meant nothing at all.
10
WHO ARE YOU? is scrawled across the top of a sheet of lined paper, half of which is stuck to my face when I wake up at my desk the next morning. Unfortunately, the rest of the page is blank. I guess I ran out of ideas.
I sit up, stretch out the kinks in my neck, then peel the paper off my cheek to smooth it out, contemplating the empty space. The questions. The answers. The possibilities. The fact that I don’t know who I’ve been sleeping with says nothing about Chris, and far too much about me. I’d dwell on it, but it won’t change anything. I’ve already had three years to reflect on my own moral failings; it’s time to put someone else in the unflattering spotlight.
Chris Sherwood, I add to the page. Then, after a second’s thought, I scribble a question mark. Chris Sherwood?
I stare at the two words for a long time, then sigh. Fuck. I get up and take my tea cup to the kitchen, sticking it in the dishwasher as I plug in the kettle and wait for the water to heat. The time on the microwave blinks 7:02 a.m. in green, too bright in a world this bleak.
I pace, trying to dredge up everything I know about Chris. Everything he’s told me, even though I told him I didn’t want to know. His name. His job. He’s from Montana. Had a dog named Astro. Lives in an apartment that sometimes has plants in the window, and sometimes doesn’t.
The most obvious solution is that he’s some type of law enforcement, FBI, most likely, though surely there has to be a law against sleeping with your suspect. A private investigator, then?
The kettle whistles, and I make my tea, returning to the desk to add to my paltry list. Every entry has a question mark next to it. Teacher? Montana? Plants? Lying asshole? I don’t even have his phone number.
Before the scandal, I could have made a dozen lists like this, a dozen guys I didn’t really know, who probably wanted to be with me for the wrong reasons. The money, the attention. But that was different. I wasn’t sleeping with those guys, and I didn’t care what their intentions were. My name was everywhere. My face. Some other body parts. I had no secrets.
But this is different. Chris is different. I’m different. And, if I’m not mistaken and the business card is more than a crazy coincidence, then he has to want something besides the pleasure of my company, and the obvious answer is the twenty million dollars everybody else wants. The money they’re sure I have hidden in the walls. But he can take a sledgehammer to every surface in this apartment—it’s not here.
I think back to that day at Fleischmann’s Park, when he’d led me right to Nichols Pavilion. I told myself the date was a test and if he failed, I’d run. But I ran for all the wrong reasons. I ran because I believed him, believed he liked me, because it had been so long since I’d believed somebody that I’d ignored what was right in front of me. For three years I’ve been killing time, trying to figure out what to do, and now there’s a gun to my head, telling me time’s up.
I could run again, of course. I could move and hide. But I’ve waited this long for my father’s appeal, this long for our shot at some semblance of a fresh start that running away now would jeopardize any chance I have at a normal future. I’ll spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, wondering where Chris is, what he wants, when he’ll find me. And perhaps most importantly, who the fuck he is.
Running is Plan B.
Getting answers is Plan A.
I start my amateur investigation in the most obvious place: the Holden School of Agriculture website. For a bunch of gardeners, they have a surprisingly sleek and modern site, stylized photos of plants and vegetables, slim and happy students. I click on the link for Staff, and scroll through the alphabetized list of names. There are a dozen S names, but no Sherwoods. No Chris. Just to be sure, I read all 110 names in the list. He’s not there.
The website appears modern, but maybe it hasn’t been updated recently. On impulse, I click on a random bio for someone named Maryanne Whims and find her email address. Maryanne.Whims@financeag.org.
I don’t bother