Page 14 of Final Girls

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Later, Jeff and I make love. I am the initiator, tugging the case file out of his hands and climbing on top of him. Jeff protests. A little. It’s more like feigned protest. Soon he’s inside me, exceedingly gentle and attentive. Jeff is a talker. Having sex with him involves fielding a hundred questions.Does that feel good? Too rough? Like that?

Most of the time I appreciate his thoughtfulness, his vocal desire to meet my needs. Tonight is different. Lisa’s death has put me in a mood. Instead of the ebb and flow of pleasure, dissatisfaction seeps into my body. I want the impersonal thrusting of those nameless frat boys who thought they were seducing me when it was the other way around. It’s like an internal rash, irritated and itchy, and Jeff’s earnest lovemaking doesn’t come close to scratching it. Yet I pretend it does. I fake moan and squeal like a porn star. When Jeff asks for a progress report, I cover his mouth with mine, just so he’ll stop talking.

Afterward, we cuddle while watching Turner Classic Movies. Our usual postcoital habit. Lately, that’s become my favorite part of sex. The aftermath. Feeling his firm and furry body next to mine as rapid-fire ’40s-speak lulls us to sleep.

But tonight sleep doesn’t come easily. Part of it is the movie—The Lady from Shanghai.We’ve reached the ending. Rita Hayworth and Orson Welles in the hall of mirrors, their reflections shattering in a hail of bullets. The other part is Jeff, who shifts uneasily beside me, restless under the covers.

Eventually, he says, “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about what happened with Lisa Milner?”

I close my eyes, wishing sleep would grab me by the throat and drag me under. “There’s not really anything to talk about,” I say. “Do you want to talk about your thing?”

“It’s not athing,” Jeff says, bristling. “It’s my job.”

“Sorry.” I pause, still not looking at him, trying to gauge his level of annoyance with me. “Do you want to talk about your job?”

“No,” he says, before changing his mind. “Maybe a little.”

I roll over and sit up, leaning on my left elbow. “I gather the defense isn’t going well.”

“Not really. Which is all I can legally say about it.”

There’s very little Jeff’s allowed to tell me about his cases. Client confidentiality rules extend even to spouses. Or, in my case, eventual ones. It’s another reason Jeff and I are a good fit. He can’t talk about work. I don’t want to talk about my past. We get to hopscotch over two of the conversational traps that usually ensnare couples. Yet forthe first time in months, I feel like we’re close to being caught in one and struggling mightily to avoid it.

“We should sleep,” I say. “Don’t you have to be in court early tomorrow?”

“I do,” Jeff says, looking not at me but at the ceiling. “And did you even stop to consider that’s why I can’t sleep?”

“I didn’t.” I drop onto my back again. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think you understand how big this case is.”

“It’s been on the news, Jeff. I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

Now it’s Jeff’s turn to sit up, lean on his elbow, look at me. “If this goes well, it could mean big things for me. For us. Do you think I want to be a public defender forever?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“Of course not. Winning this case could be a huge stepping-stone. Hopefully to one of the big firms, where I can start making real money and not live in an apartment paid for by my girlfriend’s victim fund.”

I’m too hurt to respond, although I can tell Jeff instantly regrets saying it. His eyes go dead for a second and his mouth twists in distress.

“Quinn, I didn’t mean that.”

“I know.” I slide out of bed, still naked, feeling exposed and vulnerable by that fact. I grab the first article of clothing I can get my hands on—Jeff’s threadbare terry cloth robe—and slip it on. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Jeff says. “I’m an asshole.”

“Get some sleep,” I tell him. “Tomorrow’s important.”

I pad into the living room, suddenly and irrevocably awake. My phone sits atop the coffee table, still turned off. I switch it on, the screen glowing ice-blue in the darkness. I have twenty-three missed calls, eighteen texts, and more than three dozen emails. Virtually all of them are from reporters.

Word of Lisa’s death has gotten out. The press is officially on the hunt.

I scroll through my email inbox, which has gone neglected since the previous evening. Buried beneath the wall of reporter inquiries are earlier, more benign missives from fans of the website and various makers of baking tools eager for me to give their wares a test-drive.One email address stands out from the flow of names and numbers, like a silver-scaled fish breaching the surface.

Lmilner75

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