Jane Doe(16)

He’s the only person I’ve told. No one else would have cared. But he knew Meg, and he knew what she meant to me. “She took pills,” I say, though he didn’t ask.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. You must be . . .” But Luke doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, and I can’t finish it either. I’m not sure what I must be. In pain, yes. Lonely. But angry too. Vengeful. And always, always cold. I’ll go on with my life; there’s no question of that. I’ll be fine. But everything has shifted.

“That’s how I ended up here,” I say, and that small part is the truth, at least. “I just . . . I needed a change. When I saw an opportunity in Minneapolis, I took it as a sign.”

“I’m so sorry you lost her.”

Lost her? Did I lose her? It’s more like she made herself disappear. I know exactly where she is. She’s not here. And that was what she wanted. Should I even be sad about her when she got her wish?

I pick up my fork and dig into the French toast again before it gets cold. It belatedly occurs to me that I should have cried or broken down in some way, but it’s too late now, and frankly Luke seems relieved.

“She was so kind,” he says after a minute of silence. “I should send flowers to her grave.”

It makes no sense to me. Meg won’t know the difference. But I tell him the name of the cemetery, because I’ve learned to keep thoughts like that to myself. There are so many human rituals I don’t understand.

My grandmother died when I was twenty, and I managed not to tell my mother she’d be better off using the funeral money on anything aside from putting a corpse in the ground. Groceries, car repairs, bail money for my worthless brother. Hell, she could even have contributed one goddamn dollar to my education instead of throwing money at a dead harridan.

While I managed not to tell my mother, I did spill my contempt for the burial rites to the funeral home director. I told him we should just cremate the body and get it over with. His mask of polite respect slipped for a moment to reveal arrogance and revulsion, but I wasn’t the one bilking grief-stricken idiots out of thousands of dollars. Of course, the joke was on him. The check bounced, and Grandma was already embalmed and interred. No taking that back.

“Are you okay?” Luke asks, and I am. But now I’m thinking about Meg dead and decaying in the ground, and I don’t want to think about that. I didn’t come home for the funeral. There was no point. I would’ve felt nothing but selfish rage. I didn’t want to see her strange, rubbery face in the casket. I didn’t want to see her being lowered into dirt.

Now I’m thinking about it even though I was so careful to avoid it. I don’t want this.

“Do you live nearby?” I ask suddenly.

“In St. Paul. It’s not too far. A condo on the river.”

“Can we go there?”

“Go there?” He’s confused, a puzzled half smile on his mouth.

“Yes,” I say. “Now.”

And he gets it then. His eyes flare wide, his lips part. He doesn’t answer.

“Do you live with someone?”

“No, of course not. It’s just . . . I mean . . .”

I shrug one shoulder. “Just for old times’ sake?”

“Jane.” I’m not sure if he’s scolding me or just reminding himself of my name. It makes no difference to me. I watch him the way my cat watched me today. I want what I want when I want it. He leans back a little, trying to figure me out.

“Come on, player,” I finally drawl, and Luke smiles. Then he laughs.

“My car’s around the corner.”

And that’s all the answer I need.





CHAPTER 12

The boy has learned a thing or two since college. He had been fine, but now he’s good. He took me enthusiastically—just what I needed. Then he went down on me and worked us both up to another round.

“I am so glad I ran into you,” he says breathlessly as the sweat cools on our skin. He seems to remember that I don’t like to cuddle afterward and settles for splaying one hand on my hip. I don’t even mind. In fact, I kind of like it.

“That was slightly better than shopping for cat litter.”

His low, satisfied rumble of laughter shakes the bed. I stretch hard and then rise naked to walk to the row of windows overlooking the river. I know he’s watching my ass, the sway of my hips. I like that. Men love a show and I love an audience. I stretch again, half hoping someone on the street is watching too.

“You’re sexy as hell,” he says. Lots of men have said this to me. They like a woman with no shame. We’re rare, you see, because we’re told to be ashamed of everything every day by everyone. Ashamed to give them what they want, ashamed not to want to give it to them. Ashamed to show our average bodies, ashamed not to have a perfect one. I have no idea how normal women date. The world seems like it’d be an unbearable place for people with real feelings.

But it’s simpler for me, so I watch a sailboat skim the water below and wonder when Luke will be up for another round. Probably not for hours, sadly.

“I should go,” I murmur.

I hear the bed shift, the sheets rustling. “I’ll drive you.”

“No, I’ll grab a car.”

“I can drop you at the pet store,” he offers.