“I met the girl in the picture. Your ex.”
“The girl in the picture—”
“The picture on the wall of your bedroom!”
His face contorts in confusion. “The only pictures of women on my wall are of my family. Are you talking about my sister? And how the hell do you know what picture I have there?”
“Sister.” He said “sister”! The word ricochets around my brain as I gawk at Jack.
“Well?” he asks, crossing his arms.
My mind shuffles cards like an Atlantic City casino dealer, struggling to reconcile everything I’ve ever thought about Jack with this new revelation. My eyes keep flitting to his and then skittering off, images, impressions, preconceived notions falling away, like a time traveler’s photo album after they’ve set the past to rights.
“I—” I’ve got nothing. “Why would you try to kiss me? You don’t even like me!” I sputter out, not sure whether I’m saying it for him to deny, or to remind him of that fact, or just to change the subject.
He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he presses his thumb and index finger into his closed eyes. “Listen, you’re a pretty girl. Abrasive, argumentative for no reason, but okay to look at. I figured I could close my eyes and think of England. But you’re right. This was a lapse in judgment.”
The comments sting, and there’s extra venom in my retort as a result. “I wouldneverget with you. I don’t hate myself enough for that to ever happen.”
“You don’t hate yourself enough?” he jeers, and plants his hands on his hips. “Because you’re not at all damaged, right? How long do your relationships typically last? Blink and you miss them? Milk keeps longer than guys last around you, right?”
My breath seizes in my lungs, my mind reeling. Mom’s words coming out of Jack’s mouth. He heard that, and possibly—definitely—more.
“You’re a dick,” I whisper.
He laughs. “How do you know? You told your friend a couple months back that you haven’t seen one in two years.”
I suck in a shuddering breath. It’s one thing to be semi-aware of a seam deep within yourself, a self-sabotaging wound you’ve slapped a Band-Aid on despite suspecting it requires stitches. But it’s another for someone who already doesn’t like you to discover that seam and hold a mirror up to it. To have the ability to poke a finger in it whenever they want to win an argument.
I am bad with guys. I know this. It’s been a running joke between me and Margie forever because she’s the same, but in a different way. But it’s not a joke, really. I actively look for little deal-breakers that conveniently move the goalposts of what I’m looking for beyond the reach of whoever I’m seeing. I preemptively break up with guys because of my dad. His betrayal of Mom and me has trickled down through the cracks in my defenses and polluted the well of who I am. So I’ve avoided getting involved with anyone for the last two years, because it’s better than suffering breakup after breakup.
“Get out of my apartment.Now.” I’m shaking.
He stalks up to me, his quicksilver eyes churning with anger and a whole host of other emotions I can’t read.
I stand my ground, bracing myself for his next verbal lash, or God forbid, a kiss.
But Jack stalks past me, steps onto my sofa, flips the sheet up, and disappears through The Hole.
Like a goddamn gremlin.
7
I wave Margie into my apartment. “It took you forever!”
She gives me a dead-eyed look. “You had me battle crack-of-dawn, rush-hour train traffic to bring my child here for nefarious purposes. You’re lucky I’m here at all. Is Jack home?”
I shake my head. “He left for the gym twenty minutes ago. We have to hurry. Cashmere ready for showtime?”
Margie holds up her carrier. Cashmere, two years old, small, with gorgeous amber eyes and white fur interrupted by the occasional patch of light gray, peers out at me from within. She’s an extraordinarily sweet-tempered cat, surprising given that Margie found her with BB pellets lodged in her side courtesy of some evil humans. But she’s healed, and she’s purring loudly as Margie pulls her from her carrier.
“Let’s do this,” Margie says, tucking her cat under her arm and climbing through The Hole.
When we’re both in, she pulls a toy from her back pocket and sets Cashmere onto Jack’s sofa.
“Make her run back and forth,” I say eagerly. “Really get those kitty juices on that Belgian linen.”
Margie complies, waving the toy back and forth. “I’m a professional actor. On a prime-time show. And right now I’m making my cat rub her ass on my best friend’s neighbor’s sofa.”
