“Tonight?”
“My dad is giving a sermon at a homeless shelter, and I’m helping him out there.”
“Oh, I see. Sometime next week?” He wants to take me to dinner, but now I’m the one asking for it.
“Sure. How about Thursday? I’ll pick you up at your place this time.”
“That would be really nice,” I say.
We reach the Starbucks quickly and I order a nonfat latte and a mini-scone. Steven raises his eyebrows. “What?” I protest. “It’s tiny!”
“Sure,” he answers, but his eyebrows stay high. I eat the whole thing before our drinks are ready. It’s only two bites.
The wind has picked up since this morning. A cold front is moving in and we can’t find an inside table in the post-church crowd, so we take our drinks back to the vehicle and set off for my apartment.
My phone buzzes and I see it’s a text from Luke. Maybe I’ll get lucky tonight after all.
I fell asleep and forgot to check if you made it home okay.
I did, thanks, I write back.
“Who’s that?” Steven asks and I realize I’m smiling. Oops.
“It’s the animal shelter. My cat is ready!”
“You have a cat?” This isn’t a question. It’s disgust.
“I adopted her yesterday.”
“Cats are disgusting.”
“They are not! They’re great!”
“They walk through feces and then jump onto countertops.”
“Cats are very clean. Their saliva has antibacterial properties and they constantly clean themselves.”
He shudders. “Right.”
“I like cats,” I whine defensively.
He laughs. “Yeah, you’d better be careful. You’re on your way to being a fat cat lady.”
Even I’m surprised by how quickly he’s turned from flirting to insulting me. I cross my arms as if to protect myself. “It’s one cat. And I’m not fat.”
He snorts. I look out the side window.
“It was just a joke,” he eventually says. When I don’t answer, he huffs. “Come on. Don’t pout. I was kidding.”
“That was really rude.”
“I’m sorry. You surprised me, that’s all. I don’t like cats.”
He’s sorry, but apparently it was my fault the whole time. I should have known he hated cats and conformed to his preferences. Shifty or not, it’s a peace offering, and I’m supposed to take it. Accept the blame and swallow my hurt and be ashamed of my weight and my cat.
“I’m sorry,” I respond quietly.
He pats my hand. Everything is fine now. “You’re not still pouting, are you?”
I sit straighter and force a laugh. “I’m not pouting.”
“Good. It was a really nice day.”
It was. And I came so close to ruining it.
“How about lunch tomorrow?” he offers.
I smile in response. “That would be nice.”
He drops me off and I wave as I let myself into the lobby. As soon as the door closes behind me, my bright smile twists into a sneer.
I can’t wait to take him down.
CHAPTER 16
She’s finally here. My cat.
They gave her to me in a cardboard cat carrier, and during the walk I imagine her crouching inside, furious and ready to attack. Certainly that’s how I would react to being dropped into a box with only a few holes to see out of.
I set her carefully on the floor and pop open the little tabs keeping the cardboard handle closed. I ease the flaps open and step back, trying to avoid an attack. But she doesn’t leap out. She only stretches her head through the opening and looks around, alert but faintly bored. She’s so incredibly cool.
Once she’s assessed the room and deigned to glance in my direction, she hops elegantly up and out to land silently on the floor. She swipes her tongue over her gorgeous gray fur a few times and then, blatantly ignoring me, begins to explore the room. I love her already.
It’s common knowledge that sociopaths can’t love. I’ve known this since I was seventeen. But this fact no longer feels sure to me. I feel like I loved Meg. I may not have been empathetic or understanding, but I cared about what happened to her, and I liked the way I felt when I was with her.
Was I just using her for what she brought to my life? Maybe. But how is that different from how most people love? I look around and see people loving others because it feels good to be with them. Isn’t that mercenary? Isn’t that selfish? How am I so different?
After she died, it hurt so much that I looked up love and sociopathy online. I was surprised to find new opinions from experts who theorize that even people like me can form connections. We may not have souls, but maybe we’re not completely hollow. There’s something knocking around in there. Unfortunately, that something hurts.
So maybe I love this cat and maybe I don’t, but I at least have a burning crush on her. She stalks the space of my apartment, her muscles bunching and relaxing in a mesmerizing rhythm. She’s a hunter, hyperaware, eyes wide and ears forward.
I sit down on the couch and watch as she discovers the litter box and immediately crouches to pee, marking it as hers. She hops out and gives herself a quick bath before disappearing into my tiny bedroom.
A few minutes later she returns and jumps onto my small kitchen counter. I should take a picture and text it to Steven. I’m still laughing at my own joke when she leaps nearly all the way to the ceiling to explore the top of the cabinets. She settles into a crouch there and finally turns her gaze on me, surveying me from her position of power.
“You little bitch,” I whisper in admiration. She blinks sleepily in response. She’s the best cat in the whole world.
CHAPTER 17
She did a good job of keeping her distance for a few days, only approaching me on the couch for occasional attention. But when I woke up this morning, my cat was curled against my hip, and she was as warm and soft as I imagined she’d be. I stayed in bed an extra ten minutes, just feeling her there. I stroked her back and she purred her approval.
That was by far the highlight of my day. Now I’m off work and an hour into this dinner with Steven and I just want to get home and see what she’s doing.
“Steven?” I ask tentatively as I pick at the last of my french fries. “Do you believe all that stuff your dad said on Sunday?”
“What stuff?”
“About women.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
We had lunch twice this week, but I’ve been waiting to have this conversation as if I’m embarrassed to even bring it up. Finally, I spit out the horrible truth. “I’m not a virgin.”
He blinks in shock at my sudden confession while I hold my breath a little, hoping to make my cheeks go red. “I mean”—I stop to grimace—“you wouldn’t expect me to be, would you? After what your dad said . . .”
“No,” he says quickly. “No, of course not.”
“But all that stuff about women keeping their legs closed to be more godly . . . I just worried . . . We’re supposed to be dating, and I started thinking you wouldn’t like me if . . . I don’t know! I mean, I assume you’re not a virgin either!”
He flashes a smile. “No. Of course, it’s different for men, obviously.”
I nod as if I agree. “I know.”
“But, no, Jane, I don’t expect you to be a virgin. As long as you’re not some slut who’s slept with fifteen different guys.”
I’d slept with fifteen guys by the time I was . . . twenty? Twenty-one? Who knows. But since his guess is way off my current number, I shake my head hard. “No. Definitely not fifteen.”
He settles back in his chair and watches me for a moment. “Okay. So how many guys have you slept with?”
I cover my eyes with my hands. “Steven! That’s . . . that’s really personal.”
“Does that mean it’s too many?”
“No!” I wonder what his ideal number is. One, maybe. Not a slut, but he doesn’t have to worry about being the first time. Or maybe he’d like that. I bet he would. A little pain and blood to prove he’s having sex with a good girl.
“Come on,” he coaxes. “How many?”
“I don’t think it’s . . . God! Why do you want to know?”