Page 26

26

Serial Killer Games

Dodi

Just before dawn I lift my head and peel a piece of paper from my cheek. Benjamin Franklin, lips pursed in disapproval. There’s a vase of red roses next to the bed. I toss the flowers on the floor and chug the water.

The room is white. Plush white carpet, white sofa, white everything, and red rose petals everywhere. There are candles burned right down to the base and dripping wax all over the coffee table, where socks and shoes and cards lie in a heap from an abandoned game of strip poker. Condoms blown up into massive balloons roll like lazy tumbleweeds across the carpet under the draft of the AC.

I’m sprawled out on top of a pile of money on the nuptial bed of an extravagant honeymoon suite, an enormous rock sparkling on my left hand. Something else sparkles, too: the rhinestone-bedazzled Elvis romper I won in strip poker. I was serious about getting married by Elvis.

It was an unconventional proposal, perhaps. How many men get down on one knee with a slot machine token while a crowd of Las Vegas tourists cheer? But a few hours later, when I’d had time to think it over, I accepted all the same. Nothing fazes me. I’m a professional. I’ve seen it all. And this is very much my MO: a marriage of convenience to help a dying man retain his dignity. Sure, we should do the power of attorney stuff too, but this was the reckless, alcohol-fueled start.

He deserves my best work. I knew that, last night, when he explained everything to me. He’s given me his best work.

He’s dead asleep. Dark eyelashes fanned on his cheeks, stubble dotting his jaw. He lost most of his clothing in the small hours of the morning when I handed his and Elvis’s asses to them, and now I get my first look at his pale, lean body, lying next to me, still strong and healthy for now. I wonder how thin he’ll get. Neil turned into a bag of bones. It’s my last look, too—there won’t be any of that nonsense, now. This Black Widow doesn’t get attached to her clients.

Loss is the price of entry. Unlike those idiots thronging the casinos, I’ve always known there’s no winning. Just the temporary illusion of winning. The house always has an edge, and everyone loses eventually. Everyone dies eventually.

I watch him as the room slowly fills with light. I close my eyes and I listen to him. His slow, quiet breathing, and underneath, a heartbeat. Maybe it’s my own heartbeat, or maybe I’m imagining it. I wriggle closer and I breathe him in. Something warm-blooded and inviting that makes me want to bury my face in his shoulder. The way he looks and sounds and smells right now—and more than that, his kindness, his patience, his dark humor—these are my trophies. I’ll keep them in a box under my bed.

There are things Jake needs to do before he dies. A whole list of unfinished business, of loose ends to wrap up, of experiences to have. I’ve seen it before. But because of real life waiting at home, I can’t do them with him. I need to push him off gently. He can’t afford to waste any time. I’ll be here when he needs me—really needs me—and doesn’t just want me. Because it’s obvious to me now why he waited to crawl into bed with me, even though I’ve been scrabbling to get in his pants all along. For him it’s never been just a flirtation to stave off the boredom. Jake wants something truly special to happen to him before he dies.

Jake wants to fall in love.

I can’t help him with that.

—

Jake fumbles with the key card, and as the lock finally blinks green, the door across the hall opens up. Cynthia grimly takes in his rumpled clothes, my Elvis romper, our bag with stray bills poking out of it. The look in her eyes sends chills down my spine, but she doesn’t say a thing. Her door clicks softly shut.

The plane leaves soon. We don’t have time to shower. We change our clothes, miserably, with matching hangovers. We check the bathroom, the bedding, the drawers, for things gone astray, just to be safe. Did we leave anything behind? Only a whole-ass husband.

Jake compulsively makes the bed and folds the towels, and I leave out a generous tip. We’re responsible grown-ups here, in case last night caused any confusion. He gives me the boarding passes and the passports, and he takes the bags. We’re so practical and prosaic and— married .

A married couple who still haven’t made eye contact since we woke up and Jake peered at the ring on his finger. A married couple who still haven’t discussed the crazy fact that we are a married couple.

At the airport check-in we find our people—the bleary-eyed, the greasy-haired, the hungover—all being mentally assaulted by chipper, efficient, bright-eyed airline staff serving up bad news like poisonous hors d’oeuvres on a tray. Can I tempt you with an overbooked flight? How about a bumped seat?

“What the fuck do you mean the flight’s been canceled?” I ask.

The check-in agent’s eyes bug and her painted pink lips freeze in a soulless smile.

“Just, no.”

She blinks. “Yes. I can get you on the first flight tomorrow—”

“No.”

Jake pulls me out of the line by my elbow. I protest, I dig my heels in, but the agent has turned to the next passenger. I’m so furious, I miss what Jake says next.

“What?” I say.

He presses his lips together for a moment, like he’s not sure if he dares to repeat what he said. His eyes coast over my face.

“We don’t have to go home. Come with me.”

The request knocks the breath out of me.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Guantánamo Bay?”

