Problem Child (ARC)

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Problem Child (ARC) Page 3

by Victoria Helen Stone

a few more.

  “Pardon the interruption,” I say, just as Mr. Browning is

  tensing to open his mouth. “Robert and I ran the numbers,

  and we’re predicting district cost savings of over fifteen

  percent just on frozen processed chicken alone. Frozen

  raw chicken? Well, that gets even better, and, believe me,

  the school districts we approached were very excited.”

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  I flash a smile at the table and dip my head toward

  Rob. “I apologize, I don’t have Robert’s notes, but let me

  sum up the numbers for you on the board.” I stand and

  spin to the whiteboard behind me, snatching up a pen to

  immediately start jotting down the costs I’ve memorized

  along with the offers we’ve predicted we could pitch for

  years one through three.

  “These are just rough estimates, of course. We can

  move forward with a deep dive before negotiations begin,

  but we all agree that North Unlimited is offering an ideal

  arrangement, and of course everyone is looking to cut costs, especially in non–education-related expenses. Reduced

  school funding only works toward your advantage in this

  environment. I even got a hint of interest from the state

  college system.”

  “Whoa,” the president of North Unlimited breathes.

  “That would be unbelievable.”

  It is unbelievable, because this is absolutely untrue, but who could know that? Four weeks from now, if anyone

  asks, I’ll glumly inform them that it didn’t work out.

  “Obviously, the laws governing raw chicken imports

  create quite a complication, but that’s why you’ve hired us.

  So … do you think your supplier in Brazil could handle

  an order increase of three hundred percent? Because those

  are the kind of numbers we’re looking at.”

  “Absolutely.” His supplier isn’t really in Brazil and

  the owner of North Unlimited is a goddamn scammer,

  but what do I care?

  “So this should be our starting point with the first

  school districts,” I finish, poking the marker hard into

  the board. “You’ve indicated that we can afford to budge

  quite a bit from here, but I’m not sure we’ll have to.

  They’re excited by your assurances about the product being

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  all-natural and minimally processed at that price point.”

  I swing back to smile at the clients. “We can definitely

  open with a two-year contract. What do you think?”

  I don’t care what they think, of course, just like I’m

  not actually sorry for interrupting good old Rob. But I

  need to be likable as well as capable and confident. What

  a tightrope.

  The room has relaxed, thrilled that someone stepped

  in to avert disaster. Rob is slumped into a loose lump of

  puzzlement on the other side of the table, thinking, What just happened?

  The clients jump in with questions. I answer most of

  them, though I bite my tongue occasionally to let others

  at the table share in the triumph. We’ve got ourselves a

  plan now, and there’s profit to be had by all.

  Half an hour later, I’m the one shaking hands with

  everyone in the room as they file out, though Rob has

  rallied enough to make a game effort of it. Still, quite

  a few people manage to slip by him with eyes locked

  on the doorway and hands occupied. The partners

  don’t bother avoiding his eyes. They clap my shoulder

  and say good job, and then they walk past him with

  lips curled.

  “Thanks, Robert,” I say as I breeze through the door,

  the last to leave him standing there. “I’ll type up a sum-

  mary of the details we covered and cc you on it. Don’t

  worry.”

  “Oh,” I hear him murmur behind me. “Yeah, great.”

  He won’t be fired, though once I start dropping hints

  about him and the mournful receptionist, he might be-

  come too much of a liability to keep around. But for now

  his job is safe; he’s just lost his golden-boy shine, and I’ve stolen it to rub all over myself.

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  Jane really saved the day, stepping in like that. Did you see her pull those numbers out of the air? What an asset she is in times like these.

  Good old unflappable Jane.

  I leave the door of my office open so I can catch

  snatches of conversation from the hallway as people buzz

  by. Rob closes his door with a hollow thunk that shivers over my excited nerves.

  Grinning, I get out my phone to send a text. Meet

  me for a drink at The Train Car? 5:30?

  Yes, he responds immediately.

  They have individual bathrooms there. We can go

  in together and lock the door. J

  Luke is a nice, quiet guy. Modest and kind. But I can

  get him to do anything. I make him nervous, but he feels

  alive, and isn’t that what really matters?

  I hope it is, because that’s all I’ve got.

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  CHAPTER TWO

  The problem with having sex early in the evening is that

  it frees up too many hours for things like talking. This

  is my first committed relationship, and it’s the thing I

  hate most about it, that moment when he says “Jane…”

  in that serious tone.

  “Nope,” I respond.

  Luke looks startled by that and twists on the couch

  to face me more fully. “Pardon?”

  “Nope,” I repeat.

  “But I didn’t ask anything.”

  “Well, I’m reading.”

