10
10
CURIOSITY KILLED THE KATIE-KAT
F lipped upside down on my bed staring at my blank walls, I was listening to a bland conversation in Russian on my headphones. Inexplicably, it was about The Eiffel Tower. I thought back to my old room with its wagon-wheel bed and framed posters. I remembered watching Pete inspect my inner sanctuary. I pictured him in my mind. More vivid than the detailed description of the national monument in my ear. I recalled the way he had looked at me. Love . . . or else falling in. At least that’s what it felt like. The thought—again—that I would never see him again was soul-crushing, gut-puking awful.
Was Dr. D correct in her clinical assessment of our relationship? It didn’t feel right. And wasn’t that the whole basis of my being here—to utilize my enhanced sense? She was wrong about our love fizzling out. I would still walk through fire for him. Was it healthy to harbor these feelings when I was engaged to someone else? Probably not. But the heart wants what the heart wants. Ugh! I threw the headphones down. I hadn’t deciphered a thing after “Shall we adjourn to The Eiffel Tower after dinner?”
Mikey glanced up from his PAC. “What’s wong, Katie?”
I sighed. “Nothin’. Just missin’ . . . Ranger, that’s all.” I supplied the wrong name. Maybe saying so could make it so.
He smiled in sympathy before tumbling over to give me a generous hug. “Me too. I hope he gets home soon.”
“What doyasay we get outta here? Go for a walk. Feed those spoiled ducks some organic crackers.”
“Okay! Wet’s hit it!” he enthused, slapping me a hearty five.
After Mikey slung an arm through one jacket sleeve, and I grabbed my phone, in case my fiancé called, we swung out the door and into a gusty April afternoon. Wind blew over healthy trees and manicured hedges, propelling us forward. We crunched our way along the gravel path surrounding the lake, feeding fat ducks and eyeing the sky warily. The pale afternoon light was still trying to fight through the thick bank of clouds hovering over us. Rain was imminent. You could smell it in the air, and it was forecasted this morning on my almighty PAC. Well, April showers brought May flowers. And, apparently, I needed truckloads of those for my wedding. This courtesy update was extended to me by the planning committee, while I rolled out barrels to collect rain for my piece of the botanical garden. Kindly parceled out to me by Dr. D, whom I was no longer speaking to.
After our waltz around the lake, Mikey and I got sidetracked in the cafeteria by Stew-Baby. We whiled away our study time playing ping-pong with “the master” in the rec room. Stewart was always good for a laugh. The energetic paddling of airy balls was just what I needed to blow off some steam. After which, Mikey and I scurried back to our room through fat sprinkles plunking down on us. I showered while he brushed his teeth. Mikey claimed a shower on the walk over, and I let him get away with it. I was midway through brushing my own teeth when the notification chime sounded on my cell. Ranger. I harrummmphed and spit. I finished brushing, flossing, rinsing, and listening to Mikey read, then prayers, and then I went to go check.
I was summoned. Hmmm. The timing of this rendezvous was just a little too perfect, yunno? I wondered how long he’d been back. And why, if he had returned earlier, did it take him this long to let me, his fianceé, know?
Ranger had sent Mikey a PAC message too: Pancakes together in the morning followed by swimming. MAC time tomorrow. After this abbreviated bedtime story, I kissed a keyed-up Mikey on the head, grabbed my umbrella, and turned to go.
“Give him a punch from me,” Mikey called out.
“Will definitely do that,” I smirked before running out to greet my waiting golf cart.
A slick bare head beneath a slickered raincoat greeted me. “Good evening, Cadet Connelly.”
“Hey, Smitty.” I bypassed the back to climb in front with him, and a ten-minute cart ride, with a one-sided conversation later, and I was parked outside Ranger’s building. A grove of black cottonwoods, the tallest I’d seen on campus, swayed with the wind. They were set next to the razor-wire fence, and were daringly poking branches on the other side. I tried to ascertain what was on the other side of the fence. I thought ocean, but couldn’t see past the circle of light cast from the lampposts. It was really coming down now. Cats and dogs. Wordlessly, Smitty got out, popped a tent-sized navy umbrella, then escorted me up three sets of concrete stairs. Dark sheets of water blinded our way. Not falling down seemed to be the biggest accomplishment of the day. While Smitty stood sentry, I knocked on the door. Expectant butterflies floated around my stomach.
I hadn’t seen my fiancé in eighteen days. Three texts, two funny memes, and one phone call that whole time. I get it. He was busy. With beautiful brown girl? I had a feeling.
