FORTY-TWO

Angela, being Angela, broke the afterglow with, “Don’t think this was about today. I’ve been wanting this for a while.”

“I didn’t think it was a reflex,” he said mildly. “Or the sexual equivalent of a sneeze.”

They were back in the kitchen. She’d cleaned up a bit in the bathroom and gotten dressed; he’d cleaned up as well, and slipped into a pair of boxer-briefs. He’d poured her another glass of water and helped himself to a glass of milk.

“I was happy to spend the day with you. I was happy to bring you to my home. I was happy with the kissing and very, very, very happy with all that followed. I would have been happy if you’d spent the night. But we could have stopped at the napping and it would have been a day worth getting out of bed for.”

She smiled, knowing that was no small thing to someone who wrestled with dysthymia. Then remembered what she was about to do and the smile dropped right off, poof, like it had never been there. “Happy. Right. The thing is, I don’t bring happiness.”

“My penis begs to differ.” And, of course, that made her snort.

“Funny. Not in any large measure,” she clarified. “That’s what I meant. Or to put it another way: I’m no good for you, Chambers. I don’t think we should see each other after this.” She paused, adding so there would be no misunderstanding, “I won’t see you again after tonight.”

He had been setting the glass down on the counter and she heard the glass rattle when he started in surprise. He turned at once and replied, “Your uncle is a fool.”

“It’s not about him.”

“No?”

“No.” Probably. It was likely a Drake thing, but not necessarily a Dennis Drake thing. “No, it’s about me. And the thing about me, Jason, is that I always screw it up and the innocents always pay for it. You can’t get caught up in that, I won’t let you drown in that whirlpool.”

“Angela . . .”

“You know the worst of it? Even when I do everything right, call the cops, tell the truth, and do it over and over, make people hear me, fight for the ones in trouble, the innocent still get stuck with that bill. I haven’t been able to fix it in four lifetimes.”

He held up a hand before she could continue. “But that’s what life is, Angela. It’ll never be perfect. You’ll never do everything right—that’s not a condemnation, it just is. You act as though people don’t have regrets, that they don’t remember the heinous things they’ve done, that it doesn’t tear them up. Of course it does. In that, you and I are no different from anyone else. But you can’t hide from it, Angela. And you know it.”

A lovely speech. And utter bullshit. Still, he was worth the effort. He was worth every effort. She couldn’t be with him, but perhaps she could make him see. Shouldn’t have had sex with him. But I was weak. I wanted one small part of him, one lovely memory to carry into my next life. Whatever the fuck it’ll be.

“I was never an Insighter before,” she began. “The difference—you wouldn’t believe it. Suddenly I could see it all so clearly, like I was looking through sparkling clean glass: every wrong move, every lie, every selfish act of preservation. It was like watching an expert put a big, complicated puzzle together right in front of me: Everything fell into place while I watched. So. So I thought—”

“You thought this was the one you got right. That this time, you’d somehow be flawless while simultaneously exonerating all your past selves.”

“Yes, but in my head it didn’t sound quite so silly.”

He smiled a little and a sad, horrid thought struck her: This is the last time I’ll see his dimple. “It is silly, but not for the reason you think.”

“Do tell.” She could hear the chill in her voice and told herself to ease up. You’re banging him and dumping him; you can at least listen before you leave his delightfully appointed kitchen. The gal who dated via the real-estate section might have been onto something.

“It was silly because it’s the way a child thinks,” he said, and somehow it didn’t come out at all patronizing. “The way a child whose father was violently murdered thinks. ‘I’ll figure it all out and I’ll fix everything and everyone will be happy.’ You are intelligent and gorgeous and determined and funny and sweet, but a small part of you is still the fatherless fourth-grader who got the worst news in the world and wasn’t allowed to mourn because she had to take over everything.”

Well.

Your father’s dead. Your uncle murdered your—

He wasn’t wrong.

“You’re wrong,” she insisted, because fuck him. “I chose. I’m still choosing. It’s why we won’t be seeing each other again. If we get a case update, please don’t follow up with me.” That part was hardest. She almost choked on the words. The first thing she liked about Jason (after his socks) was that he immediately included her, kept her updated, always returned her calls, and she never had to chase him. She never had to follow him to a Walgreens and yell at him while he bought his second lunch (chocolate ice cream and Coke). All that was a dim nightmare by comparison.

