The Night Before(52)

And what if I was wrong about Part One? What if he’s not a man who can’t love me, but just a man I got drunk with and spilled my guts to and fucked on the first date?

I bring back Dr. Brody. It begins with recognition. I see it. I see everything.

A wave of hope rushes in and the smile becomes real. I suddenly know what to do.

I open the door and find Jonathan in the bedroom, buttoning his shirt. He turns to face me.

“You okay?” he asks again.

I smile sheepishly. “A little embarrassed…”

He stops buttoning. Tilts his head. “Why?”

“Isn’t is obvious? This is our first date and I’m standing in your bedroom dressed in a towel.”

I do not expect you to love me. But maybe you still can. Maybe I haven’t ruined it.

He smiles back. He picks up a neatly folded pile of clothing from the bed—my clothing. Underwear, bra, dress. Yes—he has folded my underwear. He walks to where I stand, and holds out the pile.

“Okay,” he says. “First, here are your clothes. Although I prefer the towel.” He winks and I am suddenly aware that he is forty.

“Second, I’ve ordered a pizza, so technically it is now our second date.”

“Ahhh,” I say as though he’s just discovered the earth is round. “I see.”

“Feel better?”

Actually, I do feel better.

His hands take hold of my shoulders and he kisses me somewhere between a peck and what happened on his bed. I close my eyes and let it reach inside, this kiss of reassurance. This kiss of new promises.

“I’ll dig out some plates and pour us another drink. It’s either that or face the hangover that’s starting.”

“Okay,” I say now. “I’ll get dressed.”

He lets me go and I retreat toward the bathroom again.

“By the way,” he calls after me. “Did you notice that I have a bed? That counts as furniture.”

“Yes, it does!” I say cheerfully.

But really, he has just reminded me of my list of concerns. The woman who called his name at that first bar. The car. The way he drove us to the harbor, and his job, and this empty apartment after a year of being divorced.

I close the bathroom door and reassess. No need to panic. I know there are things that seem wrong. But I also feel that last kiss on my mouth and I hear him pulling plates from a cupboard for the pizza he’s ordered, so I feel better about the night. The jury is out, I decide.

It’s not easy. I’m bailing water from a sinking boat.

I get dressed. I look in the mirror again. Nothing left to do. Then I feel my head pound.

I open the medicine cabinet. I don’t know why I didn’t think to do this before. Furniture is one thing. But a person can’t live without toiletries.

Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Mouthwash. Shaving cream and a razor, though they don’t seem like the kind he would use every day. Deodorant.

And one bottle of Advil.

Men aren’t good with these things, I remind myself. Especially when they’ve been married. They buy what they need when they need it. So maybe this is all he’s needed.

I open the Advil and shake the pills into my open hand. I will take two, maybe three, then put the rest back.

But I don’t take any pills.

I stare into the palm of my open hand and feel the boat sink.

Among the round, auburn tablets is something else that’s round.

And gold.

I stare at it for a long moment. It’s unmistakable. A gold ring.

I pick it up and read the inscription on the inner edge.

To Jonathan, with love forever …



Love.

There it is. That evasive word.

Only it’s not for me. It’s never for me.

My boat sunk, I drown in this realization.

But I’m not going down alone.





THIRTY


Rosie. Present Day. Saturday, 10:30 a.m. Branston, CT.

“Here we go,” Rosie said. They had moved to Rosie’s car, which was parked outside the diner. Gabe was right beside her.

The woman from findlove.com wouldn’t give her real name, though Gabe had already found her using her cell phone. Kimmie Taylor. Age thirty-seven.

She picked up after one ring.

“Hi,” she said. She’d been expecting their call.

“This is Rosie. The woman who emailed you. I’m here with a friend of mine. I have you on speaker.”

“Okay,” the woman said cautiously.

Then she was silent.

“This is the friend—Gabe. Sorry to be cryptic on the emails,” Gabe said now. “We actually have a good friend who went on a date with here4you. He told her his name was Jonathan Fields, but we know he’s also gone by the names Billy Larson and Buck Larkin. We haven’t heard from her for a while, so we’re a little worried.”

Gabe played it down. He told Rosie they shouldn’t say anything that might make this woman worried about the police getting involved. She could be married, or living with someone, or have a boyfriend—just like Sylvia Emmett, the woman who’d bought a round of drinks at the bar by the harbor.

“You’re right to be worried,” Kimmie said. “He lies about everything. He used Buck Larson with me, but his real name is none of those. His real name is Edward Rittle. Not exactly the name of a stud.”