***
Three days later, Cory came home with a brand-new MacBook Pro. “You shouldn’t have done this,” I said, admiring the box. The delight on my face was entirely legitimate, mostly because of how easy it was to get there.
Cory slid another bag toward me and said, “And a case to put it in. Consider it an early holiday gift.”
I pulled out a padded leather case with a long strap that could be worn across the body and a zippered pouch for the cord.
I looked up at him, tears in my eyes. “My whole life, I’ve had to scrounge and piece together the basics. And now…” I trailed off, absorbing the possibilities ahead of me. “You’ve given me my future.” It wasn’t a lie.
He tilted my chin up so he was gazing into my eyes. “I’m sure you can think of a way to thank me.”
He was reaching for his belt buckle when the doorbell rang. “Damn. I forgot, Nate and I made plans tonight.” He adjusted himself and crossed the room to open the door.
“Bottomless pitcher over at Flynn’s,” Nate said as he entered. To me he said, “Grab your fake ID and join us, Meg.”
I ignored him and kept my eyes on my new computer.
“How’d you afford that?” Nate asked.
“Cory bought it for me.”
Nate raised his eyebrows and said, “Really?”
Cory grabbed his keys and dropped a kiss on the top of my head, whispering, “Wait up, and wear the black nightie I bought you.”
I slipped off the couch and followed them to the door. As I was closing it, I heard Nate say, “That’s a pretty expensive gift for someone you barely know.”
I hesitated, straining to hear Cory’s response. “I wouldn’t say that. We’ve been together a couple months now.”
“But what do you really know about her? She just appeared out of nowhere, at a coffee shop.”
Cory laughed. “With Meg, what you see is what you get,” he said. “Small-town girl, small-town sensibilities.”
I pushed the door closed quietly, flipping the bolt, and made my way back to my new computer, humming quietly to myself.
***
My English teacher in high school once brought in a novelist to talk to us about the creative process. She told us she always knew how her books were going to end, but didn’t always know how she would get there. That part of the art—and part of the fun—was figuring it out.
I enjoyed living inside that same type of ambiguity. Having the outline of a plan, waiting for opportunities to arise. I learned to pay close attention, seeing things through the lens of how to exploit them, looking and waiting for my openings. And I was good at it—the planning. Setting traps and walking away, trusting Cory would fall into them.
Not everything I tried worked. When I told Cory about a fundraiser to help a family friend rebuild after a fire, he declined. Another time, I used a wrench to crack one of the bolts on the lid of the toilet, having found a video on YouTube that would show me how to fix it for about $2. When I told Cory I’d scheduled a plumber to come, and that he should leave $200 to cover the bill, Cory fixed it himself.
But I learned something from every attempt. I learned how to see the holes in a plan, how to anticipate when an answer might be no, and then take that option away. I got better. I got smarter. The loop I’d cast around Cory was growing tighter.
***
I found the photos right after the new year. I’d been late for class, hurrying to get ready, and as I flipped the light switch in the closet, the bulb buzzed and then popped, casting everything into darkness. “Shit,” I said.
Cory kept the light bulbs in the cupboard above the fridge, but they were back farther than I could reach. I pulled over a chair and stood on it, shifting aside an old roasting pan and some cans of ginger ale. That was when I saw it, a small, white envelope tucked behind an air popper we never used. I dislodged it and turned it over, the glue on the flap just starting to yellow.