The Pedestal (16 page)

An ex-what? I guess I’ve neglected to tell Adrian that not only is she my first live-in girlfriend, she’s technically my first
girlfriend
. “What? No, Adrian. It’s nothing like that.”

But she’s not listening. Before I can react, she whips past me and storms the living room like a vengeful demon, eyes ablaze with hellfire. I follow in a mad rush to intervene, but there’s really no need.

The front door is slightly ajar, and Mitzy is gone.

Adrian is an enigma. A lifetime of cinematic stereotyping has led me to believe that women are internally wired to drool over romantic getaways. An all-inclusive, luxury cruise to Australia, for example. Pre-booked with a nonrefundable deposit, just to demonstrate my commitment to her happiness. With no other frame of reference, it’s hard to decide if Hollywood has intentionally duped me, or if my girlfriend is simply an exception to the rule. Either way, I’m baffled. I might as well have pitched a nice hike through a recycling plant.

“It’ll be relaxing,” I plead. “A chance for us to spend some real quality time together. Isn’t that what you want?”

“I can’t just blow off my job, Wilson,” she says. “Besides, I get seasick.” I try not to let my irritation show, but it’s hard. She’s been at her job less than a month, and so far, she’s done nothing but complain about it. And the inner-ear stabilizers built into her NanoPrint are calibrated to counteract motion sickness simply by enabling an add-on. It takes no effort at all.

She knows I’m upset, but she’s not budging. Instead, she offers a weak mollification. “Some people get seasick for a reason, Wil. We aren’t all meant to sail. Besides, I hate relying on my implant for things like that. It just seems petty.”

Wow. Suddenly, she’s a budding purist. I’m normally incapable of perceiving hints—particularly from the opposite sex—but I’m getting this one loud and clear. We aren’t going anywhere.

I’m pretty sure that if I share the truth with Adrian, she’ll cave. We’ll be on the next plane out of here, and everything will be okay. But I’m not positive—what if, knowing what I know, she still refuses to flee?—and even the smallest doubt leaves room for cowardice to work. So far, the few people I’ve opened up to have died; I’m a curse to everyone I’ve ever loved. And with Stewart gone?

My God, this woman is literally all I have left in this world to cling to.

Through my indignation, Adrian must sense my anxiety—and that it goes deeper than a romantic gesture gone awry—because her demeanor abruptly softens. “Why don’t we just play hooky here for a few days? I just don’t like boats, that’s all.”

My automaid picks this precise moment to roll by with its bristles whirring against my baseboards. In that brief moment of distraction, my confused little brain forms a thought and sends it on to my mouth.

“Adrian, as much as I’d like to spend some quality time with you at home, the point of this trip was to get away from here. You know, to get some perspective.”
Oh my God, did I really just say
perspective
?
As if my innate inability to talk to women isn’t enough of a crux, my stupid automaid has clearly been programmed to kick me while I’m down.

Not that we haven’t already been struggling a little, me and Adrian. Things have been a little tense. I’m not exactly sure when things changed between us; one moment she’s lugging around an overnight bag, the next her stuff is all over my condo and her apartment is on the market. Now I’m talking about needing
perspective
like I regret her living with me? Good Lord, is there no bottom to the pit of my ineptitudes?

“Some
perspective
?” She hisses the word as if it was made of something utterly repulsive.

Oh, scrap. Here it comes
.

Just as I feared, her eyes are narrowing dangerously, her lips stretching into a thin, menacing line. It might be my imagination, but her nails appear to grow before my eyes, curving into feline claws. This is not a woman to be trifled with.

I need to get this tram back on the track. “Not perspective, really—sorry, wrong word,” I blurt with a nervous laugh.
Chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga. We can do this, Wil.
“I mean, um, I just don’t think I can really relax here with everything that’s going on right now. Do you understand?”

I expect her to drag up last night, to demand again—as she did for nearly an hour—to know everything there is to know about my unexpected guest. To my relief—and confusion, that anyone can shift emotional gears with such ease, I mean—Adrian smiles suddenly and reaches out to take my hand in her own. The claws have retracted.
Choo-choo!
“Of course I do,” she says in a throaty purr. “Tell you what: why don’t we just take it easy here tonight, and tomorrow we’ll figure something out. Maybe we can fly to Australia—that would give us more time there anyway.”

