“Ugh, Derek,” Jessica said. Then quickly added, “Actually, Derek’s not so bad. He’s an asshole, or whatever, but Duane is not a good guy. I’m sorry. You’re probably into him or something, but the second night he was here there was a party at Derek’s house because his parents were away, and Duane nearly strangled me.”
“Seriously?”
“I stupidly went up to Derek’s bedroom with him, and he was super drunk and all over me, and when I went to leave he grabbed my throat and squeezed. He also called me a fat slut but that was a little later.”
“‘Ugh’ is right.”
“Anyway, there’s always someone like him around here. I would avoid him unless that’s your kind of thing.”
“Hey, you need help putting out the rest of these chairs?” Joan said.
“No, please. I’m not sure how Frank would feel if he saw me enlisting one of the guests to help me.” She laughed.
Joan went to her room, happy to see that it had been cleaned and the beds made since she’d left that morning. She put the air conditioner on high and lay back on the bed, running her fingers along the bumps of the chenille spread, staring at the ceiling and imagining what tonight was going to be like. She was nervous and excited at the same time. I’m going to kill someone, she thought, and rolled that idea around in her mind. Then she told herself: No, we’re not going to kill Duane. We’re just going to teach him a lesson, throw him in the ocean and see if he can swim. She thought about that for a while and decided she liked the idea of killing him more.
Chapter 13
Kimball
“Wine okay?”
I was sitting on Pam O’Neil’s white couch, feeling that familiar sense of dislocation that happens when you are suddenly in someone else’s private space. I knew it was a mistake the moment I followed her into her one-bedroom apartment. I stood there as she turned on the two lamps in the living area, then went to the alcove kitchen, flipping on the recessed lighting, then dimming them. She lit a candle and placed it on the blond-wood bar that separated the living room from the kitchen area. “Have a seat, and then I’ll get you a drink,” she’d said. “I desperately need to pee, and then I’m going to change out of these work clothes, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” I said, and she disappeared into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
I looked around. It was immaculate but a little sterile, two of the walls entirely bare. She had a small television on top of a black bureau. Behind the sofa was a desk with a computer, and above the desk was a framed print that I recognized as a Cézanne. There was also one of those framed collages of photographs, plus another framed photograph large enough I could make it out as a graduation picture, Pam in mortarboard with a parent on either side. For no good reason, it all made me sad.
Pam came back into the living room. I was a little nervous she’d be wearing a silk robe and nothing else, but she was wearing a pair of jeans, the denim thin at the knees, and a black T-shirt with the Rolling Stones lips on it. Her hair was pulled back. She went to the kitchen and came back with two glasses of white wine, both filled to the brim, then she flipped on her stereo system, hit a few buttons, and the room filled with music I couldn’t identify but had heard on the radio.
She sat down across from me on the sofa and sighed.
“Good to be home?” I said.
“Always. Good to be away from coworkers. I like talking with you.” She looked at me over the rim of her glass. I’d predicted she would have put on more makeup when she’d disappeared into her bedroom, but it was the opposite. Her face looked freshly washed, and her eyes looked smaller without the shadow around them.
“Now I feel the pressure is on,” I said.
“It is. Say something interesting.”
“I could make up more limericks.”
She laughed, as though she’d just remembered the one I’d come up with at the bar. “Please do, actually. I could listen to those all night.”
“I can’t just keep giving away this talent for free, you know. It’s the only skill I have.”
“I understand.” She smiled her wide smile, and I saw that it was only her two front teeth that were slightly grayer than the rest.
The song switched to what I recognized as a John Mayer song. “Bedtime magic,” I said, tilting my head toward the stereo.
“Oh, you’re making fun of my music now,” she said, still laughing.
“Not really.”
“And you think that I brought you here to seduce you with white wine and slow music, and now I’m feeling very self-conscious.” There was a little alarm on her face, but amusement, as well.
“No,” I said. “I mean, I don’t know what to think. Did you?”
“I don’t know yet. No, I think I just like talking with you, and I’m pretty sure that if I slept with you I would never hear from you again. I’m not fishing to find out if that’s true, or maybe just a little bit. Why did you agree to come here?”
A moment of guilt pulsed through me when I thought of the real reason why I’d come. I said, “I came here because you asked me, and now that I’m here I’m feeling like I’m leading you on or something.”
“Leading me on because . . .”
I thought for a moment. “Because I guess I’m not looking for a relationship.”
Pam smiled, then said, “I guess I’m not either.”
“Why did you smile like that?” I said, although I already knew.
“Because it’s a line, isn’t it? You’re making sure you lay some groundwork down for if and when you spend the night and don’t call me ever again?”
“I don’t know if—”
“I don’t mind. It’s fine. I didn’t invite you back here to become my boyfriend. Just don’t tell me that you’re secretly in love with some unattainable woman and that’s why you can’t commit.”
Lily rushed into my head, as she often did, and it must have shown on my face because she immediately said, “Oh, you actually were going to tell me that.”
“I don’t know if I was going to tell you, but there is some truth to what you said, honestly. I know I’m a cliché.”
Pam set her wineglass down on the glass coffee table next to the TV remote, and said, “No worries. I’m a cliché, as well.”
“Yeah, tell me about that,” I said. “How goes it with your complicated relationship?”
“It’s not an original story,” she said. “He’s married. Unhappily, he tells me. That’s about it.” She tugged at an earlobe, making me think she wasn’t giving me the whole story.
“What does he do?” I said.
“He’s in the real estate business,” she said, picking up her glass again.
“How convenient,” I said, and smiled so she would know I was trying to be funny instead of judgmental.
“Like I said earlier, I’ve decided to end it. Of course, I’ve made that decision before and it hasn’t worked out, but I think it’s different this time.”
“Why’s it different?”