Things We Do in the Dark(60)

That night in Toronto with its checkerboard floors

—THE TRAGICALLY HIP





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


Some mothers send birthday cards with sweet greetings. Paris’s mother sends blackmail letters with threats.

Ruby Reyes is the only person in the world who knows her daughter did not die in that house fire in Toronto nineteen years ago, and if Paris doesn’t pay her the money, the rest of the world will know it, too. It won’t matter what her explanation is. She faked her death and assumed a new identity, and the ashes in the urn with Joey Reyes’s name on it aren’t hers. And now here she is, just like Ruby, about to be on trial for the murder of a wealthy older white man.

The irony isn’t lost on her.

She’s certain another letter will arrive any day now, especially since the latest issue of People is featuring Jimmy. Since she can’t exactly pop out to the CVS down the street to buy a copy without being followed and photographed, she asked the concierge at the Emerald Hotel to do it for her. She wouldn’t even have known the magazine had done a tribute if Henry hadn’t told her.

The magazine chose a headshot of Jimmy from the nineties to grace the cover. Crinkled blue eyes, LA tan, still-dark hair, trademark smart-ass grin. It was taken at the height of his fame during the last season of The Prince of Poughkeepsie, which was also when he was the biggest asshole. At least according to Jimmy himself.

“There’s no magic secret to reinventing yourself,” Jimmy said to her once, shortly after they met. “You pick who you want to be, and then you start acting like it. It just takes time. A shitload of money doesn’t hurt, either.”

She understood the concept of reinvention better than he realized.

The People article doesn’t mention Paris until the very end, and the short paragraph only gives three details: she and Jimmy met in a yoga class; they were married a year later in Hawaii; she’s been charged with his murder.

Only two of these three things are accurate. Paris and Jimmy didn’t meet in a yoga class; that’s just the story they’d agreed to tell everyone. While it wasn’t quite a lie, it wasn’t exactly the truth.

Ocean Breath had just moved into its new location, and Paris didn’t recognize Jimmy Peralta when he first walked in. Nobody did. In the dim lights of the hot yoga room, he looked like any other student arriving for class, dressed in a pair of loose shorts and tank top, a rolled-up mat tucked under his arm, Mariners ball cap pulled low.

Midway through the class, she noticed that her new student was struggling. The hot room is kept at 108 degrees, and the key to getting through the hour-long class is hydration. Jimmy’s water bottle was empty. Concerned he might pass out, she approached him to see if he was okay.

Up close and face-to-face in the darkened room, her heart stopped when she realized who he was. And it wasn’t because he was famous. It was because they’d met before. Back in a different life, when she was twenty, and a dancer at the Golden Cherry. He was in Toronto shooting a movie. They’d spent a couple of hours together, and then she never saw him again.

If Jimmy remembered her, he didn’t let on. He accepted the fresh bottle of water she offered him, and she helped him with his postures while managing to avoid eye contact. After class, he thanked her at the reception desk where she was standing next to Henry, who finally recognized him and started fanboying.

After a month of classes, Jimmy asked Paris if they could grab a coffee. Normally she would decline a male studio member’s invitation, but she agreed. They walked a block over to the Green Bean, where they sat at a corner table. He kept his ball cap on and his back to the room.

“I’ve spent the last month trying to place where I’ve seen you before,” Jimmy said in a low voice. “But I remember now. Toronto, right? The strip club? I believe we spent some time together in the Champagne Room.”

Paris felt the heat bloom in her cheeks, a dead giveaway. She couldn’t have lied in that moment if she wanted to. “I’m not that person anymore.”

“When people say that, they always mean it metaphorically. But I can tell you mean it literally. And believe me, I understand. I’m not that person anymore, either.” Jimmy’s eyes were intense. For a comedian, he could be very serious. “I’ve reinvented myself, too.”

Not like I have.

“I was using a lot back then,” Jimmy said. “There are entire chunks of my life I can barely remember. I don’t know why, but I remember you. And if I ever did anything back then that made you uncomfortable … if I ever, you know, forced you to do something that you didn’t want to do—”

“You didn’t force me.” Paris didn’t want him to finish the sentence, because she didn’t want him to actually say it out loud. “You were respectful. And I was an adult.”

“Barely.”

“I was twenty,” Paris said. “A year over the legal drinking age in Ontario. And for what it’s worth, I was sober the whole time, even if you weren’t.” She picked up her coffee, realized her hands were shaking, and set it back down. “I left that life behind when I left Toronto. I’m not proud of it. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

His vivid blue eyes remained fixed on hers. “I’ve upset you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I understand more than you think,” Jimmy said. “You might have one previous version of yourself you don’t like. I have several. But this version of me, sitting here with you, is a version of myself I actually do like. And I don’t want to fuck it up by getting kicked out of the studio. You’re the best yoga instructor I’ve ever had.”