Just the Nicest Couple(73)

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll take you,” he says again, with some finality. “Those places can be sketchy.” I’m not worried about whether I’ll be safe. I’m just anxious to have Jake’s car back, but I realize there is no use arguing with him about it and so I acquiesce.

I say, “Okay. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

I get through the rest of the day, and then, at the end of it, Ryan follows me to my house in his car. I pull into the garage and he waits for me while I run inside to get Jake’s spare key fob from the box by the door. I call my mother and tell her I’ll be late but I don’t say why. I don’t want to worry her.

In Ryan’s car, I can barely sit still. I fidget with practically everything that comes within reach. He has the radio on and the music is quiet, calming, background noise. “Do you have everything you need to get the car?” he asks.

“I think so,” I say. “I have his key, proof of ownership and the vehicle’s VIN number. Can you think of anything I might be forgetting?”

“I don’t think so. You have your driver’s license?”

“Yes.”

“Everything is going to be okay, Nina,” he says, because he can see how worried I am. I appreciate it. Still, Ryan doesn’t know that for a fact. He doesn’t know that everything is going to be okay.

“I hope you’re right,” I say.

We’re quiet for a while. I don’t feel much like talking. I stare out the window, watching the world pass by. My mind is a million miles away, thinking about Jake and this hotel in Bridgeview. Why would Jake have gone there?

Ryan says, “I’m surprised you didn’t tell me what was happening with your husband sooner,” as he pulls onto the expressway and toward the auto pound. The auto pound sits just on the outskirts of the city, so that the closer we get, skyscrapers rise up in the distance like LEGO bricks, the street narrowing to a vanishing point.

His voice sounds almost hurt, and again, I feel guilty for not telling him.

I hear myself apologize. “I’m sorry, Ryan. It wasn’t anything intentional. I really thought Jake had left me. It’s only in the last few days that the situation changed.”

“What changed?” he asks.

“My mother thought she saw Jake at our home last Saturday. But she was wrong—it wasn’t Jake. Someone broke into my home, which is terrifying, but it also means that no one has laid eyes on Jake in two weeks. He isn’t using his phone or his credit cards, he hasn’t taken money from the bank. I don’t know what he’s doing for shelter, for food, or if he’s even alive.”

“Jesus,” he says. “Nina. I’m so sorry.” He glances sideways at me. “I wish you would have talked to me. I hate to think that you’ve been going through all this these last few days alone.”

“I’m not entirely alone. I have my mother,” I say, “and the police. They’ve been looking for Jake.”

“Still,” he says, “I could have done something. I could have tried to help you find him.” He’s quiet for a beat, and then he says, “I thought you knew you could always talk to me.”

“I do,” I say quickly. My words come fast. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. It wasn’t anything intentional, but as it is I’ve just been trying to keep my head above water. Please don’t be upset with me,” I say.

Ryan reaches over. His hand comes down encouragingly on my knee. “Hey,” he says, softening. “I’m not upset. This isn’t about me, Nina. I’m only thinking of you. I just hope you know that you can always count on me. You can tell me anything. I am always here for you.”

It’s meant to be a bolstering gesture, and at first it is. At first I’m grateful for the kind words and the human touch. Tears prick my eyes and I feel suddenly overcome with emotion. “Thank you. That means so much to me. Really.”

But then I look down at his hand. He hasn’t moved it. It’s still on my knee. I’m wearing my mother’s dress and am suddenly aware of how short it is on me because I’m taller than her. When I stood, looking at myself in the mirror at her house, it had come just above the knee. I thought it was completely appropriate and not at all suggestive. I’m always cognizant of this, because I work with teenagers, especially teenage boys. I didn’t think what would happen when I sat down, how the skirt would ride up to the upper thigh, though, to be fair, my legs are only ever under my desk when I sit. No one ever sees my legs.

“So where do you think he is?” Ryan asks. He strokes my knee. It’s subtle, just the brush of his thumb skinning my leg. I resist the urge to cross my legs, knowing it will only reveal more if I do.

“I don’t know,” I say, though my throat is dry and it’s hard to speak.

“Had he been having trouble with anyone, or was there an issue at work?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Can you think of any reason why he would go to Bridgeview?”

I swallow against a knot in my throat. “No,” I say, risking a glance at Ryan, conscious of his eyes on my thighs.

He catches me looking at him and his eyes shift from my leg to my face, where he stares at me, not blinking. He doesn’t move his hand. I feel the thrum of my pulse in my neck and I angle my body suddenly away, turning my knees toward the door. My gaze follows. I look out the window. Ryan’s hand slips from my knee, though for a second, in my peripheral vision, I see how it remains suspended midair, his elbow propped on the center console as if debating whether to reach for me again.