Page 76 of The Way I Am Now
“Oh, um . . .” She looks all around, confused, as if she suddenly found herself inside a coffeehouse by chance and wasn’t prepared to be asked this question. “Can I just order a . . . ? Oh, I don’t know, what’s your favorite drink?”
“My favorite?” I repeat. “Huh, nobody’s ever asked me that. I guess you can’t go wrong with the pumpkin pie latte. Sometimes I add a little vanilla to it, which I love, but—”
“That sounds great,” she says, her eyes fixed on me so intently I have to look away.
“Great,” I repeat. “For here or to go?”
“Here,” she says, but then quickly adds, “No, actually, to go. I think. Yes, to go.”
“All right, can I get a name?” I ask, marker in hand, tip already pressed against the cup.
“It’s Gen,” she says quietly. “With a G.”
My heart struggles to race, weighted down under the double dose of meds still working through my body. I look at her more closely now, the way she’s been looking at me. I’d searched for her online months ago. In my mind she’s been existing as just a static image on the screen. I recognize her now, but it’s different seeing her in person. “You’re Gennifer?” I breathe. “Gen,” I correct.
She nods, smiles again—I realize she has a very pretty smile, the kind that can cover up all sorts of terrible things. “You wouldn’t be able to take a quick break or anything, would you?”
Perry covers the counter for me while I sit down across from her at a table in the corner.
“Sorry,” she begins. “I was just passing through on my way back for the hearing and I knew you worked here. Your brother mentioned it—I promise I haven’t been cyber-stalking you or anything.” She pauses and sort of laughs. “I can definitely see the family resemblance.”
“Oh” is all I manage to say. I don’t know why I seem to have forgotten that my brother knows her—they were friends, he’d told me that. They still are, it seems.
“I guess I just didn’t want the first time we met to be in a courthouse. I don’t know, is that weird?” she asks, taking a sip of her latte. “This is really good, by the way.”
“No, it’s not weird,” I tell her.
“I know we’re not supposed to talk, but . . .” She looks through the window, her smile fading. “Do you ever wonder why? Why he would do this—” She starts but stops. “Like, that’s the part I’m stuck on. I even tried to ask him. The next day. I went home that night and told my roommate what happened, and she took me to the hospital. Got the rape kit done and it was so horrible, but I didn’t want to report it right then because I thought for sure there had to be areason. Do you know what I mean?”
“I . . . Yeah, I think so,” I tell her, because even though I know we shouldn’t be doing this, talking, I desperately want to hear what she has to say.
She sits up a little straighter. “I wanted to believe that he somehow must not have realized or it was some kind of, like, mental break or . . . but it just turned out that I—” She stops abruptly, taking another sip of her latte. “I just didn’t know him. At all.”
It’s strange, this realization slithering through my brain, as I listen to her. I don’t think I’ve everwonderedwhy. Because deep down, in that place beyond logical thinking, I thought I knew. He did what he did becauseIhad done something to make it happen. I could never quite put my finger on what it was, whether it was just one thing or a combination of things. My head could disagree all day, tell me it wasn’t my fault, but my heart knew, always, it was me.
Until now, maybe.
“I really thought I did—I thought I knew him,” she repeats. “I genuinely trusted him.”
“Me too,” I hear myself say.
She looks at me and tries to smile again, but it doesn’t fool me this time. “Sorry I’m dumping this on you.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I mean, I get it.”
“Yeah,” she says softly. “I thought you might.”
I can only nod because there are too many things I want to say, but none of them are things I’m allowed to tell her.
“I know you have to get back to work; I hope I haven’t ruined your whole day or made you feel—”
“No, you didn’t. I’m glad we got to meet. Like this, instead.”
“I guess I just wanted to tell you face-to-face that I’m really . . .” She pauses, tracing a circle around her cup as she finds whatever word it is she’s looking for. “Thankful. To not have to be doing this all by myself.”
“I am too,” I tell her. “If it weren’t for you and Amanda, I couldn’t have . . .” I shake my head—I can’t even finish the sentence.
“I have a feeling you could have,” she tells me, as she reaches across the table, sliding her latte receipt toward me, her number already written on it. “For when this is all over, if you want?”
