Chapter 12
Sadie
James called the shelter today and discovered that the cat is male, so he’s now officially Mr. Karen. I’ve reminded James twice in the office that difficulty is indeed gender-related and it’s definitely a masculine trait. Every time I’ve said this, his lips have curled up at the corners.
He plonks an onion on the chopping board and spins a knife in his hands like he’s on a cookery show. “So,” he says, “cooking. This is an onion.” He winks at me. “Cut off the top and the bottom, and that makes it easier to remove the skin.”
Mr. Karen’s head tips back as he sniffs the air.
No doubt he’s helping with my inability to look at and talk to James.
I hope to God I can keep interacting with him like a normal person, given that we’re sharing an apartment and, apparently, are now co-carers of a cat who’s currently sitting on his furry little butt, looking up at us.
His nose twitches again, and he gets up and paces along the front of the cabinets.
But as I study James’s strong hands and long fingers on the handle of the knife, I can’t throw off the emptiness in the pit of my stomach. We’re here, just the two of us. What the hell do you say to a guy like James Royce to make conversation?
“What are you reading at the moment?” I blurt out.
“The Sands of Mars, by Arthur C. Clarke,” he says, scooping up and dumping the chopped onions into a pan on the stovetop.
“I’ve actually heard of him.”
He raises his eyebrows. “He wrote 2001: A Space Odyssey. It’s a masterpiece. I’m trying to get through his other novels, but I’m rather short of time for some reason.” His lips twist. “2001 is sitting on my nightstand if you want to check it out.”
This is what all the advice columns tell you to do. Talk to a man about something he’s interested in. Not that I’ve ever paid much attention to all that stuff. Making conversation with guys has never been my forte. At least James is pretty relaxed, and I like talking about books.
“What’s next on the recipe?” he says.
Oh! I stare down at my phone. “Garlic.”
“Okay. Same deal as the onion. Top and tail and remove the skin, but this time instead of chopping, you crush it.”
He works a knife into a white bulb, and a couple of pieces come away as he pries it open.
I hitch myself off the stool and pad through to his bedroom to look for the book he mentioned.
Sure enough, a book with a cool 1970s cover with black type against a white background is sitting on his nightstand.
As I turn it over in my hands, a piece of paper flutters to the floor, and I bend down and pick it up.
It’s a list in James’s neat handwriting. It says:
Pills
Cutting wrists
Drowning (cold water? Research this.)
Jumping
Car crash (not foolproof)
Stabbing (self-inflicted? Ouch.)
Contract killer (lunatic idea)
I blink down at the square lettering and curly details on his ys. Holy shit. This is …
The girl’s code restarts her heart.
… This is awful.
My eyes drift toward the doorway and back out into the hallway where I can hear James chopping away in the kitchen. Why would he write a list like this? He has everything going for him.
But … somewhere inside me, some old despair claws its way up.
Before I found out I was dyslexic, I was angry.
I got my diagnosis in my final year at school, but by then it was too late.
I left with no qualifications. My life was one long round of problems: Jake drank a lot, my mom was ill, and I worked whatever minimum-wage job I could find to bring in money so we could survive.
I hated everything, including myself. One day, when I was looking to escape the cold and my mom’s apartment, I dove into the library and discovered a Brandon Sanderson book in a returns tray.
I struggled through the first few pages, letters jumping on the page and tangling in my head.
But then … the words stop being words. They became rooms, forests, people.
When I disappeared into his world, my life vanished for a while.
So I devoured fantasy book after fantasy book.
Eventually, I drummed up the courage to dig out the leaflets my teacher at school had given me and found some online computing courses.
But forgiving myself for not being Katniss Everdeen is still a work in progress.
I still read slowly, and the characters still light me up inside.
Does James somehow feel a similar desperation? My eyes skim over the paper again. Jumping. My mind flits back to James limping into the office after he fell up a step. A deep gash in his leg he said … but … on a step? He didn’t come into the office for two days.
Fuck.
Me.
He didn’t fall up a step, did he? He tried to jump. Where did he try and jump from? And Christ, has he tried anything else? My hand shakes as I grip the book tighter. This is James. He’s such a decent guy, kind, helpful, good with people. Gorgeous blue eyes, sexy butt … Christ, Sadie, shut up.
