Final Girls(2)

We need to talk. Face 2 face.

My fingers pause above the screen. Although it takes Coop three hours to drive into Manhattan, it’s a trip he’s willingly made many times in the past. When it’s important.

I text back. When?

His reply arrives in seconds. Now. Usual place.

A spot of worry presses the base of my spine. Coop is already here. Which means only one thing—something is wrong.

Before leaving, I rush through my usual preparations for a meeting with Coop. Teeth brushed. Lips glossed. Tiny Xanax popped. I wash the little blue pill down with some grape soda drank straight from the bottle.

In the elevator, it occurs to me that I should have changed clothes. I’m still in my baking wear: black jeans, one of Jeff’s old button-downs, and red flats. All bear flecks of flour and faded dollops of food coloring. I notice a scrape of dried frosting on the back of my hand, skin peeking through the blue-black smear. It resembles a bruise. I lick it off.

Outside on 82nd Street, I make a right onto Columbus, already packed with pedestrians. My body tightens at the sight of so many strangers. I stop and shove stiff fingers into my purse, searching for the can of pepper spray always kept there. There’s safety in numbers, yes, but also uncertainty.

It’s only after finding the pepper spray that I start walking again, my face puckered into a don’t-bother-me scowl. Although the sun is out, a tangible chill stings the air. Autumn making its swift approach. I regret not bringing a jacket.

I pick up my pace as Theodore Roosevelt Park comes into view, the leaves there poised between green and gold. Through the foliage, I can see the back of the Museum of Natural History, which on this morning is swarmed with school kids. Their voices flit like birds among the trees. When one of them shrieks, the rest go silent. Just for a second.

I walk on, heading to the cafe two blocks south of the museum.

Our usual place.

Coop is waiting for me at a table by the window, looking the same as always. That sharp, craggy face that appears pensive in times of repose, such as now. A body that’s both long and thick. Large hands, one of which bears a ruby class ring instead of a wedding band. The only change is his hair, which he keeps trimmed close to the scalp. Each meeting always brings a few more flecks of gray.

His presence in the cafe is noticed by all the nannies and caffeinated hipsters that crowd the place. Nothing like a cop in full uniform to put people on edge. Even without it, Coop cuts an intimidating figure. He’s a big man, consisting of rolling hills of muscle. The starched blue shirt and black trousers with the knife-edge crease only amplify his size.

He lifts his head as I enter, and I notice the exhaustion in his eyes. He must have driven here directly from working the third shift.

Two mugs are already on the table. Earl Grey with milk and extra sugar for me. Coffee for Coop. Black. Unsweetened.

“Quincy,” he says, nodding.

There’s always a nod. It’s Coop’s version of a handshake. We never hug. Not since the desperate one I gave him the night we first met. No matter how many times I see him, that moment is always there, playing on s loop until I push it away.

They’re dead, I had choked out while clutching him, the words gurgling thickly in the back of my throat. They’re all dead. And he’s still out here.

Ten seconds later, he saved my life.

“This is certainly a surprise,” I say as I sit. I can hear the tremor in my voice, and I tamp it down. I don’t know why Coop’s called me but if it’s bad news, I want to be calm.

“You’re looking well,” Coop says while giving me the quick, concerned once-over I’m now accustomed to. “But you’ve lost some weight.”

There’s worry in his voice, too. He’s thinking about the six months after Pine Cottage, when my appetite had left me so completely that I ended up back in the hospital, force fed through a tube. I remember waking to find Coop standing by my bed, staring at the plastic tube slithered up my nostril.

Don’t disappoint me, Quincy, he said then. You didn’t survive that night just to die like this.

“It’s nothing,” I say. “I’ve finally learned I don’t have to eat everything I bake.”

“And how’s that going? The baking thing?”

“Great, actually. I gained five-thousand followers last quarter and got another corporate advertiser.”

“That’s great,” Coop says. “Glad everything is going well. One of these days, you should actually bake something for me.”

Like the nod, this is another of Coop’s constants. He always says it, never means it.

“How’s Jefferson?” he asks.

“He’s good. The public defender’s office just made him the lead attorney on a big, juicy case.”

I leave out how the case involves a man accused of killing a narcotics detective in a bust gone wrong. Coop already looks down on Jeff’s job. There’s no need to toss more fuel onto that particular fire.

“Good for him,” he says.

“He’s been gone the past two days. Had to fly to Chicago to get statements from family members. Says it’ll make a jury more sympathetic.”

“Hmm,” Coop replies, not quite listening. “I guess he hasn’t proposed yet.”

I shake my head. I told Coop I thought Jeff was going to propose in August, during our vacation in the Outer Banks, but no ring so far. That’s the real reason I’ve recently lost weight. I’ve become the kind of girlfriend who takes up jogging just to fit into a hypothetical wedding dress.