Jane Doe(67)

I tap out a quick text. Maybe we could read again. Order take out.

I’d love that.

Yeah. Me too. And, strangely, it’s not just the sex I’m looking forward to. It’s . . . everything. The couch, the books, the jokes. I’m not sure why, but it hardly matters. This will all be over soon, and I’ll get back to my solitary sociopathic life in Kuala Lumpur. But I’ll enjoy everything about Luke while I can.





CHAPTER 43

I’m stretched across Luke’s couch, my feet on his lap. His warm hand absently holds one of my ankles, rising away each time he turns a page, then sliding back over my skin as if he likes the curve of my bones.

The loft is quiet but for the paper rustle of our books. Empty cartons of Thai food are spread across the coffee table, and we’re lounging, full and sleepy like an old married couple.

“I’m leaving next week,” I say into the silence.

His hand tightens in a quick spasm on my ankle. He sets the book down. “What?”

“The project is wrapping up.” I don’t know why I’m telling him. I planned to simply disappear. Am I trying to avoid hurting his feelings, or am I worried he’ll contact the police if I go missing? It must be the latter. I don’t worry about people’s feelings.

“You’re going?” He sounds stunned even though he knew this was coming.

“Yes.” I add a cheerful note to my voice. “Back to Malaysia!”

“But . . . okay. Sure. Right.”

I pick up my book again, my duty done. When I glance up, Luke is staring straight ahead as if I’ve shocked him. “The project is over,” I say again, more softly this time.

“Yeah. I get it. I just thought . . . I don’t know.”

I nod. “We had a good time.”

“Yes.”

“There’s still time for a few more rounds, you know.” I nudge his thigh with my foot, but he doesn’t laugh.

“I meant it when I said this wasn’t just about sex for me.”

Not sure how to respond, I fall silent.

He scrubs both hands through his hair. “You were the one who got away, you know? Now you’re off again. I know I’ll miss you, because I missed you the first time around.”

I’m flattered. How can I not be? I only ever bought him a book. But it’s the sex he’ll really miss, of course. “Luke . . .” I shake my head. “I’m not good at relationships. I’m just . . . not.”

He turns to study my face. “Not what?”

“I’m different,” I try. “That’s all. I’m not like other people.”

“I know you’re different.”

“You do?”

“Sure. You’re . . . I don’t know . . . you’re a little autistic or something?”

I’ve never thought of it that way, but I can see why he’d make that connection. As if my feelings are trapped inside instead of mostly nonexistent. “Something like that,” I murmur. “So . . . yeah. I’d never make a good girlfriend. So you don’t have to miss me. You’re allowed to miss the sex, though.” I nudge him again, but he doesn’t even pretend to smile.

“I don’t know how to say this without it sounding like an insult, but . . . I like whatever is wrong with you, Jane.”

I shake my head, flustered in a way I rarely am. I feel the skin of my face heat as if even my body is confused.

He clears his throat and runs his fingers through his tousled hair. “Not wrong. I didn’t mean that. Just different. You’re always so calm.”

“That’s true, I guess.”

“Being with you feels smooth. Steady. Like you’re at peace.”

“At peace?”

“I know it must be more complicated than that for you, but whatever it is, I feel at peace with you.”

Most people don’t notice that I’m different. I work hard at making sure I fit in. But sometimes perceptive people sense the coldness inside me, and they don’t feel at peace. They feel nervous. They draw away. They watch closely, waiting for a strike, and that’s exactly what they should do. There’s nothing comforting about me.

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“My mom was . . .” Luke huffs out a laugh. “My mom was a cyclone. Up and down, always intense, always chaotic. When I was little, I’d ride my bike home from school, and my head would get tighter and tighter with each block I passed, wondering what was waiting for me when I got home. Maybe she made three dozen cookies and she wanted to have a movie marathon even though I had a big test the next day. Or maybe she tore all the books and clothes out of my closet because she walked in and got irritated by my mess. Whatever it was, I couldn’t ignore it, because she demanded participation. She wanted our full attention. Always. It was exhausting. So fucking exhausting.”

“So she was manic or bipolar or . . . ?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t think there was anything wrong with her, as far as I could ever tell, so there was never a diagnosis. She’s never gotten help. And from the outside, everything looked perfect. Amazing Christmas decorations, fresh baked goods, new paint on the kitchen cupboards, our clothes perfectly ironed. But I hated that place. I hated being home. I could never, ever relax.”