Page 31 of Kill Sleep Repeat
He cooked for me, in his new kitchen, something Italian, and after that I guess you could say I never really left. He wasn’t put off by the fact that I was hugely pregnant, which should have seemed strange, but you’d have to know Michael to really understand.
He told me that he’d never stopped thinking about me and that when you meet the right person you just know. A decade older, he assured me he was certain of what he wanted: a house and a family. I suppose to his mind, he was already well on his way to having half of that equation, and I was simply the missing piece. It was easy. People assumed the baby I was carrying was his. He never bothered to set them straight.
“She could be mine,” he said to me one afternoon after we’d made love, his fingers drumming a soft beat on my belly.
“But she’s not.”
“I know. Believe me, I’ve worked the math every which way.” He looked up at me and smiled. “But she could be.”
I didn’t say anything. Not for a long time. I thought of Dan, the pilot, her actual father. I thought of the emails that went unanswered, I thought of the last time I saw him, at the company Christmas party, and how he wouldn’t look me in the eye. I thought of his wife’s hand on my belly, and the smile on her face when she asked me when I was due.
I thought about the adoptive parents I’d selected, somewhere across the country, preparing for a child they might not ultimately have. “She could be,” I said to Michael.
“Marry me,” he said.
“Marry you?” I don’t know if I was actually surprised or not, but I’d witnessed enough proposals to know that you’re at least supposed to pretend.
“Yes,” he grinned. “Marry me. It’ll make the paperwork easier.” He traced circles on my stomach. “That way, I won’t have to adopt her. We can make it right from the beginning.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was too late for that—that the beginning was about seven months ago—that I was const
antly staring at it in the review mirror. So, I said the next almost-right thing: I said okay.
Chapter Nineteen
JC
Let’s see what she keeps in her panty drawer. I mean, since I’m here. I go carefully, the rest of the upstairs is dark. Best to keep it that way.
What do we have here? A little bit of everything. G-strings, bikinis, lots of lace. Nothing crotchless. Too bad.
Next, I move on to the bathroom and most importantly, the medicine cabinet. There’s a couple of different kinds of creams, Vaseline, Tylenol. A box of Rogaine. Interesting. A half-full prescription bottle of Ciprofloxacin. Shame. An Epi-Pen, and next to it, a small bottle labeled escitalopram. Also known as Lexapro. Oh, Charlotte. Darling. What could you possibly have to be anxious about?
One thing that’s missing is birth control. But maybe you carry that with you? I swear, Charlotte. Every time I think I have you figured out, you reveal that I’m no closer to solving this mystery.
On your side of the bed rests a stack of books. I know you read. They aren’t for show, not like the last woman I dated. I’m relieved to see that you’re not like her, that there are bookmarks stuck between the pages, dog-eared corners, notes in the spine. I wish there were more time to read them all. Unfortunately, I don’t have long. I’m not exactly sure how long high school basketball games last, but better to be safe than sorry. Now excuse me while I check out your closet.
It’s shocking in here, and it’s not. Pretty expensive taste you have for a flight attendant. There has to be at least fifty pair of shoes. Not the cheap kind, either. Manolos, Louboutins, Alexander McQueen, Gucci boots. Where do you wear them? When do you wear them?
Once I’ve properly checked out the Joneses’ his and her closets, I move on to the real reason I came. Setting my backpack down, I carefully unpack its contents. That’s when I feel it, snaking around my ankles, moving across the rug, back and forth.
Jesus, Charlotte. Why didn’t you mention you had a cat?
“Here kitty, kitty,” I murmur when my breathing returns to normal and the hairs on the back of my neck are once again at ease. I scratch the spot between its ear and its neck. I hate cats.
As soon as we’ve both had our fill of one another, which luckily doesn’t take long, I get down to business, unpacking the four motion-activated digital cameras I brought, each no larger than the average shotgun cartridge. Once I’ve placed them where I want them, I’ll connect everything up, and with a few clicks on my laptop, I’ll have the live audio/video feed streamed directly to my phone. And then I can see you whenever I want, darling Charlotte. I can watch you sleep. I can watch you bathe. God, I hope you’re into baths. If nothing else, I can watch you simply breathe. What a wonderful world this is. How lucky I am to be in it with you.
Before I leave, I do a quick sweep of the desk and laptop in the office. It belongs to Michael, and I’m assuming—no—I’m hoping I’ll find some dirt.
What I find amounts to nothing. No iffy-looking emails. No hidden folders. No porn. His history hasn’t even been cleared in months. I feel sorry for you, Charlotte, being married to such a boring man.
My wrist twitches, and I check my watch. 6:52 p.m. Double-checking my bag, I look to see that I haven’t forgotten anything, that I haven’t left evidence behind.
I reach the back door when the lights in the front room come on. “Mom? Dad?”
My fingers pause on the door handle. I could stay, slip into one of the closets, hide under one of the beds. Parents shouldn’t leave their kids home alone. Terrible things have been known to happen. The footsteps move closer. “Hello?”
The voice is pure and sweet. And very young. I think I probably ought to stay. But then, I remember the cameras. The Joneses really should be grateful they have me to keep an eye on things. Slowly, I turn the knob and slip out into the cold dark night.