  “Oh.” He pauses for only a moment before trying

  again. “I just wanted to talk about something with you

  while we have the time.”

  I don’t have the time. I’m in the middle of a book,

  and I just said that. But if I push him off now, he’ll bring it up later when I’m trying to fall asleep, and that will

  be even worse. I’ll say something that hurts his feelings

  because I’m tired and not being careful.

  Then again, even if he brings it up later, I could distract him with sex because he’ll be fully recovered.

  But I’ve hesitated too long and Luke takes that as

  acceptance. “We’ve been dating for a year now, and it’s

  been great.”

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  Well, here it is. This is why I hate talking. It never

  leads to anything good, like food or sex or action movies.

  It leads to this: Luke is breaking up with me.

  I’ve known it would come eventually. I’m not the

  marrying type. I’m not even the girlfriend type, because

  I have a kind of … disability. I’m not capable of experi-

  encing a full range of emotion, and most emotions I can’t

  pull off at all, but that’s not my fault.

  That’s the thing no one wants to acknowledge about

  sociopaths. It’s not my fault. I didn’t choose this.

  But whether or not I can feel sympathy or tenderness

  or true, genuine love, I can pretend. It’s not difficult even for normal people to manipulate their way into a longer

  relationship, after all. I just have to tell him what he wants to hear. Easy as pie.

  He might wa
nt to break it off now, but I can keep

  it going for months longer. Maybe even years. Guilt is

  a powerful drug for people like Luke. But I now know

  this is the beginning of the end, at least.

  “I think it’s been great?” Luke ventures. That means

  he is expecting me to chime in with something.

  I stare at him and wait. Does he think I’ll actually

  help him along? Make it easier for him to toss me out of

  his life? If so, he doesn’t know me at all, and that means

  I’m not responsible for this breakdown in our relation-

  ship. He is.

  Luke finally swallows and soldiers on without my

  encouragement. “For the past few months, I’ve been

  thinking of making some changes.”

  I can’t let him go easily. I can’t, and I certainly won’t.

  He’s my one person. My connection. My only entrée into

  the flow and pulse of humanity.

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  I had an enjoyable life with men before Luke, of

  course, but it was cool and distant. The only moments of

  connection were manipulations at work and meaningless

  sex. I never had this before. His hand warm around my

  ankle the way it always is when we sit and read together.

  Thoughtful texts to make sure I’m happy. Cozy heat at

  night that I actually want to snuggle close to.

  The common belief is that people like me don’t feel

  love at all, but I do feel something. We’re not robots. We crave the connections we can’t make.

  The silence between us swells, ticking like a clock as

  he waits for me to blink or cry or gasp in panic. I don’t.

  “I think we should move in together,” he finally

  blurts out.

  That shocks me into yelling, “What the hell?”

  Luke nods. “I told you I’ve been thinking of a bigger

  place.”

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe something a little closer to Holly.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “And I’d like to share that place with you.”

  “Me,” I say dully, briefly confused by the shift. I’ve

  read him incorrectly, and I like that almost as little as I like this surprise he’s presenting.

  “You,” Luke confirms, his hand now clutching ner-

  vously at my ankle instead of caressing. “Absolutely. I

  think we should get a place together. A little house.

  White picket fence.”

  I pull my foot away and set my book down. “You’re

  kidding.”

  “No. Well, the white picket fence part was a joke.”

  “I don’t want a husband, Luke.”

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  “I know that. I respect that you don’t want to get

  married.”

  “It’s weird!” I say too loudly. “All it does is mix up

  your finances without giving any kind of security, because

  you can just get divorced at any time. It doesn’t even make any sense! What’s wrong with people?”

  Luke’s mouth twitches into a nervous smile. “I get

  what you’re saying, but that’s not what I’m asking. We’ve

  been dating a year. One of us is usually at the other’s

  house, which gets a little inconvenient. We don’t even

  have to buy a place together if that’s not what you want.

  I’d like to be closer to my niece, and I’d love it if you

  moved in with me.”

  I’m just staring at him again. I really wasn’t expect-

  ing this. Though now that he’s asked, I see that there

  were hints I ignored. Clues he’s been dropping that I just

  stepped over because I didn’t want to acknowledge them.

  Luke’s brother got married a couple of years ago, and

  last year he and his husband adopted a newborn girl. Luke

  fell head over heels in love with his baby niece, and he

  lights up like the sun when he spends time with her. Even

  I can see the pink hearts floating over his head.

  And now he imagines a white picket fence of his

  own. Of course.

  He wants that, and I don’t. I like my solitary space. I

  like my condo and my cat and my views of the city. But

  I like Luke too.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know about any of this.”

