Page 69 of The Refusal

“Not enough?” There’s a light in Kate’s eyes I can’t interpret. “Why … What …?” She trails off.

“It’s something about the focus, Kate, the way he’s focused on me; the desire to see me tip over the edge, over and over again … And I can tell it gives him more satisfaction than getting there himself. He wants to give that to me.”

“God, he sounds like a wonder. I’m green with envy right now. One orgasm not of my own making would be an amazing addition to my life right now.”

I laugh at her. “You’re too busy for orgasms. You’ve told me that in the past.”

“Yeah, shoot me now. ER is insane,” she says, and she unexpectedly sounds so down that I blink at her. I’ve turned up here obsessed with some guy, and all is not well in Kate land.

“How’s it going?” I say, and she’s quiet when I ask this, looking down and picking at a bit of loose skin on her dry hands. She’s talked about how difficult ER is with me before, and I’m no psychologist, but even I can see the effect of her demanding, no-fail, perfectionist family on her.

“You’re a superstar, you know that, right?” I say, reaching for her hand over the table. I don’t want her to give herself such a hard time, I want to soothe and help in my own clumsy way: give her some of the acceptance she’s given me.

She waves me away with her hand.

“I understand what the criticism from my family and the constant comparison and demands for more, more, more, did to me, and usually I can control my negative head noise, but in ER … I can’t explain it, it’s like”—she wrinkles her nose—“a growling, anguished beast comes out and I can’t shut it down. He’s not in my head. It’s me: I’m this wounded animal and it scares the living daylights out of me.”

A wounded animal? Jesus.

She straightens. “Anywaaaay …” The word is drawn out. “Janus?”

I laugh. “Way to change the subject.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to talk about me—denial is my friend—and anyway, I’ve made this a depressing conversation. I’ll do something about it, Jo, I swear. Tell me more about Janus, what’s going on under that calm exterior? I’ve never seen you so rattled. I know you like your safe, steady guys.”

“Yeah.” I pick my nail. “He’s definitely not that.”

She taps my hand. “And?”

“I don’t know why I like guys that are safe and steady.”

Kate purses her lips at me. “I mean,somuch happened to you when you were young. Your mom committed suicide … and you get such a lot of erratic behavior with a mental illness.”

I stare out at the blank windows of the shops on the other side of the street. Yeah, I remember my mom’s erratic behavior all too well.

Over the last few years, I feel like the business has given me some control. When I was younger, I was carried along on a tide with no way of stepping out of the flow: the bullies, the press, losing my mom. My whole life I’ve battled for some solid ground, and now I’ve finally I got to the side of a mountain, out of the tsunami. But maybe it’s all some impossible dream—fleeting, transient.

“I’m scared, Kate.”

“Of what?”

“Getting too attached and then … I don’t know, I guess … losing my footing. It’s not the safe course of action, is it?”

I turn back to her sympathetic face.

“Sometimes you need to take a risk,” she says.

39

Jo

My coffee cup is glued to my hand as I push through the old glass doors into the office building the next day. After the conversation with Kate yesterday, my shoulders feel lighter, like I’m no longer going to be torpedoed from below. Janus was dragged into meetings until ridiculously late last night, but he’s texted me already insisting he’s not spending another night on his own, and I’m bouncing on my feet. Goddamn him. He’s so into this … this … whatever it is we’re doing. I shake my head.

And I must have some kind of happy aura around me this morning, because the eyes of the two secretary types waiting by the elevator widen on me as I approach. They’re both wearing tight sweaters and figure-hugging skirts, looking at me with their heads tipped on one side, like a couple of curious birds, so I smile at them. My work clothes sometimes prompt this odd reaction—the ripped jeans and oversized top—but with the long red hair, I’m used to people scrutinizing me. High school wasn’t the only place that happened. There’s the usual clunk as the doors open, and, as I follow them in, one of them turns.

“Jo Williams, right?”

“Yeah.” She’s in my building, so I’ve probably met her before. Damn. “Um … I’m sorry.” I tilt my head. “Did we meet …?” I wave my arm around and my coffee tilts dangerously. I’m not usually so bad with placing people.

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