Problem Child, page 3
Then again, even if he brings it up later, I could distract him with sex because he’ll be fully recovered.
But I’ve hesitated too long, and Luke takes that as acceptance. “We’ve been dating for a year now, and it’s been great.”
Well, here it is. This is why I hate talking. It never leads to anything good, like food or sex or action movies. It leads to this: Luke is breaking up with me.
I’ve known it would come eventually. I’m not the marrying type. I’m not even the girlfriend type, because I have a kind of . . . disability. I’m not capable of experiencing a full range of emotion, and most emotions I can’t pull off at all, but that’s not my fault.
That’s the thing no one wants to acknowledge about sociopaths. It’s not my fault. I didn’t choose this.
But whether or not I can feel sympathy or tenderness or true, genuine love, I can pretend. It’s not difficult even for normal people to manipulate their way into a longer relationship, after all. I just have to tell him what he wants to hear. Easy as pie.
He might want to break it off now, but I can keep it going for months longer. Maybe even years. Guilt is a powerful drug for people like Luke. But I now know this is the beginning of the end, at least.
“I think it’s been great?” Luke ventures. That means he is expecting me to chime in with something.
I stare at him and wait. Does he think I’ll actually help him along? Make it easier for him to toss me out of his life? If so, he doesn’t know me at all, and that means I’m not responsible for this breakdown in our relationship. He is.
Luke finally swallows and soldiers on without my encouragement. “For the past few months, I’ve been thinking of making some changes.”
I can’t let him go easily. I can’t, and I certainly won’t. He’s my one person. My connection. My only entrée into the flow and pulse of humanity.
I had an enjoyable life with men before Luke, of course, but it was cool and distant. The only moments of connection were manipulations at work and meaningless sex. I never had this before. His hand warm around my ankle the way it always is when we sit and read together. Thoughtful texts to make sure I’m happy. Cozy heat at night that I actually want to snuggle close to.
The common belief is that people like me don’t feel love at all, but I do feel something. We’re not robots. We crave the connections we can’t make.
The silence between us swells, ticking like a clock as he waits for me to blink or cry or gasp in panic. I don’t.
“I think we should move in together,” he finally blurts out.
That shocks me into yelling, “What the hell?”
Luke nods. “I told you I’ve been thinking of a bigger place.”
“Yes?”
“Maybe something a little closer to Holly.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And I’d like to share that place with you.”
“Me,” I say dully, briefly confused by the shift. I’ve read him incorrectly, and I like that almost as little as I like this surprise he’s presenting.
“You,” Luke confirms, his hand now clutching nervously at my ankle instead of caressing. “Absolutely. I think we should get a place together. A little house. White picket fence.”
I pull my foot away and set my book down. “You’re kidding.”
“No. Well, the white picket fence part was a joke.”
“I don’t want a husband, Luke.”
“I know that. I respect that you don’t want to get married.”
“It’s weird!” I say too loudly. “All it does is mix up your finances without giving any kind of security, because you can just get divorced at any time. It doesn’t even make any sense! What’s wrong with people?”
Luke’s mouth twitches into a nervous smile. “I get what you’re saying, but that’s not what I’m asking. We’ve been dating a year. One of us is usually at the other’s house, which gets a little inconvenient. We don’t even have to buy a place together if that’s not what you want. I’d like to be closer to my niece, and I’d love it if you moved in with me.”
I’m just staring at him again. I really wasn’t expecting this. Though now that he’s asked, I see that there were hints I ignored. Clues he’s been dropping that I just stepped over because I didn’t want to acknowledge them.
Luke’s brother got married a couple of years ago, and last year he and his husband adopted a newborn girl. Luke fell head over heels in love with his baby niece, and he lights up like the sun when he spends time with her. Even I can see the pink hearts floating over his head.
And now he imagines a white picket fence of his own. Of course.
He wants that, and I don’t. I like my solitary space. I like my condo and my cat and my views of the city. But I like Luke too.
