Jane Doe(22)

“Tonight?”

“My dad is giving a sermon at a homeless shelter, and I’m helping him out there.”

“Oh, I see. Sometime next week?” He wants to take me to dinner, but now I’m the one asking for it.

“Sure. How about Thursday? I’ll pick you up at your place this time.”

“That would be really nice,” I say.

We reach the Starbucks quickly and I order a nonfat latte and a mini-scone. Steven raises his eyebrows. “What?” I protest. “It’s tiny!”

“Sure,” he answers, but his eyebrows stay high. I eat the whole thing before our drinks are ready. It’s only two bites.

The wind has picked up since this morning. A cold front is moving in and we can’t find an inside table in the post-church crowd, so we take our drinks back to the vehicle and set off for my apartment.

My phone buzzes and I see it’s a text from Luke. Maybe I’ll get lucky tonight after all.

I fell asleep and forgot to check if you made it home okay.

I did, thanks, I write back.

“Who’s that?” Steven asks and I realize I’m smiling. Oops.

“It’s the animal shelter. My cat is ready!”

“You have a cat?” This isn’t a question. It’s disgust.

“I adopted her yesterday.”

“Cats are disgusting.”

“They are not! They’re great!”

“They walk through feces and then jump onto countertops.”

“Cats are very clean. Their saliva has antibacterial properties and they constantly clean themselves.”

He shudders. “Right.”

“I like cats,” I whine defensively.

He laughs. “Yeah, you’d better be careful. You’re on your way to being a fat cat lady.”

Even I’m surprised by how quickly he’s turned from flirting to insulting me. I cross my arms as if to protect myself. “It’s one cat. And I’m not fat.”

He snorts. I look out the side window.

“It was just a joke,” he eventually says. When I don’t answer, he huffs. “Come on. Don’t pout. I was kidding.”

“That was really rude.”

“I’m sorry. You surprised me, that’s all. I don’t like cats.”

He’s sorry, but apparently it was my fault the whole time. I should have known he hated cats and conformed to his preferences. Shifty or not, it’s a peace offering, and I’m supposed to take it. Accept the blame and swallow my hurt and be ashamed of my weight and my cat.

“I’m sorry,” I respond quietly.

He pats my hand. Everything is fine now. “You’re not still pouting, are you?”

I sit straighter and force a laugh. “I’m not pouting.”

“Good. It was a really nice day.”

It was. And I came so close to ruining it.

“How about lunch tomorrow?” he offers.

I smile in response. “That would be nice.”

He drops me off and I wave as I let myself into the lobby. As soon as the door closes behind me, my bright smile twists into a sneer.

I can’t wait to take him down.





CHAPTER 16

She’s finally here. My cat.

They gave her to me in a cardboard cat carrier, and during the walk I imagine her crouching inside, furious and ready to attack. Certainly that’s how I would react to being dropped into a box with only a few holes to see out of.

I set her carefully on the floor and pop open the little tabs keeping the cardboard handle closed. I ease the flaps open and step back, trying to avoid an attack. But she doesn’t leap out. She only stretches her head through the opening and looks around, alert but faintly bored. She’s so incredibly cool.

Once she’s assessed the room and deigned to glance in my direction, she hops elegantly up and out to land silently on the floor. She swipes her tongue over her gorgeous gray fur a few times and then, blatantly ignoring me, begins to explore the room. I love her already.

It’s common knowledge that sociopaths can’t love. I’ve known this since I was seventeen. But this fact no longer feels sure to me. I feel like I loved Meg. I may not have been empathetic or understanding, but I cared about what happened to her, and I liked the way I felt when I was with her.

Was I just using her for what she brought to my life? Maybe. But how is that different from how most people love? I look around and see people loving others because it feels good to be with them. Isn’t that mercenary? Isn’t that selfish? How am I so different?

After she died, it hurt so much that I looked up love and sociopathy online. I was surprised to find new opinions from experts who theorize that even people like me can form connections. We may not have souls, but maybe we’re not completely hollow. There’s something knocking around in there. Unfortunately, that something hurts.

So maybe I love this cat and maybe I don’t, but I at least have a burning crush on her. She stalks the space of my apartment, her muscles bunching and relaxing in a mesmerizing rhythm. She’s a hunter, hyperaware, eyes wide and ears forward.

I sit down on the couch and watch as she discovers the litter box and immediately crouches to pee, marking it as hers. She hops out and gives herself a quick bath before disappearing into my tiny bedroom.