“What’s she like? Is she—”
The first words I think of are the same ones Sam used this morning. Damaged goods. Instead, I say, “Normal? Considering what happened to her, she’s as normal as anyone can be.”
“But not as normal as you.”
I detect a smile in his voice. I imagine his blue eyes sparkling, which happens on the rare occasions he actually lets his guard down.
“Of course not,” I say. “I’m the queen of normalcy.”
“Well, Queen Quincy, what do you think about me coming into the city to meet Samantha? I’d like to get a read on her.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t trust her.” Coop softens his tone slightly, as if he knows he’s starting to sound too intense. “Not until I meet her myself. I want to make sure she’s not up to something.”
“She’s not,” I say. “Jeff’s already grilled her.”
“Well, I haven’t.”
“I’d hate to put you out like that.”
“You wouldn’t be,” Coop says. “I have the day off and the weather is nice. The leaves are starting to turn in the Poconos. Makes for a pretty drive.”
“Then sure,” I say. “How does noon sound?”
“Perfect.” Even though we’re on the phone, I know Coop is nodding. I can sense it. “The usual place.”
“Then it’s a date,” I say.
Coop grows serious again, his voice husky and low. “Just be careful until then. I know you think I’m being overly concerned, but I’m not. She’s a stranger, Quincy. One who experienced a whole lot of bad stuff. We don’t know if it messed her up. We don’t know what she’s capable of.”
I sit on the edge of the bathtub, knees pressed together, suddenly cold. Jonah Thompson’s voice flashes into my thoughts. It’s about Samantha Boyd. She’s lying to you. What a spineless asshole.
“Don’t worry,” I tell Coop. “I think you’ll like her.”
We say our goodbyes, Coop finishing up with his usual invitation to call or text if I need anything.
At the sink, I splash water onto my face and gargle with a hearty dose of mouthwash. I pout at my reflection, trying to look sexy, mentally preparing myself to pick up where Jeff and I left off. Despite Coop’s interruption, the desire I felt earlier is still very much intact. Perhaps even more so. I’m fully ready to jump back into bed and finish what I started with Jeff.
But when I exit the bathroom, I see that Jeff, tired of waiting and just plain tired, has fallen fast asleep.
Midnight finds my mind exhausted but my body wide awake. All that napping earlier in the afternoon has left me thrumming with energy. I shift and roll beneath the covers, too warm with them, too cold without them. Jeff has no such problem. He snores lightly beside me, lost to the world. Rather than remain in bed, I get up and change into jeans, T-shirt, and a cardigan. A little late-night baking feels in order. Old-fashioned apple dumplings. The next item on Quincy’s Sweets’ schedule, which has already been thrown off by a day.
I don’t get past the guest room. Sam’s room now, I suppose. A strip of light creeps from beneath the door, so I give it a single, tentative tap.
“It’s open,” Sam says.
I find her in the corner, rooting through the knapsack. She pulls out the earrings from Saks and tosses them onto the bed, their presence jarring my memory. I had forgotten all about them.
“I took the stuff out of your purse when you got home,” she tells me. “In case Jeff decided to look in there.”
“Thanks,” I say, staring glumly at the earrings. “I’m not sure I want them anymore.”
“I’ll take them.” Sam grabs the earrings off the bed and drops them back into the knapsack. “It’s not like we can return them. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I say. “But now I can’t sleep.”
“Sleeping’s not my strong suit, either.”
“Jeff told me about your talk earlier today,” I say. “And I’m happy. We’re happy. To have you here, I mean. Just yell if you need anything. Make yourself at home.”
Which she’s already done. A couple of books sit on the nightstand. Dog-eared science fiction paperbacks and a hardcover copy of The Art of War. Although the window is open, it can’t quite erase the cigarette smoke clinging to the air. Sam’s leather purse-slash-ashtray rests on the sill.
“I’m sorry I left you alone the rest of the day,” I say. “I hope you weren’t too bored.”
“It’s cool.” Sam sits on one side of the bed, patting the mattress until I settle onto the other. “I took a walk around the neighborhood. Had that nice talk with Jeff.”
“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” I tell her. “Which reminds me, we’re meeting someone tomorrow. His name is Franklin Cooper.”
“The cop that saved your life?”
I’m surprised she knows who he is. She really has been keeping tabs on me.
“Right,” I say. “He wants to meet you. Say hi.”
“And see if I’m a psycho,” Sam says. “Don’t worry. I get it. He needs to see if I can be trusted.”
I clear my throat. “Which means you can’t mention the Xanax.”
“Sure,” Sam says.
“Or the—”
“Five-fingered discount you sometimes take advantage of?”
“Yes,” I reply, grateful I don’t have to say it out loud. “That, too.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Sam says. “I won’t even swear.”
“After that, we’ll play tourist. The Empire State Building. Rockefeller Center. Wherever you want to go.”
“Central Park?”
I can’t tell if she’s attempting a joke about what happened the night before. “If you’d like.”
“Why wait? Why not go right now?”
Now I know she’s joking. Maybe.
“That’s so not a good idea,” I say.
“And was puking on that reporter a good idea?”
“That wasn’t intentional.”
“Did he say anything?”
Once more, Jonah Thompson’s insistent voice tiptoes into my skull. Again, I ignore it. The only thing Sam lied about was her name change, and I know all about that now. Jonah’s the one who was lying, trying to get me to spill my guts about being called a Final Girl. I spilled my guts, just not in the way he was expecting.
“Nothing important,” I say. “I wasn’t there to listen. I went there to yell.”
“Good for you.”
Another thought occurs to me, making my voice go soft. “Why didn’t you go with me? Why didn’t you even want me to go?”
“Because you need to pick your battles,” Sam says. “I learned a long time ago that fighting with the press is useless. They’ll win every time. And with guys like that Jonah Thompson punk, it only eggs him on. We’ll probably be in the paper again tomorrow.”
The thought makes my body go rigid with fear. “I’m sorry if that happens.”
“It’s no big deal,” Sam says. “I’m just happy you finally got mad about something.”
“Yes. I got very mad.”
This pleases Sam, as I knew it would. A spark ignites just behind her eyes. “How did it feel to confront him?”
I think about it for a moment, parsing through my hazy memory, trying to sort how I really felt and what the Xanax made me feel. I think I liked it. Scratch that. I know I liked it. I felt righteous and energized and strong, right up until the nausea took over.
“It felt good,” I say.
“Getting angry always does. And are you still mad?”
“No,” I say.
Sam gives me a playful shove from across the bed. “Liar.”
“Fine. Yes. I’m still mad.”
“The question then becomes, what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” I say. “You just said it’s useless to fight with the press.”
“I’m not talking about the press now. I’m talking about life. The world. It’s full of misfortune and unfairness and women like us getting hurt by men who should know better. And very few people actually give a shit. Even fewer of us actually get angry and take action.”
“But you’re one of them,” I say.
“Damn right. You want to join me?”