I shake my head. “I don’t know about any of this.”
“You need to think about it. That’s only fair. I’ve been thinking about it for months, so you need time.”
I study him for a long moment. “You want kids,” I say flatly.
His eyes widen. He blinks. He doesn’t say no. Goddamn it.
“Luke!” I snap in horror.
“I’ve never wanted kids,” he says carefully.
“You know, I’m an attorney, and I can tell pretty easily when someone isn’t addressing the implied question at hand. You never wanted kids before. I know that. We’ve talked about it plenty of times. But now? After Holly?”
Another blink and he finally looks away, guilt tightening his face. Something frantic rises in my chest, confusing me. It’s unpleasant and I don’t like it at all, and Luke is the one doing this to me. My Luke. “I don’t like this,” I mutter, pushing out of his clingy, cushiony leather couch to look for my shoes. “I’m going home.”
I should be the one to break up with him. I should be the one to leave, and this may be the right moment to end this so I don’t have to endure any more unpleasant surprises in the future.
“Jane, come on. Let’s talk.”
“No, I need to feed my cat. And you want to change everything.”
“Not everything. It’ll be just like this, every night. Just the same, but in a bigger place, together.”
“No, it won’t. The same won’t be enough.”
“Enough of what?”
“Enough of what you want. You want”—I wave a hand—“something else. Someone else. I’m not going to stick around and watch you yearn for a wife and a baby when what you have is me. That’s stupid.”
I stalk off and he follows me to the table where I left my purse. “I want you, Jane. You know that.”
“I know you want me, but you want more than me too. I won’t give you that. I’m not . . .” I growl, unable to find the right word. I don’t even want to find the right word. None of this is fair. “You know I’m not!” I yell as I yank open the door.
“Not what?”
That scratching, swelling mess of anger inside me gets bigger and climbs into my throat as I lurch through the door. “I’m not a real person!” I scream.
My voice echoes off the ten-foot ceilings of his hallway, banging around on the doors of the other five loft condos up here. I don’t care. I’ll yell it in their faces if they stick their heads out. He doesn’t know I’m a sociopath, but he knows I’m different. He said he liked that, so what the hell does he think he’s pulling here?
“Jane,” Luke calls from behind me as I rush for the stairwell.
“Don’t follow me,” I warn. And he doesn’t. He never pushes me. Or he never did before today.
I race down the metal stairs, clanking my fury out in rapid steps. It doesn’t help.
Why would he do this? Everything has been going fine. Luke and I had a routine, a relationship, and for the first time in my life I’ve been . . . comfortable.
No, that isn’t the right word. I’ve always been satisfied with the life I lead. I’ve always made myself happy, doing exactly what I want to do. Every creature comfort I’ve ever wanted as an adult, I’ve given myself.
But Luke loves me, which is different. And in my own way I love him back. I try, anyway. I give him sex and gifts and attention, because that’s what I have to give. But he needs more. Of course he does. He needs real love to bask in, not this strange mirrored heat I throw.
I knew this day would come, just not like this. I thought I’d be in charge of it. Now Luke is asking more of me when he’s already scraped the shallowest depths of my soul. “Fuck!”
Still cursing, I slam through the stairwell door into the sparse hallway that serves as a lobby to his building. One of his neighbors is getting mail, and she squeaks with alarm and drops everything on the floor as I storm past and out into the night.
If I were a real girl, I’d be excited by Luke’s sudden proposal to cohabitate. My man wants to take it to the next level! He’s ready to settle down!
I’d be looking up real estate websites and planning my dream kitchen. That’s what my best friend, Meg, would have done. But those kinds of dreams destroyed her like they’ve destroyed so many others, so I’m better off. She’s dead. She’s dead because those dreams fell apart and she killed herself, and I’m glad I’ve never felt anything that deeply.
I know I can’t have it all, so I won’t bother trying to fool myself into thinking I can make Luke’s dreams come true.