No answer. I knocked again, feeling foolish next to the impassive Mr. Smitty. How did I not have a key to my fiancé’s place? Seemed weird. But everything was Bizzaro World here: I was marrying Ranger and not Pete. I pounded on the door.
“It’s open,” Ranger called from the other side.
So, he wasn’t even going to come to the door? “Thanks, Smitty,” I dismissed.
“My pleasure, Cadet Connelly.”
After Smitty waded back down the stairs, I swung the door open to reveal Ranger’s naked torso and hairy legs in a loose, damp towel. Our eyes met, and I almost dropped my unused umbrella.
“Hey, there she is!” Ranger greeted, not the least bit concerned I could see his manhood swinging loose and free beneath that paltry towel. He padded over to give me a quick peck on my cheek.
I often thought Ranger was impervious to banal motions like embarrassment. I cleared my throat, wondering when my confidence course would make an appearance on my PAC. “Hey,” I said, and followed that up with a nerdy wave. Good Lord. He looked like the winner from some fireman poster contest. Spikey hair dripping wet over his forehead, a smattering of dark chest hair gleaming, slick muscles bulging like wet walnuts.
“Be five minutes. Make yourself at home,” he called before disappearing back from where he came from. A beat later and his head poked through the door. “. . . Unless you care to join me?” He flashed dimples at me.
“Nope.” I managed a queasy smile. I would not be showering with Superman tonight. “Already clean.” I sort of gestured around myself.
He gave a throaty chuckle at my discomfort and disappeared in a cloud of steam. I set down my umbrella, removed my hoodie, and wandered into the dimly lit, sparse living room. A hockey game was on. Bor-ing. I found myself wandering around the still unfamiliar space. It was minimal and modern with corresponding furniture. Spare and spic and span. The muted tones were broken by framed splats of color that looked like something Mikey could do. I studied them for a moment, trying to discern some pattern in the strange combo of color and shapes. But this kind of art could only hold my interest for so long.
I peered out the weeping windows to see if I could see over that fence. Nope. No photographs to look at either. I wondered what his father looked like, and if my mother cared about him, or simply used him to get what she wanted, as Ranger surmised. I thought maybe I could tell, yunno? Get a read or feeling, if I saw them in a photo. And I was curious.
Speaking of curious and feelings, I had the curious feeling to wander back into the hall leading to his bedroom. There sat his squat duffel bag, gray as the day had been and half-unpacked. Beside it was a black backpack with a laptop hanging out. But the thing that interested me was a bound ream of paper lying between the backpack and the laptop. A book? Intrigued, I crouched down and flipped the laptop forward to peek at the book. It was a textbook. I wondered what kind. I pulled it out: Cognitive Psychology, Second Edition, Integrated Neuroscience and Individual Differences.
Huh. A psych book.
Just as I began flipping through highlighted pages, the door swung open, belching out a swift shaft of humid air and the smell of a freshly cleaned body. Ranger was just slipping a navy sweatshirt over his head when he saw me crouched over his backpack, a suspicious-looking position, to be sure.
I held up his book. “Psychology?”
His eyes insta-froze into blue ice chips. “What the hell are you doing?” The accusation was like a slap.
I quickly shoved the book back. “I’m sorry. I-I was curious.”
A hard beat. “Don’t you know what they say about curiosity?” He didn’t wait for an answer before finishing: “It killed the Katie-Kat.”
I swallowed thickly. “You-you said to make myself at home.”
His face remained hard as his voice. “That didn’t mean going through my things.”
I lifted a sweaty palm. “I wasn’t. I swear.” My heart palpitated in my chest, and I felt my freshly cleaned pits begin to produce moisture. The old neurological patterns were returning: after his displeasure came pain, in the form of punishments. “I just saw it there. Your backpack was already open. I swear. I—something just came over me. I shouldn’t have pulled it out. Sorry.” I felt faint with embarrassment and fear.
Ranger continued staring down his nose at me. After a heavy beat of silence, he worked to soften his face. He sighed heavily. “It’s okay.” He peered closely at my face; I was close to tears. He reached a hand out to me, and I accepted it as one does a lifeline. “Calm down,” he said, a little coldly. “You just took me by surprise, that’s all. No harm. No foul.”
Relief flooded me as he hoisted me up off the floor. “Really?”
“Really.” He hugged me to him, but I could still feel the dark energy seeping through the cracks of his nonchalant facade. I clung a little too hard to his unyielding chest.
“Gah, Ranger.” I loosened my grip to peek up at him. “The look on your face.”
He grinned and bared his teeth. “Terrifying?”
I gave a little relieved-let’s-laugh-about-this-now-that-it’s-over chuckle. “Like Godzilla on his worst day.”
