“Where did you grow up again? Oklahoma?”
I feel a jolt that he knows the truth. I must have told him in some offhand conversation during college. But it hardly matters. He already knows my real name and where I went to school. It’s not as if I can disguise my identity from him.
“Yeah. Out in the boonies near the panhandle.”
“I grew up in the boonies of Bemidji. It probably wasn’t that different. More trees, though.”
“And fewer tornados,” I add.
“Yeah, and I’ve gotta be honest, I never had a junkyard dog.”
I laugh. “Did you have a white picket fence?”
“Uh, we did, actually.”
“Wow. Sounds like the American dream.”
“To be honest, it really wasn’t.”
“Why not?” I’m curious now, but Luke goes silent, so maybe that was a question I wasn’t supposed to ask. Sometimes I’m not sure of boundaries.
But then he decides to answer. “I don’t know. It should have been. A middle-class life in the country. Nuclear family. Nobody ever hit me.”
He leaves it at that, and I understand, at least a little. I didn’t come from a broken home either. We were never middle-class by any means, but my parents were together. I got hit every once in a while, but no one ever beat the tar out of me, and that’s the minimum standard for abuse in Oklahoma.
But those are surface issues. It’s the underneath that makes you who you are.
It’s your parents drinking with their trashy friends while all of them make fun of you for wetting your bed the night before. It’s your mom cackling when the handsy guy who rents the back room asks when you’re going to get titties. It’s living alone for five days in first grade and wondering if your parents have finally decided they don’t want to come back. It’s your dad saying he’ll send you to the Cherokee orphanage if he gets another letter from that stacked kindergarten teacher about your bad behavior.
Luke blows out a long breath. “Let’s just say I only went back a couple of times after I left for college.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Me too.”
“But now,” he says, “now you have a cat.” It’s sweet and simple and true.
Luke reminds me a lot of Meg.
CHAPTER 19
Be nice.
That’s what she used to tell me. Not often. Just when she needed me to be better. Be nice, Jane. Just be nice, okay?
And I would be nice. For her. For a little while. Long enough to listen to her problems and not tell her what she was doing wrong. Long enough to meet her new boyfriend and not scare him away.
She told me to be nice about Steven too. We were drinking. We both said mean things. He’s still a really good guy. Be nice, Jane.
So I’d be nice and not remind her that he’d called her a stupid whore. I’d keep my mouth shut and not tell her it seemed like she believed all the terrible things he said.
I shouldn’t have been so nice about him. Or maybe I should’ve been nicer to Meg? I don’t know. But I did something wrong; that much is obvious.
I only came back to the States once while she was dating him. They’d just broken up, and she was a weeping, terrified mess. She seemed to think she couldn’t go on without him. She was stupid, helpless, not good enough.
He’d kicked her out of his house again, and since she’d given up her apartment to live with him, she was sleeping in a friend’s basement. I’d gathered her up, rented a cabin on the coast of Lake Superior, and we’d stayed there for two weeks.
But I’m not a nurturer. I can’t heal people. I thought she was better when I returned to Malaysia, but my clumsy offerings of love—wine, s’mores, bad movies, sunburns, margaritas—they hadn’t done the trick. A week later she was back with him and sending me texts about how great everything was now. How nice he was being. How happy she was.
I didn’t speak to her for over a month. I was furious.
The next time he kicked her out, she was so embarrassed to tell me. She was ground down with humiliation. And all I could offer was I told you so.
She stopped telling me to be nice. And I couldn’t remember.
CHAPTER 20
Hey, where are you?
I glance down at the text from Steven and imagine answering him honestly. I’m in a rental car in the Minneapolis suburbs, following GPS directions to your house. I smile a shark’s smile and pull over to the curb in front of a row of 1980s ranch homes. It’s 8:45 in the morning and freezing cold. A lone jogger bounces by in winter gear, but otherwise the neighborhood is quiet.
I called in sick, I respond.
Are you okay?
Sure. I just have a headache. And I felt . . . weird.
Weird?
After yesterday.
Why?
I shouldn’t have done that with you.
Don’t say that. I loved it! ?
Ok, but . . . you never texted me. You said you would.
Sorry. I had a beer and fell asleep on the couch.
Well, I feel like a slut.
No no no! It was great.
I roll my eyes at his weak-ass assurance. Sure, it was great for him.
Ok. I have to go. I didn’t sleep well last night.
Why don’t I make you dinner tonight?
Will that make you feel better?
I dunno. Maybe.
I bet it will. I’ll pick you up at 6. I might even bring flowers . . .
Flowers for a public hand job. What a bargain. He’s a simple man, really, and I’m sending all the right signals. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex; it’s that I’m worried he’ll think badly of me afterward. This gives him access to sex and the ability to control me with it. What could be more perfect?
I throw the car in gear and pull back onto the quiet street. His house is half a mile farther into this sea of browning grass and falling leaves. But when I drive past Steven’s house, there are no leaves on his lawn. His neighbors are ankle-deep in orange and yellow, but there are only a few stray leaves on his square of yard, as if he rakes every morning.
Steven really likes to keep up appearances. He doesn’t want anyone to see his mess. I laugh as I drive one block over.
Feeling very satisfied with myself, I park and grab the satchel I packed this morning.
The cold is keeping everyone inside, but I’m not worried about being spotted trying to get into his house. I’m an average white woman. Worst-case scenario, I’ll wave and yell something self-deprecating about being dumb enough to lose the key, and that will be enough for the neighbors.
I reach Steven’s house and head up his front walk to check under the welcome mat. When I don’t find a hidden key, I walk around a corner to the gate of his privacy fence. I don’t glance around. The more sure of myself I look, the less suspicious any witness will be.
Once the gate latches behind me, I’m free to slow down and look around. The backyard is just one tree, some grass, and a covered grill on a square stone patio. There’s no dog to worry about, of course. Steven wouldn’t put up with cleaning dog crap off his lawn.
I tried to teach myself to pick locks a long time ago, because it looked like fun, but it turns out I’m not great at it. Not enough patience. I was hoping to find a simple window lock to jimmy open, but I spot a sliding door in back, which is even better. All it needs is a quick slip of a bent metal file and I’m in. If I ever have to go on the run, maybe I’ll make a good thief, at least when it comes to houses with patio doors.
The house is dead quiet and smells of bleach. The kitchen I walk into is spotless. Not high-end, though. It hasn’t been renovated since it was built. The floor is old tile. I turn to survey the living room and immediately notice that the carpet in the rest of the house appears to be dark chocolate brown. Gross. But it’s spotless as well, and I can see the vacuum lines as I step in.
Jeez, will I have to vacuum before I leave to hide my footprints? At least I know he’ll be well groomed when we finally have sex. Not much to look forward to, but it’s better than the alternative.