“Shit,” I growl as I beep my car door open and drop into the seat. My phone buzzes.
Please come back. Let’s talk.
He may as well have typed, Come back so we can feed your fingers to a rabid wolverine, because that sounds like just as much fun.
I thought you’d be at least a little happy??? he tries.
Well, there’s the problem. Luke doesn’t see me for what I am. When we started dating, he guessed that I was on the autism spectrum, and I let him believe that. He accepted me and my quirks, so I could let my guard down with him. Stop constantly masquerading as normal. It was nice.
But I haven’t told him the real truth, and I won’t; so as fun as this relationship has been, it’s over now. The end.
“The fucking end,” I growl past clenched teeth.
I ignore the phone and peel out onto the quiet downtown street, desperate to get home. Four blocks away from his building I have to slow for a small bar district. People walk past, young and happy and buzzing. They all seem to be in groups, connected by companionship and looped arms. Their faces flash beneath streetlamps that light up their joy in the dark.
I want some of that. I’m too empty. Always too empty.
Impulsive is my favorite speed, so when I see an open parking spot at the end of the block, I drop my desperate run for home and swing toward the curb to park. As I shove my phone and wallet into my coat pocket, the unfamiliar claws of that bad feeling—anxiety? fear? I’m not experienced enough to identify it—begin to retreat, and by the time I reach the door of the closest bar, the pain is gone entirely.
The biggest sign on the window reads TAPAS in fancy letters. Below that is a promise of CURATED COCKTAILS, whatever the hell that means. Most important, the music shaking through the glass is far too loud, and laughing people crowd the tables, even on a Thursday night.
I open the door and walk into the friendly chaos, and that’s all it takes. I’m instantly myself again. No scratchy, strange pain. No doubt about anything.
Fifteen minutes later I have a seat at the bar, a delicious dish of melted cheese and toast points in front of me, and one perfectly curated cocktail in my hand. There’s a man next to me, working hard to get into the good graces of the woman next to him, and I eavesdrop with delight.
“Yeah, I broke up with her last month,” he shouts over the music. “Didn’t she tell you?”
“No, but we’re not really that close,” the woman responds. “I mean, we’re friends, I guess, but she seems really high-maintenance, and I’m not into that kind of thing. Too much drama.” She laughs coyly as she throws her friend under the bus.
“Yeah, I don’t know. I mean, she seemed down-to-earth at first, but then shit got really demanding, you know?”
Way to set up this new woman to lower her expectations. Don’t expect things from me—that’s unreasonable—and if you do, I’ll leave. I love it. So does the skinny brunette, who tosses her hair and laughs, desperate to be cooler than her friend.
Ah, the cool chick. We’ve all been there. Pretending to love sports and unsatisfying booty calls just so he’ll pay attention to you. Even I’ve walked that line in four-inch heels, though I never did it in the pursuit of love. I had other motivations.
Mr. Low Expectations waves a hand and orders two shots of tequila. The bartender, who has a styled mustache and probably calls himself a barkeep, flinches a little but sets two shot glasses down with an elegant spin. I raise my eyebrows in acknowledgment of his craft and he winks as he pours.
Low Expectations is utterly focused on his prey and hasn’t noticed me at all. Why would he? I’m ten years older than the brunette and I’m still dressed like the badass bitch I am in my pin-striped suit. He doesn’t need that kind of trouble. Still, plenty of other men are willing to screw a girl like me, even if I’m nothing close to a ten. Theoretically, a few extra pounds and a lack of striking beauty make someone like me more desperate and therefore better in bed. Or so I’ve heard. It’s amazing what you can pick up on the dating scene if you pay close enough attention.
The flirting pair down their tequila and giggle together as if they’ve done something particularly naughty.
“I probably shouldn’t have skipped dinner!” the brunette declares.