He’s also my boss. Why would he want to commit suicide?
I mean, it has to be Jane, right? Anger seeps into my bloodstream.
I understand the spiraling that comes when something happens that’s out of your control.
What control have I ever had? Goddammit.
Will he know I’ve seen this bit of paper?
I glance down at it, then slide it back between the pages.
What the hell am I supposed to do now? Maybe he needs something to take his mind off everything.
You’d think work would do that for him, but perhaps all the responsibility is making it worse.
If it was me and I had all this going on in my life, I’d be having a meltdown.
I can still hear Des’s words like an echo in my ear.
“Take good care of James, okay?”
I stare down at James’s neatly made bed; white sheets and a dark-blue comforter tucked in all the way around.
Des knows, doesn’t he?
That’s why he wanted me here. He wanted me to keep an eye on James in case he tried again.
Fucking hell. What was he thinking? He couldn’t have picked anyone worse.
Des went to the hospital with James after he tripped, but he must have gone for a completely different reason.
Maybe he even stopped James from committing suicide!
Oh, God! No wonder he was so worried about leaving James here on his own.
In some weird way, perhaps it also explains Mr. Karen.
It’s supposed to be a thing, isn’t it, looking after a pet?
Giving you the motivation to live. I snort.
That cat’s almost as traumatized as James and me.
What a threesome we are. I bet Des didn’t foresee that.
Mr. Karen’s not going to help James. He needs someone to talk to, possibly some therapy.
I want to laugh at myself. How on earth could I suggest to one of my bosses that he should see a psychologist?
It’s like a bad sitcom. Des could have already suggested it, of course, and James might have said no, or he might be being treated by somebody and keeping quiet about it.
Would you tell a member of your staff you were seeing a shrink?
People are direct in New York, but it’s not something you’d broadcast to your team.
Whatever. It’s all a bunch of questions and no answers.
“Did you find the book?” James calls out.
“Yes!” I shout back.
Shit. I’ve been standing here too long. I take a last look around his tidy room like it’ll give me some inspiration on what to do or even say, and walk back into the open-plan living room and kitchen area.
“What an amazing cover!” Is the first thing that spills out of my mouth as I hitch myself back onto the barstool. Smooth, Sadie.
“It’s from the 1970s. The Sands of Mars is about renegade engineers,” James says, with a wink. “I think that’s why I’m enjoying it.”
He takes a sip out of a glass of wine he poured himself earlier, throat moving as he swallows.
“I don’t think I’ve ever read an old science-fiction book,” I fumble out.
“So … never cooked, never read a classic sci-fi … Perhaps we could work on a whole series of firsts for the two weeks you’re living here.” He winks at me again.
Shit. Two weeks. I did say that, didn’t I? The thought of going back to mad Jake and leaving this lovely apartment … leaving James on his own …
“Relax. You’re welcome here for as long as you want. You’re a very easy co-tenant.” His eyes crinkle as he grins at me.
I roll my eyes. “I’ve only been here a couple of days; you haven’t seen how crazy I get on the weekends.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I’m expecting wild nights of debauchery given your behavior in the office.”
I put my head in my hands. Perhaps some brute force honesty would help. “I’m so quiet.”
When I bring my head up, he’s blinking at me from behind his glasses, eyes sympathetic. He taps the wooden spoon he’s been using to stir the already delicious-looking food. “What’s wrong with being quiet? I’m not exactly dancing around waving my arms above my head.”
A grin curls over my mouth. I’d like to see that.
“Imagine if we had an office full of Des’s,” he adds.
My eyes widen. “You can’t say that about Des; he’s a gem.”
He waves the spoon in the air. “I know. I’m only kidding.
” He chuckles. “It would be mad having a lot of people like him, though.” His smile fades as he gazes down at the mixture bubbling away in the pan.
“He’s been an amazing friend to me.” His Adam’s apple bobs.
His head is bent and his glasses have slid forward on his nose.
I could ask him how Des has been an amazing friend, but what would he say? Wouldn’t a question like that put him under more pressure? Gah. Stop overthinking everything, Sadie.
