Right after my father was arrested, there was this journalist named Larry who used to trail me everywhere, going to extremes even other psycho journalists considered too far. He posed as a gravedigger at my brother’s funeral; called claiming to be my father’s lawyer; and even hacked into my gynecologist’s database to learn when my next appointment was so he could “be there.” That was the one that got him arrested.
Despite his efforts to be stealthy, Larry was everywhere. There was no way not to recognize him after a while. And after a certain number of “coincidences,” it became suspicious. The stranger isn’t Larry, but he’s starting to feel like more than a coincidence, too.
“Do you work here?” the stranger asks when I don’t say anything. “I need to buy...”
“No,” I interrupt. “I don’t work here.”
“Oh.” He takes in my winter coat, torn jeans, sneakers, wool hat. I suppose I could work here.
“Why are you here?” I try not to sound paranoid, but I am. I’ve thought of little but him for the past week, but now that he’s in front of me, alarm bells are ringing.
Before he can answer, the mechanic returns. “All set,” he says, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “You paying cash—?” He breaks off when he spots the stranger. “Or credit’s fine,” he adds. “Debit. Whatever.”
He scribbles the price on an old-fashioned bill and slides it across the counter. I reach for my wallet. I always carry cash, since my credit card says my name. And while maybe the mechanic wouldn’t bat an eye at seeing Reese Carlisle, the stranger might wonder why Denise is using someone else’s card.
I collect my receipt and pull out my car keys.
“Just the oil for you?” the mechanic asks the stranger.
“You know what?” he says. “Never mind.” He returns the bottle to the display and goes to the door, holding it open for me to pass through. It closes behind us and I take a few steps before turning.
“Why are you here?”
“Go out with me,” he says.
It takes me a second to comprehend. “What?”
“Right now,” he says. “Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
“I don’t—I’m not—” I try not to act like a moron who’s never been asked out before. I’ve been on dates. Lots of them. Just not with him. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I meant what I said the other night. That was a one-time thing.”
“Why?”
“Stop asking me questions. I said no.”
He tilts his head, almost quizzically, then turns to go. “You’re the boss.” Behind him, I see his truck parked at the edge of the lot.
“Why are you here?” I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t care. I just need to believe this is a coincidence. As unlikely as it is, I need to believe.
He stops. “I have to change the oil. This place is on my way.”
“Your way where?”
“Home.” He finally recognizes my suspicion. “Are you worried about something?”
“It seems odd,” I say, “that you were at the restaurant, then the road, then here.”
He lifts a shoulder. “You were all those places. I wasn’t suspicious. I just thought I was lucky.”
My mind is racing. I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know what to do. My brain is saying, Get in your car and drive away and make sure he doesn’t follow you home. My body is saying, Do it again.
“Let’s get something to eat,” he says, sensing weakness.
He’s too nice. He’s going to take it personally when I don’t want to give him my number or see a movie next week.
“I don’t do seconds,” I make myself say, even as a desperate part of me tries to plead its case.
“No?” he says. “I think if we’d had more time that night, I could have given you seconds. And thirds.”
Whatever protest I’d been about to utter dissolves in the cold air at the mention of that orgasm. That’s what I want. Seconds. Thirds. More.
“I live near the restaurant,” he adds. “Verre Plein. Come over.”
I think about how easy it must be for him. Being himself all the time. No secrets, no lies. He sees a woman he wants, gives her his room key— “Why did you have a key?”
“What?”
“Why did you have a hotel room if you live near the restaurant?”
“Burst pipe in the building. Two floors had to spend the night elsewhere.”
Holden City Grand Hotel is not the place a teacher at a farm school would be able to afford. “That’s a nice hotel.”
“The building paid for it. They should, with what they charge.”
The sane part of me, the part saying, This is too much. This can’t be a coincidence, is turning on the part of me that climbs to the roof every night and urges me to step off. This feels like a compromise. Like inching my toes over the side, but not jumping. Not yet.
“Come on,” he says, starting toward his truck. “I don’t have a spare key this time, so you’ll have to follow.”
“We’ll see,” I say, even though I know I’m going to do it.
He nods, then jogs to his truck. I return to the garage to collect my car, and when I back out into the lot he’s idling at the exit. He puts on his blinker to make the turn onto the freeway, and I do the same.
He doesn’t drive straight to the city center, like I’m expecting. That’s where Verre Plein is, where he lives, where I live. No, he leads us to the east side of the city, popular with artists and hipsters, streets lined with small restaurants hawking food from all over the world. This is where Denise has her studio apartment.
He parks in a public lot, and I find a spot the next row over. He’s waiting when I climb out of my car. “You said you lived near Verre Plein.”
“I do. But I told you I was starving and I want tacos. Come on.” He doesn’t wait, just heads for the sidewalk.
I want to complain, but my stomach leaps at the thought of food, so I follow. The streets are busy for nine o’clock on a Tuesday, restaurants and bars doing good business. He stops at a place called Rita’s Cantina and opens the door, gesturing for me to go inside. He doesn’t ask if I like Mexican, though I do, and the smell of roasting meat and spice makes me forget all my misgivings.
The restaurant is half-full and he leads the way to a tiny corner booth, taking the seat opposite me. The walls are covered with canvas prints of Mexican movies, their hand-painted artwork a bright contrast to the plain walls and tables. A server comes over and I order two tacos and the stranger gets five, then checks with me before ordering a couple of beers, too.
“Five tacos?” I say, sipping my beer. “Really?”
“I’ve gotta keep up my energy if I’m going to fulfill all my promises.”
“All of them? How many are we talking?”
He thinks for a second. “Six,” he says, trying to keep a straight face.
I raise my eyebrows. “Oh, wow.”
“Not up for it?”
“You’re going to have to eat fast if you want to fulfill six ‘promises’ before midnight.”