Jane Doe(15)

I didn’t miss him when I left Minneapolis. I had an internship to complete and then I was going to law school, so that was that. But I feel happy to be sitting with him now.

“So what did you do after college?” I ask.

“I went straight into IT.”

“No reason not to in this economy.”

“Exactly. I decided I could always go back for a master’s later. But, to be honest, I haven’t thought much about it since. Too busy.”

A waiter brings us water and I order a latte, then fall silent to look at the menu. It never takes me long to decide, and I know immediately that I’ll have the French toast and bacon. In general, I do what I want and worry about consequences later. If I gain more weight than I like, I start a workout regimen, but it’s usually not a problem. I don’t stress-eat or try to smother pain with food. Whatever pain I have I ignore until it goes away. I tried that for months after Meg. It didn’t work.

“What about you?” Luke asks. “What did you do after law school?”

“I jumped right into trade law. I’ve been overseas for a few years. Malaysia.”

“Wow! Now I feel provincial. I never left Minneapolis.”

“Honestly, it’s still one of my favorite places.” I spent four good years here. And my soul lived here with Meg.

The waiter appears to take our orders, and then Luke and I study each other for a moment.

“You’re really only here temporarily?” he asks.

“I’m doing work on a confidential contract.” The lie comes easily to me, as they always do. “A merger with lots of moving parts overseas. I’m not sure how long it will take. A couple months at most.”

“Well,” he says as his cheeks color again, “I’ll just jump right in, then. Are you single?”

I’m about to say yes when I realize this is a problem. If he’s going to ask me out—and he is—I can’t be seen in a romantic situation with him. And there’s still that little issue of how my plans will culminate and whether I’ll need to flee an investigation.

He’s watching with one raised brow, his gaze direct and patient. Shit.

“I am dating someone,” I answer.

“Oh.”

“Not exclusively.”

He smiles. “Oh.”

“It’s complicated,” I add, but he doesn’t care. I’ve made clear that I’m open to something and he’ll take that. He’s a man. “Why are you so interested?” I challenge him with a small smile, just to see how he’ll react.

“Because,” he answers, “you’re the one who got away.”

I almost choke on my latte. He’s surprised me again. “What? Me?”

“Yes.”

“Like a fish that escaped?”

“No!” He shakes his head hard. “No, not like that. I just liked you a lot, and then you were gone.”

I honestly had no idea I was anything special to him. As far as I can remember, we dated for about two months, we both knew I was leaving, and we said goodbye with little fanfare. “Really?” I press.

“Really really.”

I stare at him. I don’t like knowing that I missed signals, even if they wouldn’t have meant much to me at the time. But as I study his face, I remember that he made a couple of jokes about long-distance relationships and I ignored them. What’s the point of a boyfriend if you can’t have sex?

He winces at my continued silence. “And now I’m getting the idea you didn’t feel the same connection.” When I smile, he laughs again, easy and unperturbed.

“No, it’s not that I didn’t like you,” I say, “but I was moving, so I guess I never thought of it as something long term.”

“I get that. Maybe that was what made you so appealing to a twenty-two-year-old guy. You were elusive. Unattainable.”

I laugh at that. “If I remember correctly, you attained me quite a few times.”

The joke wasn’t that funny, but he laughs until tears leak from his eyes. I remember he always had a way of making me feel special. Or the opposite of special, maybe: just normal.

“So you’re not seeing anyone?” I ask, even though I don’t particularly care one way or the other.

“No one serious,” he answers, and I know I can have him if I want. And I might want. He’s a nice palate cleanser after spending time with Steven.

We fall into a comfortable conversation, reminiscing about our college days. We’re just digging into our food when he asks how Meg is doing.

“She died,” I say before I remember I’m supposed to soften it up.

His fork clatters against the plate. “What?”

“Meg died. In February.”

“But . . . how?”

“She killed herself.”

His face has drained of color, and I slowly set my fork down because if I take another bite that would seem callous. I feel genuine grief, but it’s muffled in a way that others wouldn’t understand. It’s there, but I can always function just fine.

“My God,” Luke whispers. “Were you still in touch with her?”

“Yes. She was my best friend.”

“Jane, I’m so, so sorry.”