He suddenly let out a loud, angry growl and jumped at me. I shrieked and jumped back, tripping over his duffle and hitting my head on the wall. He stood over my sprawled-out body, laughing a moment too long before offering his hand, which I refused this time.
“That wasn’t funny,” I choked out.
“Yes, it was. And it was payback for snooping in my bag.”
“I wasn’t snooping.”
“Was too.”
“Was not.”
“Define snooping then,” he challenged.
“Snoopin’ would be if I’d’ve unzipped your backpack. But since it was already unzipped, I was simply observin’ that you had what appeared to be a textbook in there. So I was curious . . . and since you did tell me to make myself at home, I peeked. So sue me. I wanted to see what my fiancé was readin’ in his spare time.”
He just shook his head at me and proffered his hand again, which I declined again. Scrambling to my feet, I just stood there, since I had nothing else to do. I couldn’t storm out in this storm. The fight wasn’t bad enough to warrant getting cold and wet over. I couldn’t go to the living room and sit on the couch with him. That would be a little too cozy after a tiff. An awkward silence enveloped us while I stared at him with wounded eyes.
He sighed. “What is it?”
“Why are you studyin’ psychology?”
“Because I’m midway through a PHD in psychology, that’s why.”
I gaped at him. “I didn’t know that!”
He sighed again. “Well, now you do. Are we done here?”
“I guess,” I mumbled, feeling stung by his attitude. “I don’t know what the big secret is anyway.”
He strode into the living room, and I trailed after him. He plopped down on the couch with the remote. I chose the low-slung, C-shaped chair, facing the helter-skelter rain lashing innocent trees.
“It’s not a secret,” he replied after a minute of stormy silence. “I guess I’m just used to being a private person. I am a fucking spy , after all.”
“Well, what kind of a spy leaves his personal belongin’s out in the open for anyone to see? And when were you gonna tell me this?”
He shot me a hard look. “The kind that trusts his fiancée won’t go through his things.” A black brow arched but didn’t remain suspended long enough to lighten his tone.
“I didn’t go through your things!” I exploded.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, switching the channels with the remote. “I already feel like I’m in a bad marriage.”
That did it. That was worth storming out in the storm for.
“You know what . . . ?” I slipped off the fat ring the same shape and density as his head. “I do, too.” With that, I threw it at him and ran out in the rain. Of course, the dadgum elite-trained officer caught the dang thing before it could put a dent in his hard head.
The cold rain pelted me immediately. By the time I got down the stairs, my hair was already plastered to my head and my clothes were sticking to my body. By the time I hit the concrete walkway leading to the Quad, I was cold and realized he wasn’t coming after me. By the time I made it to my room, I was freezing and realized I knew almost nothing about the man I was supposed to marry, in less than two months.
Befuddled, bedraggled, and cold to the bone was how I arrived to the sanctuary of my room. I glared up at the monitor before sloshing to the bathroom to shower. Again. Twenty minutes of steamy hot water wasn’t sufficient to thaw me out. So I threw on some thick sweats, two shirts, and a long pair of socks. Head-to-toe navy and heart heavy was how I headed to bed. I paused to dial the heat up a notch, and a quiet knock happened at the door. So, he was here to apologize. Hmmmmph. I yanked open the door . . . to see a rolling cart holding a silver teapot, cup and saucer, a plate of lemons, a plate of cookies, and a tin of what I would guess to be tea selections. And a weary-looking, unfamiliar SAP. Ranger’s idea of an apology. He didn’t even come in person.
I tried sending it away, but the gray uniform insisted on leaving it. He rolled it in while I glared at the monitor again. I almost flipped it the bird. Thought mightily about it. But what if he wasn’t watching, and I flipped off some poor SAP. I couldn’t tell. I felt distance from him. More now than before we were engaged. Like he was purposefully distancing himself. I didn’t get it.
A PHD in psychology?
I only just realized I didn’t know diddly-squat about my future husband. Except for the fact he was a Giants fan. And that he enjoyed Asian Fusion restaurants and pretty women in high fashion. Heck, I could be describing about half the straight guys in San Francisco. And the gays. So, like, about ninety-nine percent of all men in the Bay Area. Pretty surface stuff.
We avoided anything deep. No talk of our deceased parents and their secret past. Why exactly? Seemed like a logical thing to discuss, considering the grudge he’d carried around with him because of it. I tried psychoanalyzing him. Maybe he was embarrassed? I got under the covers and snuggled down with my pillow. I fell asleep wondering what else my fiancé was keeping from me.