You Can't Catch Me(49)

I turn to leave but it’s too late. The heavy door slides open and Liam’s standing there. He’s wearing his usual dark jeans and a gray button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A blast of cold air hits me in the face; Liam likes to keep his apartment frigid.

“Jess? What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing. You have . . . company.”

“What? Oh no, that’s just Diane.”

He steps back, and I see “just Diane” standing by the kitchen counter. She doesn’t look too pleased at the interruption or the way that Liam referred to her. She’s a tall, thin brunette wearing slacks and a cashmere sweater, and the way she’s holding herself is so assured that it reminds me of Jessica Two. I need to get the fuck out of here.

“Hi,” I say lamely, waving hello at this woman. She’s about thirty-five, maybe even forty. Closer to Liam’s age.

“Hi,” she says. Her voice is cultured and smart. Adult. Oh, stop it, Jess. If you keep going, you’re going to fall in love with her.

“What’s going on?” Liam asks again.

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think . . . Could we have a minute alone?”

“That’s my cue to go,” Diane says.

“You don’t have to,” I say.

Please go, please go, please go. There’s a wineglass on the kitchen counter and evidence of dinner. No candles, though. Not that I think that Liam would ever prepare a candlelit dinner for someone, but it still looks intimate.

“It’s all right. I’ve got an early meeting in the morning.”

She picks up this beautiful white linen blazer that’s hanging on the back of one of Liam’s bar chairs. Then she grabs a kind of attaché case, which also makes me feel better, like the lack of candles. And also the fact that it’s Sunday. People don’t have dates on Sundays, right?

Liam watches her gather her things without saying anything. I can’t tell if he’s pissed, but he probably is. I would be if I were interrupted by a drunk guy while I was having dinner with this nice lady or her male equivalent.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow?” she asks Liam.

“Sure,” he says.

She hesitates. Is she waiting for a kiss? A handshake? Whatever it is, she decides she isn’t getting it. “Night, Liam.” She stops in front of me and holds out her hand. “We didn’t meet.”

“I’m Jess.”

We shake briefly, and though I’m hoping she has one of those lame handshakes, she doesn’t. It’s dry and firm and professional because this lady is perfect, and I am drunk.

“Nice to meet you, Jess.”

She actually sounds like she means it.

“You too,” I say.

She walks past me, and Liam follows her out. He walks her to the stairs, but I don’t turn around to see if he kisses her goodbye. He says something, but I can’t hear what.

He comes back into the apartment and closes the door behind him. It slides into place on its track with a heavy click. The walls of the apartment are still builder’s white and unadorned, but this place feels like home to me. It was my home. But that was a long time ago.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.”

He walks past me to the kitchen counter—a large slab of dark concrete—and picks up his half-full glass of red wine. The bottle it comes from is his favorite, I notice. This was a date. I broke up a date.

“What’s going on?” he asks. His face is clean shaven even though it’s late. Definitely a date. My God.

“I shouldn’t have come,” I say.

“But you did.”

“Yeah.”

“So?”

I turn my palms out to face him. There’s nothing in my hands. Should there be? I’m too drunk to have this conversation, but I need to do it anyway.

“I wanted to tell you something.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure now.”

“Not sure you want to tell me or not sure what it was?”

“Both. Either.”

He shakes his head and takes another sip of his wine. Was I mad at this man? Is that why I came? I don’t feel mad now. Not even a little bit.

“You were on a date,” I say. “She was a date.”

“She’s a colleague. We were discussing a case.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

I’ve made him mad now. He hates being accused of being untruthful. “It looks like a date.”

“Not that it’s any of your business.”

“It feels like it is.”

“Why?”

“Covington said—”

“What did he say?”

“Why do you use that tone of voice when I talk about Covington?”

“What tone?”

“That one. That one right there.”

He finishes his glass of wine and reaches for the bottle. “You want?”

“Sure.”

He moves to the cupboard and takes out a glass, then fills it. Our fingers brush as he hands it to me.

“Covington thinks it’s jealousy,” I say, because fuck it.