Love in the Time of Serial Killers(69)

“It has, like, five ingredients,” he’d said. “Checkers, not chess.”

I would’ve happily stayed in that bubble, taking turns going down on each other on the couch before going for another nighttime swim, but I still didn’t like the idea of spending all night away from Lenore, no matter how much she ignored me.

Plus, the next day I was supposed to meet up with Alison to try to find a blazer at the mall. I already knew it was going to be a futile search. There were too many brands that acted like you should be grateful if they went up to an L, too many stores that stocked a million size 4s and then one size 16 somewhere on the clearance rack. And a blazer was one of the worst items to fit of all, considering that I had to contend with shoulders and sleeve length and whether it pulled weirdly because it had failed to account for the fact that some women have breasts.

“The shoulder fit is the most important,” Alison said as we were going through the racks in one department store. “You can always get any clothing item tailored, but it’s harder to adjust that part. You have such nice, straight shoulders.”

“I’m not going to send some fifty-dollar polyester thing to a tailor,” I said. “That’s just throwing away money.”

Alison shrugged. “Obviously it’s better if you start with a high-quality item to begin with,” she said. “But I know you’re on a time crunch so we’ll work with what we have.”

I wanted to point out that all this was easy for her to say. She had the kind of figure that they made clothes for—thin and straight—and everything looked amazing on her. But then I also knew I was being churlish, because that was exactly the reason I’d asked for her help. If left to my own devices, I’d half-heartedly try on a single blazer in Target and then walk out of there with it, only to find out later that it didn’t really fit.

“How are things going with Sam?”

“I took your advice,” I said, “and am keeping an open mind.”

She handed me three hangers that held the same blazer, but in different sizes. “And more importantly, how’s Lenore?”

“A little brat,” I said. “She’s the one who seemed to want in the house so bad. She’s the one who was trying to suck on my shirt like I was a surrogate cat mom. And did I tell you the vet said she’s at least three years old? She’s just small, maybe from malnourishment from living on the harsh suburban streets. It’s like the plot of that movie, remember the one, where the couple adopt a child from Russia but she turns out to be an adult with some rare hormonal disorder that stunted her growth? And then she tries to kill them all?”

“That doesn’t sound like a movie I’d like,” Alison said, wrinkling her nose.

And of course, I remembered that Alison never liked scary movies, and she really didn’t care for any media that depicted adoption in either an overly negative or overly inspirational way. I felt like an asshole for even bringing it up.

“Sorry,” I said. “Anyway, Lenore’s fine. We’re still getting used to each other.”

“It’ll take time,” Alison said. “It’s actually very encouraging that she’s taken to being in the house so well. I was worried she’d be a bolter, since she’s spent her whole life outside.”

“To bolt, she’d have to come out,” I said.

“Remember that one hamster you had,” Alison said, “that would only stay in the little house-bed thing you’d bought it? It was like a hamster recluse.”

I’d creatively named the hamster Rocket, because the day I got him was the same day my dad bought Conner a rocket set to launch in the backyard. The antisocial creature would only come out to eat, and if I tried to reach my hand in to get Rocket out to clean his bed shavings, or god forbid to pet him, he’d nip at my fingertips.

“When he died, I buried him in that little house,” I said.

Alison put a hand to her chest. “Aw, that’s so sweet. He gets to spend eternity with the thing he loved most.”

I’d meant it more as a spiteful if you love it so much, here, take it gesture, but Alison’s version of events made me sound a lot better, so I left it.

“I was such a jerk when I was a kid,” I said.

“Aren’t all kids, in a way?” Alison said. “Like when we do story time at the library—don’t get me wrong, the kids are adorable, and way preferable to their parents in most respects. But they’re self-absorbed. It’s developmentally unavoidable. If they want to stand up to get a better view of the book and block the kid behind them, or pet your feet while you’re reading—there’s one girl who will do this, and I can’t even begin to tell you how creepy and weird it is—or snatch the rest of a cookie out of another kid’s hand . . . well, they’re kids. That’s what they do.”

“But you’re talking about toddlers,” I pointed out. “If I snatched a cookie out of your hand right now, you’d think I was rude as hell. Or like the way I just cut you off, the way I treated you after you were trying to help. That was a jerk move.”

There. I’d said it. I hadn’t even known I was going to, but the minute I had it felt like a relief. It had been great, getting closer with Alison again over the last few weeks, but it always felt like there was this one thing between us. Maybe it was time to talk about it.