I get why you’d move to New York. When you’re young, the world’s wide open, but I’m not in that place—”
“You could be,” I interrupt. “You should be. You’re not old.”
“I have to make a living.” You look very tired.
I lean forward, touching my forehead to yours. “Come to New York with me. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” You say it like you’ve never heard the word in your life.
“Why not? What have you got to lose?”
You look lost.
I press my advantage. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted, Kate. You and me in the greatest city on earth. What could go
wrong?”
You laugh.
“Don’t laugh,” I warn you. This is not a joke.
Your lips tuck together as if to hold in your mirth, but it gurgles up from your throat just the same.
“Why are you laughing?” My own voice sounds hard, but I can’t soften it. I tell you what I want more than anything, my entire reason for living, and you laugh? What the hell, Kate?
“I’m sorry.” But you don’t look sorry. “What would we do there?”
“Live. Write. Become famous. Love each other.”
You laugh again. This time there’s a thin edge of hysteria in it. I can feel my anger rising, but I force myself to breathe. Out of nowhere, I remember the relaxation technique Motherfucker Number Nine taught me: breathe in for a count of four, belly extends; breathe out for a count of six, belly contracts.
You’re not laughing at me, I remind myself. You’re just nervous. Overwhelmed. We both are.
Though it’s backfired so far, I continue confessing. It’s like a vein’s been opened, and the words pour out. “We could create our lives anew. Walk the city at all hours and feed our imaginations. We’ll record everything we see with our eyes—fuck Instagram, our brains will be our cameras—and then we’ll go home and write about it and read each other our pages by candlelight, drinking and laughing, and then I’ll go down on you and—”
“Okay, you know what?” You start to pace the room. You’re no longer laughing, but this new hardness in your face might be worse than nervous giggles. “You’ve got one hell of a fantasy going, but I’m not the girl who belongs in that picture.”
“Why not?” I ask, mystified.
“Because I’m thirty-eight years old, Sam!” You’re exasperated. You throw your hands up in the air, like this should explain everything.
“So?”
“I already went through my move-to-a-new-city-and-reinvent-myself phase. Several times. I’m over it.”
You’re killing me. “It’s not a phase.”
“It doesn’t feel like a phase when you’re living it.” You touch my arm, apologetic, distant. “That’s the whole point. If I see it as a phase and you see it as your life, we’ll always be at odds.”