And here she was a month later, spitting on all of it.

Klown, if you hadn’t been so awful, I might not have fallen for Jason Chambers. This is mostly your fault.

No, not really.

“Do you know how my brother died?”

She shook her head. This, too, was shameful; she couldn’t be bothered to get her head out of the files long enough to ask, though she knew it must have been bad.

“We were kids, and he caught me with drugs. Again. And when I refused to go back to rehab, he decided to show me how destructive it was, what it was doing to our family, so he smoked it right in front of me. Which was how we found out the cook was shit. His heart stopped while he was still holding the pipe.”

It was like the muscles in her face and throat had locked; she couldn’t say anything, couldn’t swallow the sudden blockage in her throat. After a long moment, she managed, “I’m sorry.”

“My parents did their best, but Pat’s death was shattering. They both fell off the wagon—I hail from a long and distinguished line of substance abusers—and were killed when Dad mistook an oak tree for the turnoff. My grandmother took care of me while I finished high school. And then she . . .” He gestured to his beautiful home.

“I’m sorry.” Stupid, worthless phrase. How was it that you could use the exact same phrase for when you spilled juice?

“I live with it every day. As you live with your burdens. But, Angela: This life is so, so hard. There’s no guarantee the next one will be any easier, no matter what the Insighters or the priests or the therapists promise. Why not grab any bit of happiness you can? You’re entitled to love. And on my good days, I think I might be, too.”

“You are,” she said thickly. “Jeez. Of course you are. Teenagers are dumb, right? Crack-addicted ones especially. They make stupid decisions and it’s a miracle any of us lived through it. It wasn’t your— I know if you could do it over again, you wouldn’t buy the drugs.”

“But you’ve got it wrong, Angela. Again.” He said this to her in a gentle tone devoid of the smallest bit of pity for himself or condemnation for her. “I’d buy them and take them myself. With no hesitation. Because my brother was the one who deserved the fulfilling life with the beautiful home and the wonderful girlfriend and the challenging work. Not me. Never me.” He gestured to his beautiful home. “I am living a stolen life, my brother’s life. None of this should be mine. Most days, I know it, I believe it. Days like today? I wonder.”

“No-no-no. I’m leaving for my own reasons, it’s not a punishment I’m handing down to you because you were bad. My decision has nothing to do with your brother. We’re both reading too much into this, because we’re not breaking up. We weren’t even dating, really.”

“I suppose not,” he said quietly. “Just hoping to. Or perhaps that was one-sided.”

“No,” she whispered. She cleared her throat and forced her voice to rise. “No, it wasn’t, but it’s just as well that our whatever-it-is ends now. Thank you for a lovely day, which got weird and unpleasant and then briefly lovely, and then I wrecked it again and where the hell are my shoes?”

He went to the living room and brought them to her without a word. Said nothing while she slipped them on, found her purse and slung it over one shoulder, made sure she had her phone. He just looked at her with that intense blue-eyed stare. Looked at her while he was standing there all brazenly gorgeous and lightly tanned and flat-stomached and big-dicked and a revelation in bed, that hour between the sheets had been the best sex of her life and if she kept thinking about it she’d go and do something really stupid like strip and spend the night and then possibly linger in the morning and maybe stay forever.

“I don’t need a ride,” she said before he could offer. If he was going to offer. “I’d like to— I’m going to take a cab.”

He nodded.

“Okay.” It was nice meeting you? Thanks for all your hard work? Sorry about my fucked-up family life? Sorry about yours? You have a lovely home and no matter what anyone says, you deserve a nice life? Nope. None of it would work, and almost all of it would make things worse. “See ya.” Really? That’s the platitude you went with?

“One thing I don’t understand.”

She turned back, almost relieved. It wasn’t over until she crossed the threshold.

“You indicated you’ve wanted me for a while.”

“Yes.” The minute I saw the socks. And the dimple.

“But not for a relationship.”

“Right.”

“And decided to have me regardless.”

She cringed internally. “Yes.”

“Despite knowing that you would make your feelings plain when we were finished.”

“Yes.”

“Cold.”

“Warned you.”

She left before he could see her tears. He didn’t demand she stay. Or call after her to come back. Or rush dramatically after her.

It wasn’t a movie. It was real life. Which was awful. And that was the point. Both their points.