There are no details about her disappearance online. Just her birth date and description and the day she was seen last, on a website about missing and endangered children. Kayla was last seen four weeks ago, just as Joylene explained. She didn’t know too much beyond that. “Your mama says she must have run off. I called the police, and they said they’ve filed a missing-person report but had no reason to believe she was at risk. They sounded bored about the whole thing.”
“And Kayla’s mother?”
Joylene snorted. “She won’t even call me back. Your brother says no one has heard from Kayla, and he can’t do shit from jail, so to leave him alone. The end. No one cares, Jane. I can’t get any information from CPS or the county or the police because we’re not related.”
Joylene came to the wrong place looking for concern, but I still find myself fascinated as I google my niece’s name. Did she just run away? God knows, I considered it a hundred times, knowing I’d be better off without my shitty family weighing me down. But in the end I decided the free room and board was worth it. I wanted to finish high school so I could get to college and show them all how much better I was than them.
And I did it. But maybe Kayla came up with a different plan. Leave these losers in the dust and hope for the best.
Or maybe she was raped and killed and left on the side of the road.
“It’s none of my business,” I tell myself aloud. But I still spend most of my afternoon looking up information on missing teens in Oklahoma. No bodies have been found that look like hers. No random feet washed up in rivers. Maybe she’s just being sex trafficked.
This time when Luke texts me, I don’t ignore him. Jane, come on. Can we talk?
Yes, I write. Come by my place tonight.
Sounds like a setup for murder??? he responds.
I laugh at that. Maybe he knows me better than I think. Perhaps you can appease me with calzones and save yourself.
Done.
There’s an Italian take-out place a block from his condo that I love. He already knows my order. There are good things about being in a relationship.
I’m not ready to give him up. I know that. But I refuse to hang around until he dumps me. That’s not an acceptable outcome, and I might lose my shit and do something dangerous to the next girl he sleeps with.
A conundrum. Give him up now or later? Or . . . maybe there’s a third choice. String him along forever, promising children we’ll never have. That’s an option to consider. I can distract him with good sex for years, and then I’ll surely get tired of him and walk away before he has a chance to realize I’ve been voluntarily infertile this whole time. I will get sick of him. Nothing lasts forever. The sex has to get boring at some point, and there’s not much more to me.
When I leave work at six, Rob is still typing away in his office, hard at work, and I’ve never seen that before. This experience is going to be so great for his personal growth.
Half an hour later, Luke knocks on the door of my condo. When I open it and see him, I feel strange inside: a tight, vibrating sensation high in my belly that makes me nervous. He sets the bag of food on the counter along with a bottle of wine and turns to face me. “I’m sorry I freaked you out yesterday. That wasn’t my intention.”
“I know,” I respond, and then I add, “I’m sorry too,” because I understand that I’m supposed to, but I don’t know what to add after that. I don’t have anything else to say except Stop it, stop it, stop it, I don’t like this. But that would cause another conversation, and who can live like that? So instead of telling him to stop, I make him stop by sliding into his arms and squeezing him tight. He squeezes back and within seconds we’re kissing.
The fight has triggered something rough and desperate in him, and I like rough and desperate, so I’m thrilled when he backs me up to the countertop of my galley kitchen and lifts me onto it. He doesn’t have to move carefully or ask if I’m in the mood. I’ve trained him not to. I’ll lash out if he does. I know my own bad habits.
I groan when he shoves my skirt up, then hiss with pleasure when he slides his hand into my underwear to touch me.
“Christ, I can’t get enough of you,” he whispers, and I’m suddenly filled up and overflowing with power and delight. I’m not a soft and caring person. I’m not nurturing. But I have this, damn it. And he loves it. He still loves it.
“Show me,” I beg. “Fuck me.” He does.
I don’t have a soul, but in this moment I feel as if I do. I feel beautiful and full and glowing with the kind of life that other people take for granted. Luke needs this, and I’m human for a few minutes, his soul filling me up as he thrusts. This is love. This is emotion.
Is it real?
I expand, my heart swelling until it pops wide-open with my climax. Then I’m myself again, my insides cooling as the sweat evaporates on my skin.
And there are still the calzones to look forward to.
“I missed you,” he murmurs against my neck.
“It’s only been twenty hours.”
He grins like an embarrassed little boy, and he’s so cute that I laugh and kiss him on the cheek. “Tell me you love me,” I demand.
“I love you,” he says, and I know he means it, which is strange and wonderful and sad.
“Me too,” I say solemnly, hoping it’s close to the truth. If it’s not love, it’s as near as I’ve ever gotten. “Now let’s eat.”
“I brought your favorite wine.”
“I saw that. How do you think we ended up on the counter?”
“My boundless charm?”
I slide off the cold granite, pull my underwear back on, and open the bag of food. What a great reunion.
By the time I pop the last bite of calzone into my mouth, Luke and I are sprawled on the couch, my legs draped over his lap, and half the bottle of wine is gone. I lick my greasy fingers and watch him watch my tongue.
“Something weird happened today,” I say. “My niece is missing.”
His reaction is delayed, because I suck a finger into my mouth and he finds that distracting.
“What?” he asks.
“My niece is missing.”
He frowns, his head cocked, then he pushes himself upright on the couch. “Your niece? Jane, are you joking?”
“No.”
“What niece? Where? What happened?”
“One of my brother’s many children, of course. His first one, I think. Down in Oklahoma. I don’t know her.”
He only looks more alarmed. “How old is she?”
“Sixteen.”
“But . . .” He shakes his head hard, as if he’s trying to clear it. “How did you find out?”
“Someone called.” He raises his eyebrows at my words and gestures impatiently for more information.
Tipping my head back in weariness, I call on my best storytelling capabilities and find little to nothing to tap into. “One of my brother’s baby mamas tracked me down online and called the office. A couple of times. I finally took her call this afternoon. She explained the situation.”
“And that situation is . . . ?”
“You’re a regular Curious George tonight.”
“Jane, come on! This is awful. Tell me everything.”