Love in the Time of Serial Killers(57)

“Oh, it only takes cats about point two seconds to do that,” Alison said, and then laughed when she saw my widened eyes. “But I highly doubt Lenore is getting up to much mischief right now. It sounds like she’s still intimidated by the new surroundings.”

We loaded all the supplies in my car and then headed next door to grab some coffee, Alison chattering on about cats the whole time. She showed me at least thirty pictures of hers at home by the time we got to our table.

“That must be Maritza,” I said, pointing to one picture of a woman making kissy faces at the gray striped cat. She had dark curly hair and a beauty mark on her cheek. “Good of you to slip at least one picture of your wife in there. She’s pretty.”

Alison smiled, swiping back to her phone’s home screen to show me a picture of the two of them together. They really were adorable. Ugh, would I have to add them to my suddenly growing list of healthy couples? It had been much more fun back when I’d been going down Wikipedia rabbit holes trying to figure out which postconviction relationships lasted after the inevitable book deal. Sondra London had dated not one but two convicted murderers and written books about or with them. Now that was commitment.

“She used to make fun of me for all the cat pictures,” Alison said, “but then she moved in and ended up getting attached. I bet your phone will be just as bad in a couple months. It’s encouraging that Lenore was kneading on you like that. It shows she trusts you.”

“At least someone does,” I said.

Alison’s brows drew together. She was wearing another pair of hip glasses today, these ones wire frames that made her look extra librarian-ish. “What are you talking about?”

I wasn’t going to talk about it. I hadn’t wanted Conner to know, and I didn’t see any reason to discuss my personal life with Alison, either. But she was a lot less connected to the rest of my life, and it had been bubbling up in me all day. I was dying just to get it out.

“I slept with Sam,” I said.

“Your hot neighbor?” she said. “I mean, I figured.”

“Yeah, it just—” I stopped, her words registering for the first time. “Wait, what?”

“The way he mentioned what you’d named the cat,” she said, lifting one shoulder. “I don’t know. I figured you were together.”

“Well, we weren’t then,” I said. “And we might not be now. I think I fucked it up.”

There was a mom and her young son at the counter, buying donuts, and I suddenly got paranoid that they could hear every word of our conversation. I sank lower in my seat, but the mom just handed her kid a sticky jelly donut and a napkin, focused more on wiping something off his cheek with her own spit than anything we were talking about.

Alison gave me a dry look. “I am admittedly not an expert on heterosexual intercourse, but it has been shoved in my face in movies and books for years, so I think I can say with some confidence that it is highly unlikely you messed anything up.”

“I think he wants a relationship,” I said.

Alison’s eyes traveled from one corner of the coffee shop to the other, as though she were actually scanning the room for what the problem was. “And that’s bad?”

I enumerated the reasons on my fingers, as much for my benefit as for hers. “One, I’m here for only another month or so. After that, it’s back to North Carolina. And after I graduate in December, who knows where I’ll go—my advisor said it was best to keep my options open. I could do a postdoc at the University of San Diego for all I know. I could be an adjunct in Pawhuska, Oklahoma.”

“Well, they have . . . what does Sam do again?”

“He teaches music at an elementary school.”

She made an exaggerated aw face. “That’s adorable. I love that.” Then, perhaps realizing she was not helping, she shook her head. “Sorry, okay. I’m just saying, they have music teachers in Pawhuska, Oklahoma. Or you could do long distance. Or you could break up. But that doesn’t seem like a reason not to try, if you really like him. And it seems like you do.”

That last part wasn’t a question, so I didn’t bother answering it. “Two,” I said, holding up my fingers like it was important that she understood there were now multiple reasons it wouldn’t work. “He’s, like, sickeningly well-adjusted. He comes from one of those big families where you just know they all fly in for Christmas to surprise Mom, and she’s so happy to have all her kids in one place that she doesn’t even need presents, but they all chipped in to buy her a necklace with each of their birthstones on it anyway.”

“Is that from a commercial?” Alison said. “And I don’t think those necklaces are that expensive, actually.”

It was, in fact, from a commercial. “My point is, he doesn’t even know what he’s getting into with me. I hate when people say children of divorce are from broken families, but in my case it’s pretty on point.”

“So? Who cares. I’m adopted, which some people might think means I have some unresolved attachment issues or whatever. I’m sure that’s the case for some adoptees, but not for me. On the other hand, it was an interracial adoption, which brings up other issues that those same people might not even think about. Maritza came into our marriage with baggage from one side of her family who weren’t as accepting of same-sex relationships. We all have something.”