I inhale the heady smell of espresso. I don’t want to think about any of this.
Wallace says something else, but I don’t hear him. The chatter in the hotel is ratcheting up as conference goers transition between talks and panels. Someone’s nervous laughter fills my ears while the line behind me gets bigger, everyone needing their late-afternoon caffeine fix. The crowding bodies in the mirrors grow more ludicrous.
I shouldn’t have picked up. In fact, I should have set better boundaries with Wallace. To remain friends after the breakup, I never set firm parameters. Sometimes I kick myself for even getting involved with him in the first place. But we both know it’s a complicated ball of string tied to Sophie, tied to both of our needs to hang on, still, even after eleven years.
I scoot a few feet forward and catch words floating by.
“I just don’t under ... Yeah, another woman.” A gray-haired woman speaks to the guy she’s with. “Male. Female. Male. Female. A pattern,” she announces like a seasoned anthropologist.
“It’s loud here,” I say to Wallace. “What did you say?”
“I said I’ve called Kerry.”
“Kerry?”
“Kerry. Theearrings?”
The bird woman behind me clears her throat loudly.
“Oh, sorry.” I scoot closer to the register. The cashier is waiting for my order. “Hang on, Wall,” I say.
The tall man has moved to the side with half a dozen others, and now he’s staring at me, too, along with several others as they wait for their grande lattes and macchiatos and London Fogs. Something uneasy shifts inside me.
“Grande Americano with room,” I say.
I feel better to finally place my order. Performing a task as ordinary as this calms my nerves. Iamjust a regular person doing a commonplace thing at a huge conference surrounded by lots of people. Just because people are noticing that I resemble the sketch doesn’t mean anything.
The barista taking my order barely registers me because, well, why would she? I’m simply an anonymous human in a crowd. Nobody knows me in Dallas or, really, anywhere. Just like I told Jess last night. I’m not in the public eye like her. I live in a small town, for God’s sake, not in Seattle, not in LA, no high-profile city some crazy killer would even think of targeting.
Sure, I worked as a cop for four years, but that was all in Montana, too. I’ve made some enemies and have a skeleton—more than one—in my closet, but nothing of a scale that would warrant my becoming this whack job’s target. So what if a few of these people are noticing that I resemble the stupid sketch?
I slide my credit card into the chip reader. “Wall, sorry. You still there?”
“Yes. Look, shouldn’t you tell someone about this? Maybe go into the closest station? Tell them about the earrings?”
“Oh my gawd.” Someone’s voice with a Southern accent behind me in line rises above a Harry Styles song pumping out over the huge convention center, the rhythm fusing with the drone of human babble and the hiss of milk steamers.
Over my shoulder, I spot one of the women in the group of three who were looking at me, a blond woman. She’s placing a hand over herheart like her compassion needs to be pushed back where it belongs. “Holy cow,” she says. “She does.” But when she sees me look at her, she turns away. Then adds, “I’m so glad I don’t look anything like that.”
Her friends’ heads bob up and down in agreement.
My cheeks heat up. I feel exposed, like I’m in a middle school cafeteria being singled out. Only, it’s a million times worse, because even though these strangers have no clue about me or the awful things I’ve done, I do. All too well.
And the idea of confessing? I shudder.
My sins are not obvious. True, the big one, involving Coleman, could land me in jail, but that one is never coming out.
I put my card back in my wallet and step away from the line to wait with the others, trying to hold my shoulders tall even though I’d prefer to melt into the floor. I put the phone back to my ear. “So what were you saying about Kerry?”
“He hasn’t called me back yet. Look, are you taking this seriously enough?” He sounds anxious.
“Wallace,” I say. “Everything’s fine.” The barista sets my Americano on the counter and calls out my name. I tell Wallace I have to go. Jess is almost up.
I shove my phone into my bag, add some cream to my coffee, and as I turn to make my way to the ballroom, I notice the birdlike woman who was behind me glance at me, do a double take, and nudge her friend. Her friend’s eyes open wide and she nods twice, slowly, like she’s transfixed.
The iceberg in my gut rocks.
I want to stop, grin at them both, and maybe give a little wave, allowing the ludicrousness of the moment to be just that.No, that’s not me. It’s just a random sketch from some nutjob.This impulse to roll my eyes and laugh it off feels exactly like the sensation I had while sweeping the glass last night—as if I should fight for these last normal instants.
