Love in the Time of Serial Killers(21)

“Amanda!” Conner said, like an exclamation of Eureka! “That was the girlfriend’s name. Ex-girlfriend.”

It was just too hot to have this conversation outside. I finally moved for the front door, already dreading the next time we’d have to lug more stuff out here.

“Let me guess,” I said. “She’s thin and sophisticated and parts her hair down the middle.”

“See, that’s the problem with you.” Conner followed me into the house, giving a box by the door a kick to see if it was empty. Of course it wasn’t. “I can never tell if you’re saying, like, typical jealous girl stuff, or more serial killer stuff.”

“I am not jealous,” I said emphatically. “First of all, I have no claim to Sam, nor do I want one. Second, you know that the greatest trick the patriarchy ever pulled was pitting women against each other.”

I meant every word. At the same time, it did give me a funny feeling, learning more about Sam. I didn’t know why. Maybe it just felt strange, having to acknowledge that he was a real person with a past and a present and a life beyond the little snippets I observed and pretended I could draw conclusions about.

It was the way I’d felt when I saw him hug Barbara at the party. It had been so clear in that moment, that these people all had relationships with each other, inside jokes and histories and real feelings. And if I normally felt like a fish out of water at most parties, suddenly I felt like the biggest bottom dweller who shriveled from any exposure to daylight. Sam looked like he gave great hugs, and I’d wanted one so bad.

Disgusting.

“Any ideas about the proposal?” I asked, because I’d take any subject change at this point. There was the most random stuff piled on a chair pushed over to one wall—clothes and a manila folder of warranties and wireless headphones still in their case. I separated the headphones out and started shoving the rest into a laundry basket.

His face brightened. “I was thinking graffiti?” he said. “A giant mural that asks her to marry me, and we can go on a walk and just, like, stumble on it. But you know my artistic skills tapped out by first grade, and I have no idea how you’d even go about hiring someone to do that or if it’s even legal. So it’s back to the drawing board.”

“Pun intended,” I said.

He blinked at me.

“Or not.” I hefted the laundry basket up, propping it against my hip so I could carry it outside and upend its contents into the dumpster. Conner trailed unhelpfully behind me, empty-handed and oblivious to my struggle to open the door while carrying the basket.

“I thought of doing something at the hospital,” he said. “During one of her shifts. Like seeing if they would let me say it over the intercom or something. But I don’t know. That’s probably against some rules, right? And would you be mad if someone proposed to you at your job?”

“Yes,” I said. Then, seeing Conner’s dejected expression and feeling somewhat guilty about my terseness, I sighed. “But Shani is also very different from me! You know her best. In general, though, I would make sure you propose at a time that wouldn’t be massively inconvenient to her, or might make her uncomfortable. Like what if she just happens to be having a terrible day, and she’s under a lot of stress, and she’s still covered in the contents of a patient’s bedpan or something. A marriage proposal might feel like just one more annoyance to deal with, when it should be the happiest moment of her life.”

My gaze slid to Conner, who was looking at me with an uncharacteristic thoughtfulness on his face.

“Supposedly, anyway,” I muttered. “You know what I mean.”

“No, that’s good advice,” he said. “Thank you. I don’t want to make an ass of myself.”

“A creed to live by.”

The neighbor’s cat was back again, this time laid out on the driveway in a patch of sunlight shining through the oak trees overhead. She was exposing her belly to us, but I still didn’t feel confident enough to assume that was an invitation to pet. For all I knew, she just wanted an even tan.

Conner had no such compunction, though. He crouched down, giving her a light scratch on her stomach. She tolerated it for a minute, her eyes in contented slits, until she reached out a paw to bat his hand away. She flipped over to her feet and stalked away, finding a shady spot under the car.

“How would you want to be proposed to?” Conner asked abruptly.

“You planning to whip that ring out again, tiger?”

He straightened again, rolling his eyes. “I’m serious. I know you’re very different from Shani, and I know we live in a modern age and you could do the proposing, blah blah blah. But it might help me out, just to get your perspective on it.”

I tried to picture being with someone for years, the way Conner and Shani had. Making all these joint decisions together like whether to spring for the Investigation Discovery channel and what excuse to use to get out of a coworker’s baby shower. Tried to picture being so sure about that one person that I wanted to legally make a promise to love them forever. Tried to forget just how little forever really meant, how little it had meant for people like our parents who maybe should’ve never married at all.

But Conner was looking at me, his face a complete open book. How was he the product of the same history as I was, and yet managed to hold on to that earnest optimism?