He smiles, one of his amused, shy smiles, a real one, and my stomach pinches. We’re standing in one of the largest airport hubs in North America right now, passports in our pockets. I have my bag filled with enough clothes to last a few days, some toiletries—no. We have four hundred thousand American dollars . We don’t need anything else. I scan the departure flight displays: Honolulu. Seoul. Amsterdam. Panama City.

I can picture it, a pair of murderers on the lam after their latest rampage in Las Vegas. Or maybe…maybe two people finally getting to know each other for a brief while as they see the world together. Getting drunk in first class on sparkling wine. Landing in Guadalajara, where I will casually order our dinner in Spanish, and he will discover that I am conversational after all—certificate in business Spanish, thank you very much. That night in bed he’ll want to know how many languages I speak, so I’ll take him to Manila next, where he can learn more about me—

I close my eyes and let myself savor the fantasy. He spins the best fantasies.

But real life calls.

“I can’t,” I tell him. I don’t say I don’t want to. His smile slips.

“Why not?”

Why not?

A disembodied voice overhead says, Something-something-terminal. I hate airports.

“If you want to travel,” I say, “I think you should do it.”

I worked out my talking points this morning while he slept. I was going to have this conversation with him when we got home—for some reason I pictured us on the roof at work. I was going to tell him that we need to be apart for a while, that he needs to focus on himself for a bit, but that I’ll be ready to spring into action when he needs me.

This is better. I can picture him on a tropical beach somewhere, or walking down the streets of some European city. He could even meet someone. There’s still time for that special thing to happen to him. I won’t be the sort of wife who gets jealous.

“I think you should travel, Jake. And I think you should do it by yourself.”

He sighs. “It would be too boring.” His voice and manner have changed. He’s putting on the protective mask again: the Serial Killer at Work. Comedic, deadpan, invulnerable. “And boredom’s already a chronic problem—”

“Stop with the serial killer games for a minute.”

He stares at me from behind the mask, but I learned how to read poker faces from the best.

“Boredom’s not just for sociopaths,” I say. “You know who else suffers chronic boredom? Really smart people.”

He makes an impatient noise, but I push on. There are things that need to be said. There’s more to being a good wife than a willingness to shake some pills into your husband’s palm and press a pillow over his face.

“You’re smart, so I know you’re going to understand me. You’re bored, and lonely, and depressed. I’ve always known you’re not like this…” I gesture broadly at him—at all of him—at the flatness, the friendlessness, his lamprey-like latching onto the dopamine fix our flirtation has given him, the desperation to lose himself in a fantasy world—at everything, basically, I see reflected in myself. “You’re not like this because you’re a sociopath. You’re like this because you’re depressed. You need to do something about it.”

The mask falls away suddenly and dramatically. It’s the first time I’ve seen anything like anger on his face, and it’s a relief to see it. It’s human. It’s so normal. It’s healthy .

“I’m not depressed,” he says levelly. “This isn’t a chemical imbalance. I have a completely valid reason for feeling the way I do. Taking a pill or talking to a therapist isn’t going to help me be happier .”

“I’m not suggesting you ‘get happy.’ It’s your right to feel miserable. You deserve to grieve properly instead of avoiding it. You’ve been working so hard to convince everyone around you you’re fine. The fake smiles, the fake golden retriever, the facade of normalcy. You even used me to lie to your aunt about having a girlfriend.”

“ You told her you were my girlfriend—”

“And she looked so happy, you went along with it. You can’t live like this—not if you’re dying. Your roommate? Looking after him is a distraction for you. Tell me I’ve got that wrong.”

He stares at me, and I keep going. I know I’m right. I’ve been putting him together in my head since I woke up this morning—and picked his pockets and rifled through his secrets while he was dead to the world.

“You’re taking better care of him than of yourself. Is it easier to let yourself get sucked into someone else’s crazy and make a whole job for yourself managing their shit instead of dealing with your own?”

He’s a statue.

“You want to live in a fantasy—anything to distract you from what’s ahead. But you need to work on your real life. You need to cut out the people in your life who make you miserable, like your roommate, and your uncle. You need to tell your aunt you’re sick—”

“No—”

“It’s obvious she adores you. She would want the chance to help you in any way she can.”

“He wouldn’t let her, and she’s never stood up for me against him.”

There’s so much anger and hurt there below the surface, like a wound that needs to be drained. The kindest thing is to keep digging with my lance.

“You need to figure out what you want to do with the time you have left.”

“There isn’t anything I want to do—”

“You need to figure it out. You need to figure out what makes you happy, at the most basic level, and you need to do that.”

I kneel down on the dirty airport floor, unzip my carry-on, and pull out the hotel pillowcase containing half the winnings from last night. I’d divvied it all up when Jake was in the hotel room bathroom folding towels back into swans or whatever he was doing. In the cold, bilious light of day, I feel so grateful to Jake for cutting me off last night. I need the money so badly, but half is enough for what I need to do.

“Here,” I say, pressing it into his chest.

“I don’t want it.”

“It’s yours. Take it. Hop on a plane and see some of the world. Find something that makes you happy.”

“You make me happy.”

