Jane Doe(3)

Why would I? People cause pain. Even good people hurt those they love. We all do it because we can’t help it. Most of us aren’t evil; we’re just stupid and flawed and not careful with others. Meg thought the hurt was worth the goodness that came with it. Most people do. It’s what keeps them going.

What keeps me going? I don’t know. Small pleasures, I guess. Coffee. Chocolate. Competition. Silk dresses. A hot bath on a cold day. Winning. The satisfaction of shaping my life into exactly what I want.

Oh, and right now, my hatred for the muffled chatter of tiny children outside my door. I close my eyes and imagine they are Meg’s children instead of a stranger’s.

She wanted kids. She wanted a husband and a white picket fence and a swing set in the yard, and I wanted it all for her. She would have been an amazing mother, overflowing with love and attentiveness. She would have decorated for every holiday. She would have baked cookies and not cared how messy her kids got with the sprinkles and icing.

And she would never have disappeared for three days at a time to hit up the Choctaw casinos with her friends. She’d never have left her daughter home alone with strep throat and such a high fever that she hallucinated exotic animals. She’d never have let strange men rent a room.

Imagining Meg’s love for the children she won’t have fills me up with bittersweet yearning. It swells so tight in me that I briefly wonder if I could manage that kind of love myself. Maybe I could have a child and love it the way I loved Meg.

But no. Meg’s childhood had been filled with motherly affection, so she’d been able to accept my cool logic as a soothing balm. But children can’t thrive on calmness and remove. They need love too. Hugs and giggles and unfettered warmth. If that had ever been inside me, it isn’t now. I’m empty.

But not empty. I’m filled with sorrow. As the children pass my door on their way out of the building, I cover my face with my hands and squeeze my eyes tightly shut, unwilling to share vulnerability with even my bare walls.

I need Meg, and she’ll never be here again.





CHAPTER 5

On Monday, Steven finds me in the break room once more. He can’t very well come by my desk to chat. It’s in the middle of an open room full of desks and low cubicles, and health insurance administration is boring work. If he lingers, his interest will be noticed by the whole floor.

This works well for me. He’s forced to time his approach carefully. He has to plan ahead. This makes me seem more desirable than I really am.

I pretend not to notice him standing in the doorway. Frankly, I’m deeply absorbed in my book and resent having to jump back into real life. Or unreal life. Whatever this is. But when he clears his throat, I look up and smile at the sight of him. “Oh, hi!”

“Hey, Jane. I was thinking we could grab a sandwich. I figure you’re not familiar with the neighborhood, and my favorite place is just one block over. Gordo’s. Have you tried it yet?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I gesture toward the whirring microwave. “I already started cooking my lunch.”

He checks the box on the counter. Spaghetti with low-fat meat sauce. “Sunk cost,” he says. “Throw it in the trash and I’ll buy you something better.”

I laugh and shake my head. “I couldn’t. But thank you.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

Glancing down, I feign shyness, but I’m really calculating whether he’d be more interested in a yes or a no. I should probably keep up the chase, but I’ve been a little bored with all the planning. And I don’t want to bruise his ego this early in the game. Decision made, I risk a yes, but I spice it with obvious hesitation.

“It’s probably not a good idea . . .”

He smiles because he knows I’m giving in despite my gut instinct. “Nah, it’s a great idea.”

“You think so?”

“Definitely. Tomorrow?”

“Okay. All right. Tomorrow.”

He stands taller, his chest puffing out before he inclines his head toward my book. “What are you reading?” I hold it up, showing him the name of a famous thriller author. Steven grimaces. “Genre fiction?”

“My favorite.”

“I only read nonfiction.” He wants me to feel self-conscious, but the truth is that a man like Steven doesn’t want to immerse himself in someone else’s world. It gives the author too much power. It makes Steven feel small.

I ignore all that and pretend I don’t register the implied insult in his disapproval. “Nonfiction? What kind?”

“US history, mostly. Civil war stuff.”

“Oh, cool. I watched that Ken Burns documentary.”

“It was okay but pretty general.” Neither my books nor my viewing habits are good enough for him. I have to bite back a grin. If this were a bar, I would’ve told him to sod off by now. But right now I’m supposed to believe he’s better than I am. More discerning. I should probably apologize for my inferior preferences, but screw that. I don’t have the patience today.

The microwave dings and I get up to open it, then set the meal on the counter and lean down to poke around at the plastic tray. The soft pink-and-tan fabric of my dress gapes to reveal a lacy white bra beneath. I peel back the plastic wrap and frown as if the spaghetti is not quite done. When I look up, his eyes dart away from my cleavage.