Until this moment, my instincts have been pushing me away from here—as quickly and as far away as possible—but as the moments pass, my sense of danger begins to feel more and more irrational. Before long, it begins to feel almost dreamlike, as if from the onset, it was nothing more than my overactive imagination. Also not helping: Adrian’s so incredibly beautiful, and everything about her body language promises that I’ll be handsomely rewarded for playing this her way.

I’m putty in her hands.

You think you know a person when you occupy living space with her. When you share flatware and sheets and a sink, whispering good nights and the occasional
I love you
when the mood is right. You think you know what she’s thinking most of the time because you luck into finishing a sentence for her once in a while.

You think you know a person until you open your eyes one sunny morning to find her standing over you with a gun pointed at your chest, wearing an evil smile that is altogether unfamiliar to you, yet perfectly at home on her face.

Adrian’s always despised guns—at least, she’s led me to believe this. Seeing her now, with her dainty finger expertly caressing that trigger like she’s just aching to pull it—like she’s done it before and wants so much to do it again—so much becomes clear. In a split second, all the deception loses opacity, revealing the disturbing duplicity of everything I held dear in this woman. At once, I realize that, while I’ve never been happier with my home life than I have been in the last six months, I’ve also never been more alone—even if my mind has failed to connect those dots.

It’s all been a lie.

“I don’t understand,” I try to say, only my words blur together into an unintelligible mass of collapsed syllables.

Her eyebrow raises—the one with that tiny, sexy scar—in mild amusement. “You know,” she says in a breathy growl, “Another day with you and I might’ve used this thing on myself.” She jiggles the gun for emphasis and it gleams in the morning sun. Above, the ceiling trembles as our upstairs neighbor makes his morning pilgrimage to the vending machine in the hall.

Adrian notices as well and begins to chew her lip—perhaps contemplating her next move, perhaps relishing her power in the moment. I see frustration gathering behind those beautiful eyes, and with a start I realize that my fate isn’t sealed just yet. Adrian can’t shoot me without alerting the neighbors, and she knows it. Emboldened by this glimmer of hope—however fleeting—I snap into a side roll toward the side of the bed.

And smack my head against the nightstand.

That’ll show her.

I don’t offer any resistance as Adrian handcuffs me to the headboard, though a yearning glint in her eyes dares me to. With me secured, she pulls the drapes and leaves me alone in the darkened bedroom. Her muffled voice creeps from the living room, speaking to someone in short bursts. I have no idea who she’s speaking to, and I’m too distraught to care.

After a few minutes, the front door shuts with a faint click, and she’s gone.

In a fog of helplessness, I submit an emergency transmission on my NanoPrint and settle in to wait for salvation. A half-hour later, when the cavalry has yet to bang down my door, the fog begins to lift, and I realize that I may be in serious trouble.

How long can I lay like this before I die?
I wonder. The nexus returns an array of unpleasant figures, none of which bode well for me.

I close my eyes, defeated, swaying to the mournful heartbeat pulsing in my head.

I awaken with a start. The bedroom seems darker, yet daylight still silhouettes the window drapery in a burning rectangle. I doubt I’ve been out for long. Adrian hasn’t returned, which doesn’t really surprise me—neither does it make any sense. The throbbing in my head has calmed, but an area just above my right temple feels as though a giant bug is perched there, its spiky legs latched into my skin.

An hour crawls by as I lay motionless, arms pinned uncomfortably to opposite sides of the bed. My scalp stings; my head aches fiercely.

My heart is completely broken.

Though I know it only adds to the torture, I pass the minutes revisiting my fondest memories with Adrian. It’s funny how obvious the warning signs are in retrospect. I’ve been such a fool to miss them. I don’t want to jump to any hasty conclusions, but I have a sneaking suspicion that
Casablanca
isn’t really her favorite movie.

My anger feels so palpable that I might well rip myself free by its power. Yet before I can put this theory into action, the bedroom door bursts open and I’m blinded by the overhead lights. For a fraction of a second, I feel hope surge through me, because—in a confused daze—my rescue seems more logical than reality. But the fantasy passes quickly, and I’m deflated by its absurdity.

As my eyes slowly adjust to the lights, I discern the shape of a man standing over me—thick and powerful. Squinting in the brightness, my eyes slowly dilate until a face slips into gradual focus. Smiling down on me, it fills me with immense dread, yet I can’t look away. Peering deeply into this man’s eyes—empty, reptilian things—I realize there are far worse horrors a man can experience than a quick death.

The shame of peeing one’s pants, for example.