can definitely open with a two-year contract. What do you think?”
I don’t care what they think, of course, just like I’m not actually sorry for interrupting good old Rob. But I need to be likable as well as capable and confident. What a tightrope.
The room has relaxed, thrilled that someone stepped in to avert disaster. Rob is slumped into a loose lump of puzzlement on the other side of the table, thinking, What just happened?
The clients jump in with questions. I answer most of them, though I bite my tongue occasionally to let others at the table share in the triumph. We’ve got ourselves a plan now, and there’s profit to be had by all.
Half an hour later, I’m the one shaking hands with everyone in the room as they file out, though Rob has rallied enough to make a game effort of it. Still, quite a few people manage to slip by him with eyes locked on the doorway and hands occupied. The partners don’t bother avoiding his eyes. They clap my shoulder and say good job, and then they walk past him with lips curled.
“Thanks, Robert,” I say as I breeze through the door, the last to leave him standing there. “I’ll type up a summary of the details we covered and cc you on it. Don’t worry.”
“Oh,” I hear him murmur behind me. “Yeah, great.”
He won’t be fired, though once I start dropping hints about him and the mournful receptionist, he might become too much of a liability to keep around. But for now his job is safe; he’s just lost his golden-boy shine, and I’ve stolen it to rub all over myself.
Jane really saved the day, stepping in like that. Did you see her pull those numbers out of the air? What an asset she is in times like these.
Good old unflappable Jane.
I leave the door of my office open so I can catch snatches of conversation from the hallway as people buzz by. Rob closes his door with a hollow thunk that shivers over my excited nerves.
Grinning, I get out my phone to send a text. Meet me for a drink at The Train Car? 5:30?
Yes, he responds immediately.
They have individual bathrooms there. We can go in together and lock the door. ☺
Luke is a nice, quiet guy. Modest and kind. But I can get him to do anything. I make him nervous, but he feels alive, and isn’t that what really matters?
I hope it is, because that’s all I’ve got.
CHAPTER 2
The problem with having sex early in the evening is that it frees up too many hours for things like talking. This is my first committed relationship, and it’s the thing I hate most about it, that moment when he says “Jane . . .” in that serious tone.
“Nope,” I respond.
Luke looks startled by that and twists on the couch to face me more fully. “Pardon?”
“Nope,” I repeat.
“But I didn’t ask anything.”
“Well, I’m reading.”
“Oh.” He pauses for only a moment before trying again. “I just wanted to talk about something with you while we have the time.”
I don’t have the time. I’m in the middle of a book, and I just said that. But if I push him off now, he’ll bring it up later when I’m trying to fall asleep, and that will be even worse. I’ll say something that hurts his feelings because I’m tired and not being careful.
Then again, even if he brings it up later, I could distract him with sex because he’ll be fully recovered.
But I’ve hesitated too long, and Luke takes that as acceptance. “We’ve been dating for a year now, and it’s been great.”
Well, here it is. This is why I hate talking. It never leads to anything good, like food or sex or action movies. It leads to this: Luke is breaking up with me.
I’ve known it would come eventually. I’m not the marrying type. I’m not even the girlfriend type, because I have a kind of . . . disability. I’m not capable of experiencing a full range of emotion, and most emotions I can’t pull off at all, but that’s not my fault.
That’s the thing no one wants to acknowledge about sociopaths. It’s not my fault. I didn’t choose this.
But whether or not I can feel sympathy or tenderness or true, genuine love, I can pretend. It’s not difficult even for normal people to manipulate their way into a longer relationship, after all. I just have to tell him what he wants to hear.