He reaches up as if to take the pillowcase, but he just holds his hands on top of mine, against his chest, and I can see it coming like a train derailing, one segment after another flying off the tracks, and I want to scream at this shit-for-brains idiot You can’t say—

“I’m in love with you.”

My heart sprints in the worst way, because if he thinks I’m going to say it back—

“I know you don’t feel the same way,” he says quickly. “I don’t want you to.”

I unstick my tongue. “What do you want me to do with this information?”

“Print it on a coffee mug.”

I try to wriggle my hands out of his grasp, but he doesn’t let go.

“I want to be with you. I think you want to be with me too.”

I’m flushed and sweaty. My scalp prickles.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

His life has been so unhappy, but there must have been a period in his childhood where someone took very good care of him for him to be able to say exactly what he’s feeling like that.

It’s not a shabby offer. His love, his attention, his fun—to be at the center of the intense focus of this intelligent, handsome man…and he’s not asking for anything in return, except my presence. I let him hold my hands, and I let myself picture it one more time.

“We’re married,” he says quietly, like he’s still wrapping his head around it and is afraid to say it too loud. “Let’s go on a honeymoon. We’ll quit our jobs. No work, no responsibilities, no crazy roommate, and definitely no cat—”

Cat.

Cat.

I’m so glad he says it, because it’s there, right there , that he goes too far and makes it easy for me to say no. For him to suggest that I ditch her for him—that I leave her in the lurch for a few weeks while I indulge in a dalliance—that I would be the sort of person…

This last remaining piece of Neil is the reason I get up in the morning. The reason I stay up half the night on my stupid laptop. The reason I cling to that mind-numbing job. I’ve done terrible things, but my love for her is the best and most redeeming thing about me—

It hits me that I’ve been terrible.

I’ve worked so hard to build a new life, a life I was supposed to have with Neil, a life that honors his memory, and here I’ve been acting like an idiot, leaving her behind, risking my job, binding myself legally to someone I barely know. I’ve been completely unhinged these past few weeks.

I make myself sick.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I know exactly who it is. I wrench my hands from Jake’s. I could throw up. He needs to know where we stand. I need to remind myself where I stand.

“The thing is,” I say, “I have a life.”

It comes out so much harsher than I mean it to, but it’s like I have two settings. Cruel, and even worse. His face goes blank. A thrust, and now a twist:

“I have an actual life. I have love, and a home, and a purpose.” I’m so lucky , in spite of all the bad luck that came before. I have so much now, even if I lost everything once. Casino bravado has steamed off like a mist in the bright light of day, and I can admit to myself I’d fight till I’m red in tooth and claw to not lose it all again. I’ll fight Jake if I have to. “At the end of the day, when we’re done playing our stupid serial killer games at the office, I go home and my real life begins.”

His face shows utter betrayal. He’s been the other man this whole time, the one I cheat on my real life with. But I’ve decided either I hurt, or he does. Except I still hurt. My phone vibrates again. I plunge my hand in my pocket and squeeze it.

He stares at me, his face turning red. “Is this the same real life you’ve been escaping from the whole time I’ve known you?”

I stab him right back. “You don’t even have a real life.”

“ This could be real life,” he says, and there’s a shearing sensation in my chest. Organs twisting until they split.

“For the rest of your life, I guess.”

It was self-defense, Your Honor. Jake drops my hands.

Buzz.

“Real life calling?” Jake says sarcastically.

I press the phone to my ear and walk to the other side of the newsstand.

“I got the flight cancellation email,” my neighbor says without preamble.

“I’m already boarding a different flight,” I lie, and my neighbor sighs with relief.

“Good. She misses you. When I woke up this morning she was curled up on the foot of my bed.”

I wait until I’m sure my voice won’t crack. “Can I say hi?”

“Ha. No. She’s far too busy.”

“Is that…” I strain to hear. “Barking?”

“We’re on the roof.”

Jesus. “The pet zone?”

“Don’t worry. It’s just little dogs today.”

“It’s not safe up there. The walls are too low.”

“Either I bring her up or she sneaks up when I’m not looking. She loves the dogs. I think you’re going to have to get a little friend for her.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. I want to give her a little dog friend so badly. “As soon as we have a place with a yard.”

The mythical place with a yard. It’s never going to happen. I’m so glad Jake made me keep the money, but I have to use it for something else. Spencer & Sterns. My laptop. My double life.

Across the way, Jake has approached the counter.

“Give her a squeeze from me,” I say, and I end the call.

I watch his mask slip on. He flicks on a handsome, charming, serial killer smile, and the agent melts like wax under a flame. She smiles back. He says something, and she titters, and he says something else, and her face fills with concern over whatever lie he’s expertly fed her. A moment later, she’s printed a boarding pass and handed it to him. A one-way international ticket, first class, for a grand adventure.

He walks back to me and holds out the pass to rub in my face.

“You have a window seat,” he says.

I blink and take the pass with numb fingers. “What?”

I stare at it. A seat on the next flight home, later today. “What about you?”

He glances at the departures display. London. Mexico City. Paris.

“I’ll catch a different flight.” He flashes me a big fake psycho smile, and walks away.