Instead of offering to order some delicious tapas, the guy calls for another round of tequila, then mentions something about how he has all the ingredients for a late-night grilled cheese at his house. She laughs at his obvious plan to get her to drink way too much and come home with him. “You’re so bad,” she squeaks.
Already bored with this tired scene, I make eye contact with a forty-something guy at the end of the bar wearing a too-tight shirt, but it’s just habit on my part. I don’t need that kind of energy tonight. I already had sex with Luke, and it was hotter than anything I can get with a stranger. Even during a frantic quickie in a bar bathroom, Luke took the time and effort to make me come. Half these guys couldn’t even do that if they were trying, and—let’s be honest—they wouldn’t be trying.
I sigh and sip my spicy ginger highball before digging into the cheese.
I haven’t cheated on Luke once. It’s not that I’d feel guilty. I don’t feel guilt. I don’t understand it. If you don’t get caught doing something, nothing terrible happens to anyone, so why would you bother feeling bad about it? I could have sex with any one of these guys right now, and my boyfriend would never find out. But I don’t want to. I’m physically satisfied, so there’s no need to risk a wasted thirty minutes with Bad Sex Bob. That’s just common sense.
But this relationship is drawing to a close, and I’ll have to get back in the game. It’ll be fine. I haven’t lost my edge. I can glance right down the line of men at this bar and immediately tell which guys might make a woman come and which of these jokers have never given it a thought. Still, caring isn’t doing. There are no guarantees for us humans born with clits. It’s a crapshoot but without all the fun crowds and shouting. Usually.
When we first dated in college, Luke was fine in bed, but during our years apart he became downright delightful. I ran into him unexpectedly when I was visiting Minneapolis, and I took him home for old times’ sake. That gamble really paid off.
Since then our time together has amped up his kinkiness. He was a pretty vanilla guy, but a little time with a horny monster like me can inspire a man to live out his secret fantasies. Anal? Yes. Spanking? Yes. Rough role play? Heck yes, miss, I’ll try anything.
But they’ll all try anything. I can find someone else.
I’m scowling into my delicious cheese dish, and that won’t do. I get the bartender’s attention with a lingering glance, then I order a gin drink made with blood orange essence and pink peppercorn, of course. When I hear Mr. Low Expectations trying to talk the drunk girl into a third shot, I tap him gently on the shoulder. He turns and raises his eyebrows in friendly question.
“Don’t you work at Sebastian and Fields?” I ask, naming the big accounting firm whose logo I see on a key card clipped to his coat pocket.
He brightens a little. “Yeah!”
“Hi, I’m Jane.” I offer my hand.
“Kyle,” he says as he shakes. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you on the elevator recently. I work in Human Resources.”
“Oh, nice to meet you,” he says, just as a little twinge of uncertainty dances over his face. His eyes dart toward the four empty shot glasses and the pretty woman who’s trying to wait patiently. She likely doesn’t realize she’s frowning over his diverted attention, and that makes her eyes look small and slightly crossed.
“Long week already, huh?” I offer Kyle with a hint of kind amusement in my voice.
“Ha. I guess.”
“I get it. You’re not on the clock or anything, so please don’t worry. Have fun!”
“Right. Sure. Thanks.”
I hold up my hands in assurance. “I’ll close my eyes and ears, Kyle, I promise! Do your worst.”
His uncertainty is blooming into fear now. I watch as the fear twitches momentarily into panic. And then, finally, the delicious slow slide of his face into the sad-dog curves of disappointment. He can’t take a drunk woman home for sex with a witness from the HR department looking on. He’s an upstanding young man on the rise at Sebastian and Fields, and people in a corporate environment suddenly care about harassment and sexism. Damn it.
“This manchego is amazing,” I gush. “You two should try it.” I grin past him to the woman, whose pinched scowl has gotten a little blearier since I last looked.
“Right. Yeah.” Kyle smiles tightly and nods. “Good idea. Can I get one of these?” he calls to the bartender, pointing at my half-eaten cheese. “And then I’ll wrap up that tab.”