  “You need to think about it. That’s only fair. I’ve

  been thinking about it for months, so you need time.”

  I study him for a long moment. “You want kids,” I

  say flatly.

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  His eyes widen. He blinks. He doesn’t say no. Goddamn it.

  “Luke!” I snap in horror.

  “I’ve never wanted kids,” he says carefully.

  “You know, I’m an attorney, and I can tell pretty eas-

  ily when someone isn’t addressing the implied question at

  hand. You never wanted kids before. I know that. We’ve

  talked about it plenty of times. But now? After Holly?”

  Another blink and he finally looks away, guilt tighten-

  ing his face. Something frantic rises in my chest, confusing me. It’s unpleasant and I don’t like it at all, and Luke is the one doing this to me. My Luke. “I don’t like this,” I mutter, pushing out of his clingy, cushiony leather couch

  to look for my shoes. “I’m going home.”

  I should be the one to break up with him. I should

  be the one to leave, and this may be the right moment to

  end this so I don’t have to endure any more unpleasant

  surprises in the future.

  “Jane, come on. Let’s talk.”

  “No, I need to feed my cat. And you want to change

  everything.”

  “Not everything. It’ll be just like this, every night.

  Just the same, but in a bigger place, together.”

  “No, it won’t. The same won’t be enough.”

  “Enough of what?”

  “Enough of what you want. You want”—I wave a

  hand—“something else. Someone else. I’m not going to stick around and watch you yearn for a wife and a baby

  when what you have is me. That’s stupid.”

  I stalk off and he follows me to the table where I left

  my purse. “I want you, Jane. You know that.”

  “I know you want me, but you want more than me

  too. I won’t give you that. I’m not…” I growl, unable to

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  find the right word. I don’t even want to find the right

  word. None of this is fair. “You know I’m not!” I yell as

  I yank open the door.

  “Not what?”

  That scratching, swelling mess of anger inside me gets

  bigger and climbs into my throat as I lurch through the

  door. “I’m not a real person! ” I scream.

  My voice echoes off the ten-foot ceilings of his hallway,

  banging around on the doors of the other five loft condos

  up here. I don’t care. I’ll yell it in their faces if they stick their heads out. He doesn’t know I’m a sociopath, but he

  knows I’m different. He said he liked that, so what the

  hell does he think he’s pulling here?

  “Jane,” Luke calls from behind me as I rush for the

  stairwell.

  “Don’t follow me,” I warn. And he doesn’t. He never

  pushes me. Or he never did before today.

  I race down the metal stairs, clanking my fury out in

&
nbsp; rapid steps. It doesn’t help.

  Why would he do this? Everything has been going

  fine. Luke and I had a routine, a relationship, and for the first time in my life I’ve been … comfortable.

  No, that isn’t the right word. I’ve always been satis-

  fied with my life. I’ve always made myself happy, doing

  exactly what I want to do. Every creature comfort I’ve

  ever wanted, I’ve given myself.

  But Luke loves me, which is different. And in my own way I love him back. I try, anyway. I give him sex and

  gifts and attention, because that’s what I have to give. But he needs more. Of course he does. He needs real love to

  bask in, not this strange mirrored heat I throw.

  I knew this day would come, just not like this. I

  thought I’d be in charge of it. Now Luke is asking more

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  Problem Child

  of me when he’s already scraped the shallowest depths of

  my soul. “Fuck!”

  Still cursing, I slam through the stairwell door into

  the sparse hallway that serves as a lobby to his building.

  One of his neighbors is getting mail, and she squeaks

  with alarm and drops everything on the floor as I storm

  past and out into the night.

  If I were a real girl, I’d be excited by Luke’s sudden

  proposal to cohabitate. My man wants to take it to the

  next level! He’s ready to settle down!

  I’d be looking up real estate websites and planning my

  dream kitchen. That’s what my best friend Meg would

  have done. But those kinds of dreams destroyed her like

  they’ve destroyed so many others, so I’m better off. She’s

  dead. She’s dead because those dreams fell apart and she

  killed herself, and I’m glad I’ve never felt anything that

  deeply.

  I know I can’t have it all, so I won’t bother trying

  to fool myself into thinking I can make Luke’s dreams

  come true.

  “Shit,” I growl as I beep my car door open and drop

  into the seat. My phone buzzes.

  Please come back. Let’s talk.

  He may as well have typed, Come back so we can

  feed your fingers to a rabid wolverine, because that

  sounds like just as much fun.

  I thought you’d be at least a little happy??? he tries.

  Well, there’s the problem. Luke doesn’t see me for

  what I am. When we started dating, he guessed that I

  was on the autism spectrum, and I let him believe that.

  He accepted me and my quirks, so I could let my guard

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