“Quiet people never amount to much,” I say instead.
His head snaps up. “Who says? Many famous physicists doing Nobel Prize–winning work aren’t exactly TikToking their way around the world. I’m always suspicious of people who talk a lot. Surely, it’s better to spend your time thinking?”
I start to laugh. “Don’t you think it’d be nice to be a hero, though … sometimes?”
“You need to read more sci-fi and less fantasy.”
“You could be onto something there.” I sigh. “I’ll never be a hero.”
His eyes are warm as he makes a face at me. “Perhaps you can be a quiet hero.”
I chuckle. “Like a cape-wearing, everyday, boring one who performs small acts of kindness, you mean?”
James shrugs. “Why not? Sounds amazing to me.” He looks down at the pan and his lips twist. “What kind of cape?”
“Something velvety, with magical properties. Speaking of which, I’ve always wanted a magic wand.” God, Sadie, that was a bit random. “One that works in real life, so I could make people disappear and …” Fuck, where am I going with this? “… other things.” I trail off.
But he’s looking at me like he’s listening. “I’ve got a magic soldering iron,” he says.
I bet he does. My cheeks heat, and James grins.
“That sounded awesome in my head and very rude when I said it out loud,” he adds.
Christ, if it was difficult to meet his eyes before, I can’t look at him now. I study the marble countertop.
“Sometimes I imagine that my code has magical properties,” I say.
“Oh yeah? That sounds pretty lit.”
“Like the colors of variables and my comments are sparks zipping through wires and flying out into the world.”
He laughs. “That’s amazing. Making computers do incredible things …”
I wrinkle my nose. “I was thinking more along the lines of taking down my enemies. I do it in my head sometimes.”
He adds a bit of dark liquid to the pan from a bottle labeled “balsamic vinegar.” “I can’t imagine you have a lot of enemies, Sadie.”
“Perhaps that’s the wrong word. Assholes. I’ve got enough of those in my life, for sure.”
He cocks his head at me, but God, I’m not saying anything more about Jake or anyone else. Why do I keep opening my mouth and blurting out revealing shit? I guess that’s what talking is and why I don’t do it much.
“Perhaps your magical code is a way to control things,” he says.
I stare at him. “What?” But I know exactly what he means. I never thought the little voice in my head was a way to control things, but yes, God, clearly it is.
“A way of fixing things when life gets difficult,” he adds, with a half shrug.
Christ, he can see right through me. My stomach burns.
He laughs. “It sounds like an awesome way of dealing with life throwing lemons at you.”
My stomach eases up. And perhaps talking about all this is somehow helping him? “Maybe this could be all about firsts for you, too?” I add, gesturing behind me. “First time in this apartment, first time you’ve owned a cat …”
I trail off. He’s staring out across the living room over my shoulder, and crap, I know exactly what he’s going to say next.
“First time without a girlfriend,” he says, swallowing as he looks down and stirs the mixture again. I want to gnaw on my knuckles. He’s been with Jane and only Jane, hasn’t he? Wow, that’s … If I encourage him to talk about her, would it help? “How old were you when you and Jane got together?”
“We were childhood friends, but dating, sixteen.” He clears his throat, not meeting my eyes. “I’ve roasted potatoes as well as this.” He gestures at the pan. “They’re in the oven. Can you check on them?”
Well, he clearly doesn’t want to talk about that. And what do I know about counseling someone? I’m a decent listener, but it’s more from a lack of interesting things to contribute than anything else. Perhaps in a couple of weeks he really will be looking for somewhere to hide my body.
I slip down off my stool and head around the island, but as I pull down the oven door, his eyes are on the side of my face. When I turn, he gives me a small smile, and it’s almost unbearably apologetic and cute. “I’m liking this idea of firsts,” he says. “For both of us.”
I take in his warm face as I nod.
And after we’ve demolished a delicious meal, which I’ll frankly be amazed if I can ever make, my mind drifts back to our conversation about heroes.
James picks up my plate and his, and I stare at his strong wrists and long fingers.
As he wanders off to the dishwasher, all I can think is: Can I find the courage to be a quiet hero for him?