A Nearly Normal Family(67)

I lay down in bed with my computer. A few days earlier, I had found an American site about psychopaths that turned out to be a real gold mine. A ton of researchers and psychiatrists wrote long, interesting entries for it. I read that psychopaths are sometimes described as predators who manipulate those around them with their exceptional charm and charisma. Those who encounter the seductive flattery of a psychopath seldom realize they’re being manipulated until it’s too late. Psychopaths lie often and without guilt. Psychopaths lie for their own gain, to improve their self-image, and to get ahead in life.

I’ve always been a master at telling lies. Was that a psychopathic trait?

Psychopaths know they’re lying. And so did I. And sure, sometimes I lied for my own benefit. I wasn’t sure that I always felt guilty when I lied. What did that say about me?

I read about a woman whose whole life was ruined when she met a man who cheated her out of everything she owned. I felt sorry for her, of course, but at the same time I couldn’t help but feel some disdain.



* * *



On Friday the sun came out. The city emptied quickly, everyone on their way to the coast or a park. I was at work when I saw Chris’s message. I never check my phone when I’m at the store. Especially not when Malin is there—the store manager. She’s the type who would fire you for using your phone during working hours. There are rumors that she stopped giving one girl hours just because she chewed gum at the register.

But I was on break when I saw the message from Chris. I was alone in the break room and maybe that was lucky, because my reaction involved maybe a little too much teen-girl cheering.

Can you be ready at 6? A limo will pick you up. I suggest a dress. Maybe pajamas. Oh no, that’s right, you sleep naked.

My whole body got the butterflies when I read that.

On the one hand Chris was too much. On the other hand, my life was too boring. I’d never ridden in a limo and I confess I am both materialistic and easily impressed.

How dangerous could it be? A date. Who doesn’t want to get dressed up and take a limousine to a fancy restaurant that serves dishes you can’t even pronounce?

I held off on answering Chris for a while, but the truth is I never really hesitated. The offer was too good to refuse.

At six on the dot, I was standing on the sidewalk near my house in my newest, sexiest dress as the limo pulled up. It was one of those mega-huge ones with a white interior and a well-stocked bar. We opened a bottle of Mo?t and toasted as we headed across the bridge to Copenhagen.

“I’m so glad you wanted to come along,” said Chris.

His eyes were glowing.

When we arrived, he ran around the car and opened the door for me. Then he guided me ahead of him, one hand resting gently on the small of my back. Apparently the restaurant had Michelin stars and was world famous. I’ve forgotten the name. The food was mostly just weird, and despite four courses I wasn’t anywhere near full.

“Can we stop here?” I called to the driver when we passed an ice-cream stand on our way home.

I bought a giant soft-serve with whipped cream and fruit topping. Then we sat there at a folding table with gulls at our feet, and Chris watched wide-eyed as I got sticky with fruit and licked my fingers clean.

“I dig your style,” he said.

I didn’t get what there was to like, but naturally I was flattered.

We rounded off the evening at a rooftop bar with a view of the Sound; you could see all the way to Sweden. A ruddy guy played sad songs on the grand piano and Chris stared at me so intently, and for so long, that I almost blushed.

“Tell me your dreams?” he asked.

“Sorry, I was just thinking…”

“No,” he interrupted, and tiny peanut-shaped dimples appeared in his cheeks as he laughed. “I mean, what are your dreams, what do you want to do with your life?”

“Oh.”

I didn’t laugh, not at all. My stomach twisted in a familiar way.

“I hate that question.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t answer it.”

Chris raised his eyebrows.

“It’s true,” I said. “All my friends know exactly what they’re going to do; they’ve, like, planned out their whole lives. Travel, education, job, family. I can’t do that. I just get bored.”

“Me too. It sounds awful. That’s not what I meant at all.”

“I think it sucks having to plan next weekend ahead of time. I want to be surprised.”

Chris’s laughter made his eyes sparkle like diamonds.

“I’m exactly the same way.”

I smiled at him. Despite the age difference, we had quite a bit in common.

“Most people my age live extremely routine lives,” he said as the pianist played that Elton John song from The Lion King. “It started happening when we were around twenty-five. People were suddenly so damn boring. Every day is the same, they do the same things, watch the same TV shows, listen to the same podcasts, eat the same food, go to the same gym, follow the same Instagram accounts, and have the exact same opinions about everything.”

“Ugh, I hope I never end up that way.”

“No risk of that. You and I are different.”

He hummed along with the refrain. Can you feel the love tonight?

“That’s why I quit handball. I was actually really good, got to go to the national-team camps and stuff. But suddenly everything had to be so regimented. Every offensive had to be planned out ahead of time and if you tried to take any initiative on your own you’d get chewed out by the coaches. It wasn’t fun anymore.”