Knitting in the City 01 Neanderthal Seeks Human (42 page)

“I don’t have any money-”

“But Jon has money.”

I shook my head, “I doubt he’ll give you any money-”

“But he’ll give it to you. If you ask him he’ll give you anything.”

I bit my top lip to silence my abrupt and unexpected urge to scream at her. The impulse was so sudden
I had to swallow. My hands were shaking.

I was angry.

I couldn’t speak so I shook my head again.

“Fuck, Janie! It’s the least he can do, after cheating on you.”

And then I laughed. At first it was a short burst, completely involuntary. Then, when I met her glare, another hysterical giggle spewed forth and I was lost. Soon I was laughing so hard my side and my jaw hurt. I had to stagger to the couch so I wouldn’t fall on the floor.

Nothing about this situation was funny. I was pretty certain I had just, literally, cracked up.

“So, what? You’re not going to forgive me for sleeping with your douchebag boyfriend?”

My mouth fell open. I didn’t think it was possible for her behavior to surprise me at this point. I was wrong.

However, I was so practiced at numbing my feelings around my family- in their presence, when I thought about them, when I recalled my childhood- my surprise was short-lived. It was like looking at them and my past through a microscope; they were an unfortunate science experiment.

“Jem.” I lifted my hands from my lap and pressed my palms to my chest, “I can’t forgive you if you’re not sorry.”

Her green eyes narrowed into slits, assessing me; “Yeah. I guess you’re right.” Her head bobbed in a small movement, her voice was quiet; “I’m not sorry. I’d do it again. And if you had another rich boyfriend who I thought I could get money from I’d sleep with him too.”

Her words made me flinch. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at her.

Her raspy voice was closer when she next spoke; “We’re not so different, you know.”

I didn’t open my eyes at this ridiculous statement, instead I leaned further into the couch and willed her gone.

She continued, “I don’t think Jon is a guy who is as faithful as his options. He- he thinks you’re it, you’re the one. You don’t seem to care that he cheated on you and you don’t give a shit about him.”

I huffed at this, “One minute you say he’
s an asshole for cheating on me and the next minute you’re telling me I’m the bad guy for not caring enough that he cheated on me? Jem, I broke up with him.”

“Yeah, but you don’t seem too depressed about it.”

I half opened my eyes; my gaze made it no higher than the coffee table, “This isn’t going to work either. I’m still not going to ask Jon for the money.”

Her face was unsurprisingly void of emotion, “You are just like me, Janie. You left Jon
, an annoyingly nice guy who you dated for years and who loves you more than anything, and now you feel nothing but relief, am I right? You’re relieved that you don’t have to be bothered to factor his feelings into account. You have the means to save your baby sister from certain death and you can’t even muster enough pretend sentiment to try. You’re incapable of feeling any depth of emotion, Janie. Just like me. Just like mom.”

I met her gaze
calmly even though her words met their intended target with swift precision. Jem’s overly-simplified assessment of the Jon situation was very close to my current view of reality; but I wasn’t yet finished sorting through all the reasons why that relationship ended. It was true, I wasn’t as attached to Jon as he may have been to me. It was also true, I was feeling mostly relief by the end of the relationship. However, he cheated then tried to lie about it then had me fired. Those were all his decisions.

I knew that I wasn’t blameless, but I was not the first girl in the history of forever to stay with a guy because he was ideal on paper. For the love of Thor! He was my first boyfriend. I was allowed to make mistakes.

The other charge, about not having enough
pretend sentiment
to save Jem, was the one that made me furious. And, in that I felt furious, I knew I was capable of emotional depth.

Because I hated her.

I shifted my gaze from hers and, when I spoke, I spoke to the room.

“You can stay here if you want. I usually sleep on the couch but you can have it.”

She was quiet for a long moment and I knew she was debating whether to push me further. To my surprise she didn’t.

“Where will you sleep?”

I inhaled then released a deep breath, “Elizabeth is at the hospital for a shift so I’ll sleep in her bed.”

“You’re still friends with Elizabeth?”

I nodded, hesitated, then lifted my eyes to hers. Her expression was unchanged, still inflexible, but her eyes moved between mine with a touch of approaching interest. It was a subtle yet rare demonstration of feeling.

Jem swallowed, licked her lips; “That’s good. She seems to care about you.”

“She does.” For reasons I couldn’t immediately understand, Jem’s words made my eyes sting, so I blinked.

Jem twisted her lips to the side and let her arms fall from her chest. With a small sigh she walked to the entry way and picked up a black leather jacket.

“I can’t wear this anymore. You can keep it or whatever. Get rid of it. I don’t care.” She tossed it to me on the couch and I automatically caught it; it smelled like her- cigarettes, clean soap, and violence. Memories careened over and through me so suddenly I had to grip the jacket to steady myself.

I loved her once.

When she was little, three or four, I used to give her piggy back rides around our neighborhood or pull her in a wagon behind my bike. She liked everything fast.

She started to smoke when she was eleven. There was nobody to tell her no, even though I tried. She laughed at me then. Growing up in the same house I often felt she was laughing at me. It didn’t anger me. It made me sad.

The stinging in my eyes continued, intensified. I bit then pulled my top lip between my teeth. I couldn’t speak, there was a giant knot in my throat. I watched her as she picked up my brown wool coat from the rack and pulled it over her shoulders.

“I’m taking this.”

My mouth hitched to the side and I leaned back against the couch, her black leather jacket still on my lap.

“That’s fine.” I responded, even though I knew she wasn’t asking my permission.

