Jane Doe(34)

“The movie or the sex?” he asks, and I’m laughing again. Really laughing. He grins like he’s proud of himself.

I grin back. “I meant both, obviously.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Then I’ll see you at seven.”

We finish our plates and go back for seconds. I get a big cup of rice pudding too. Luke doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

I should be spending time manipulating Steven, but I’m so glad I met Luke for lunch instead. Something about this day has thrown me off, and I’m not sure what it is.

“My mom called this morning,” I say abruptly. “She asked for money and I sent it. Why do I send her money when I don’t even like her?”

“Guilt,” Luke suggested immediately.

“I don’t think that’s it.”

“It’s a pretty strong emotion. We’re supposed to care about our families no matter how bad they are. So even if you feel like you don’t want to help, you’ve been told your whole life that you should.”

That’s true. I take my behavioral cues from others. It’s my way of flying under the radar and fitting in.

“I don’t feel guilty,” I say, not sure how to explain that without telling the truth. “I mostly just want her to go away.”

He nods. “Sure. You’ve learned that it’s easier to give her what she wants.”

“But if I don’t give her what she wants, she’ll eventually go away altogether, right? And that would be better. So why do I accommodate her?”

“Do you really want her to go away forever? It would be walking away from the first eighteen years of your life. We all want a foundation, I think, even if it’s cracked and damaged. We want proof of where we came from even if we’re running away from it.”

“Maybe.” Do I need a foundation? I feel like I’m utterly independent. But I obviously want something from those people. Am I still waiting to feel like I’m the same as other humans? That I have a family and connections and a heart? Do I keep my family in my life so I can pretend I’m normal?

“I haven’t spoken to my mom in five years,” Luke says, “but I still check her Facebook page. Same thing, I’m sure.”

“Do you love her?” I ask out of curiosity.

“Yes. She’s my mom.” He shrugs and shakes his head. “We’re all idiots, I guess.”

“What did she do?” Even I understand this isn’t a question I should ask. Not here and not now, but I want to know.

He sighs and finishes chewing a bite of food. “It’s a long story. Suffice to say she’s easily riled up.”

He’s already told me no one ever hit him, so I’m not sure what he means, but it’s getting late, and he doesn’t look like he wants to say more anyway.

“I’d better get going,” I say. “Your place at seven?”

Luke stands when I do and says he’ll get the check.

I feel calmer as I walk back to the office. A few fat snowflakes drift lazily from the sky, but nothing much happens after that. I hope it snows more later. I like the picture Luke has painted for me. A warm, cozy blanket, his leather couch and hot body, buildings exploding on the screen. I think it will feel real, and I don’t get to feel real very often.

Steven is waiting for me when I get off the elevator. He herds me toward the break room, but there are two women eating there, so he moves farther down the hall toward the supply closet. “Where’d you go?” He keeps his voice low, but he’s radiating secrets and scandal for anyone who sees us talking.

“Out,” I answer.

“I was going to take you to lunch.”

“Were you going to walk me back afterward or put me in a car by myself?”

“Oh, come on!” He tips his head back and rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “Are you kidding me? I’d had, like, four beers!”

It was six, actually. “Sure. I get it.”

“You get it, but you’re going to treat me like crap anyway?”

“I went out for lunch, Steven. How is that about you?”

“And the way you’re acting now isn’t about me?”

“How do you expect me to feel? I did . . . that, and you made me feel like a call girl afterward!”

“You said you needed to go! How is that my fault?”

“I don’t just sleep with anyone, you know.” I cover my face as if I’m crying. I can go through the motions, but I’m not always good at making my eyes water. “I’m a nice girl. I really am. And when we do those things . . . I just . . . Do you even like me?”

“Hey, come on. Don’t cry. Of course I like you. I took you to my dad’s church! You’re being really silly about this. Maybe it’s PMS.”

“It’s not PMS! I feel like . . . I feel like I’m being dirty.”

“Come on. You’ve done that with other boyfriends.”

“Yes, but . . . I don’t even know if you’re really my boyfriend.”

“Of course I’m your boyfriend.”

“You didn’t ask me to spend the night.”

“I’m sorry. I should have.”

I sniff and let out a shuddery breath. “Really?”