Jane Doe(9)

To ensure I look eager to please, I arrive early. The tables are topped with honest-to-God Chianti bottles dripping with old candle wax. The host leads me to a tiny table and pulls out my chair before lighting the candle on our bottle. I ask for a glass of water and sit primly.

I wrote back to Cheryl before leaving my apartment. I told her I was doing well aside from missing Meg. I didn’t mention Minneapolis. Cheryl lives in Duluth now, and it would be an easy drive if I wanted to visit. I don’t. But I ask how she’s holding up and whether there’s anything I can do for her. I don’t tell her that the terrible example she set as a mother helped lead to Meg’s death. Even I am not that cruel. She has enough guilt to carry. So do I.

Meg committed suicide. She became so hopeless and broken that she killed herself, so we’re all to blame. Any one of us could have saved her, given the right timing.

But I wasn’t here, was I? I’d only returned to Minneapolis once in the past two years. If I’d come back more often, would she still be alive? What if I’d called more regularly? What if I’d been more empathetic, caring, human?

It had been a struggle to understand Meg’s problems, yes, but I’d tried. I swear I had. Still, patience is not my virtue. Nor is sympathy. Maybe I was her weakest link. Maybe her mother deserves none of my anger and I deserve all of it. I’ve never experienced regret before, but I do now. Missing Meg for the rest of my life will be my penance.

We were both thirty when she killed herself, and she’ll be thirty forever now. I will age and age and age without her.

Would I take her place if I could? Well, hell. I’m not given to selflessness, but I think I might. There’s no hope for me, after all. I’m not going to someday blossom into a happy, whole person. But there was hope for Meg.

Or maybe there was no hope at all. Maybe she was destined to marry shitty men and put her children through divorce after divorce and boyfriend after boyfriend. My life will be less destructive than that.

Still, I wish I could bring her back.

Melancholy is draping over me like a spiderweb that drifted in on the breeze, and if Steven doesn’t get here soon, I’m going to break character and order a carafe of table wine. If I’m quick, maybe I can drink it all before he arrives.

No such luck. Behind me I hear his loud, over-friendly greeting for the host. The host responds just as loudly. Everyone loves Steven! This could be a hilarious sitcom.

I stand and turn awkwardly to wait for him, as if I’m nervous. I’m probably overdoing this, but my instinct says to behave exactly the opposite of how I’d normally interact with a man. So far it’s working.

“Jane!”

He walks over quickly and gives me a long hug. Too long. I’m very proud of myself for not shoving him onto his ass. I’m not a hugger.

“You look gorgeous,” he whispers into my ear just as he’s pulling back. The anger in my cheeks looks like a blush.

“It’s just my work clothes,” I protest.

“You always look gorgeous.” I can see how women fall for him. He’s attentive.

“You drink red wine, I hope?” he asks as we both sit down.

“Not often.”

He ignores that and calls out to the host for a bottle of his favorite red. That’s when I realize this is a place he brings people so he can show off. Be the big man. It’s perfect.

“I’m glad you came,” he says.

“Did you think I’d chicken out?”

“You did seem pretty nervous.”

“I am nervous. I can’t afford to lose this job.”

“Don’t worry about it. Come on. No one really cares. As far as I know, nobody’s ever been disciplined for interoffice dating. It’s fine.”

“Do you think so?”

He reaches across the table to take my hand and tug it closer. “Trust me.”

His smile is meant to reassure me, but his words have the opposite effect. Why would I trust a man I’d just met? It’s a warning sign that he’d even ask me to. I give his hand a little squeeze as if I need someone to hold on to. When a waiter appears with a menu, I act embarrassed to have been caught in an intimate moment.

I fully expect the waiter to hand the menu to Steven so he can order for both of us, but he hands it to me instead. Steven winks. “I already know what I’m getting. Everything is good, by the way. You can’t make a bad choice.”

Oh, what a relief.

The waiter arrives. I order spaghetti Bolognese and my mouth waters at the thought of it. Please let this place be a hidden gem. This relationship doesn’t have to be all work and no play. I may as well enjoy what I can.

Garlic bread arrives. Honest-to-goodness hot, toasted garlic bread, and in that moment the future bad sex with Steven is all worth it. I grab a piece of bread, close my eyes, and bite.

“It’s good, right?” he asks.

“Oh my gosh, it’s so good.”

His smile lights up his whole face and I see his charm on full display. I see what someone could love about him if they didn’t look too closely. Sometimes I wish I didn’t always look so closely. I wish I could lose myself like other people do. But there’s no point in wishing for something that can never be. It’s a waste of energy.

“Is everything this good here?” I ask.

“Everything.”