“I’m leaving. I don’t know if…” Jem fingered the middle button of my coat, her eyes rigid but intense. She buttoned the coat.

When she didn’t continue I cleared my throat, finding my voice, “Where will you go?”

She shrugged and shook her head; Jem stuffed her hands into the fur lined pockets of my jacket, “I don’t know.”

Without pausing, without a wave or a smile, Jem turned and left.

My door made a soft, final click as she closed it.

I slept hard and had strange dreams.

The dreams were the troubling kind where I thought
the action and events were genuine while asleep; upon waking and in retrospect I realized they were obviously completely implausible.

The one I remembered most intensely upon waking was about losing my teeth. The
fragments of bone continually fell out of my mouth every time I opened it to speak; and they ran away- though they had no legs- which, in the dream, sent me into a panic.

There is noth
ing quite like watching one’s own legless teeth running away.

Tourists kept accidentally stepping on my teeth. I was forced to chase my molars and canines down Michigan Avenue while dodging
black-socked sightseers in shorts, white Keds, and rainbow visors. When my alarm went off I actually ran my tongue over the back of my teeth to make sure they were all still present, in my mouth, and securely situated.

By the time I arrived at work
and greeted Keira at the front desk, the last miens of my dental-nightmare had almost completely dispersed. However, a lingering sense of disquiet and a completely irrational foreboding remained. My chest felt tight, heavy, and uncomfortable, like I had some terrible combination of bronchitis and gastroenteritis.

During
the short walk down the hall to my office, and as was typical, instead of dwelling on my increasingly complex feelings for Quinn or the unpleasant altercation with my sister, my mind ambled. I wondered about and made a mental note to check on the content of carpet fibers, more precisely: what made the current generation of carpet stain resistant? Were eco-friendly approaches to carpet manufacturing currently the norm? What country could claim the title as leader in office-carpet exports?

Still studying the carpet,
I opened the closed door to my office and was startled out of my floor-focus by the presence of unexpected company.

Olivia
was inside my office standing behind my desk. Her back was stiff and her eyes were wide as they met mine, her hand flew to her chest and she sucked in a loud breath.

I hesitate
d, frowned, glanced at the name outside the office to ensure I had the right door. When I confirmed that it was, indeed, my office and she was, indeed, in my office, I returned my gaze to her and waited for an explanation.

A protracted period of time stretched and we silently eyeballed each other. She looked very well assembled- as typical- and, even though I was the one to find her unexpectedly in my office
, with the door closed, she appeared to be waiting for me to explain my presence.

I waited two beats
longer then lifted my eyebrows, my chin dipped. “Well?”

“Can I help you?”
Olivia crossed her arms over her chest and leaned her hip against my desk.

I blinked at her and wondered momentarily if I were still dreaming. “What are you doing in my office?”

“It’s not your office, it doesn’t belong to you, it’s the company’s office.” She huffed.

She actually huffed.

It was a breathy sound, over exaggerated, combined with a bit of an exhale-snort.

I crossed my arms
, mimicking her stance, mostly to hide the fact that my hands were clenched in fists. “Olivia. What are you doing in the office which has been assigned to me by the company, with all my papers and confidential reports, with the door closed?”

She raised a single, impressively well-groomed eyebrow, “I’m looking for the updated schematic of the Las Vegas space.”

I shook my head, “It hasn’t been sent to us by the group in Las Vegas yet; they said they would email it by Friday.”

“Oh. Well, then, just send it over to me when you get it. No one can move forward with the new plans until you send it to the group.” Olivia’s tone and manner were so flippant that I almost actually felt like it was my fault that the client hadn’t yet sent the schematic.

I clenched my jaw, “As soon as I receive it from the client I will distribute it to group.”

Olivia issued me a tight-
lipped non-smile and moved passed me into the hallway without any further remark.

What. The. Hell…?

Somewhat grudgingly rooted in place, uncertain whether I wanted to push the issue by hall heckling her or just simply mope somberly, I watched her retreating form as she left; her steps hurried, her pace almost road-runner frantic. Then, shaking myself, I eye-rolled all the way into my office and heaved a gigantic sigh; I recognized that my earlier uneasiness had been replaced- or, more accurately, substituted- with immense irritation.

As I approached my desk I glanced at its contents; all the papers and folders were neatly stacked into piles, organized, just as I’d left them yesterday. I checked the drawers and found that they were still locked. My desktop
PC was also locked. If she’d been looking for something in particular I could see no outward sign that anything had been rummaged or disturbed.

The tightness in my chest constricted
, now vacillating between annoyance and anxiety, and I fell into my office chair. I attempted to sooth it away by clearing my mind, staring out the window, allowing myself to drift on white, puffy clouds visible in the distance.

For the first time in recent memory I successfully endeavored to sit and be still, thinking about nothing at all. I sky-watched until my eyes felt dry from staring.

At some indeterminable time later, the sound of laughter and normal office conversation pulled me out of my trance. I blinked, rubbed my closed lids, and decided to make an honorable attempt at getting work done. I didn’t think about carpet or Quinn or Jem or Olivia. Instead, I clung to the impersonal numbness of my task list.

Thus,
ignoring the stack of memos and printed reports on my desk, I lost myself to spreadsheets and glorious pivot tables; to requirements documents and billing-software workflows. The tension around my lungs eased with every passing hour, with deeper emersion into numbers and visio swim lane charts.

The sound of my office door closing
abruptly brought my attention back to the present and to the man who’d just entered.