Chapter 1
How much Dateline is too much Dateline? I feel like I should worry about the amount of murder I’m ingesting, but it’s just so damn addicting.
Want me to watch a scary movie? Absolutely not.
Give me a Dateline episode about a man who murdered his wife, and I’m all ears.
My love for true crime is actually part of the reason I decided to go ahead and get my masters in psychology. It was a surprise to everyone when I announced I was leaving my prestigious engineering job to pursue this degree.
But to me, people are puzzles to be solved much like an engineering problem.
In one, I might be trying to figure out how to support infrastructure that was never meant to hold the number of people using it, and in the other I’m evaluating someone’s need for validation in an increasingly invalidating world.
A puzzle to be solved… some might say people are more volatile, but isn’t that what keeps things exciting?
My entire life I spent insane amounts of time trying to figure out why people make the decisions they do. I couldn’t understand why my parents got divorced. It was always hard for me to make friends because the trivial problems of girlhood didn’t ever resonate. And I certainly never understood why…
Never mind.
I’ve been back in Sassafras now for six months, and I forgot how fucking cold it gets here in the winter.
Part of me misses the moderate California climate that kept me company for over a decade.
I had only just gotten used to not having seasons when I got the acceptance letter to Hawthorne’s psychology program.
So, here I am. Needing to purchase a new winter coat because the one that’s been shoved in the back of my closet since I left Massachusetts no longer fits.
It’s my only option though, so I simply opt not to fasten it around the tits that only appeared after undergrad.
I most likely have post-grad stress-eating to thank for that.
Once my episode of Dateline is over, I look in the mirror, admiring how good my aforementioned tits look in this sweater. I’m going on a date this morning. The first one I’ve been on in… years.
Brody is in my program at Hawthorne. He’s the only other student that didn’t immediately jump into their masters degree after undergrad, so he’s a bit closer to my age, though I’m not sure exactly how close.
I was definitely surprised when he asked me out for coffee.
I’m still not great at reading signals when it comes to my personal relationships.
Looking at a psychological problem from an outside perspective—I’m great at that.
Not so much when it comes to what’s right in front of me.
Something I’ve worked on with my own therapist since getting my autism diagnosis in college.
Honestly, it was a relief when I first found out.
Finally, a word for all of the things that didn’t quite make sense in my brain.
Well, they made sense to me, but they didn’t make sense to everyone else.
Now I have tools to help when I need it, and I love the strengths that come with being autistic.
I’ve gained a confidence I didn’t have when I was in high school, even with all of the accomplishments and accolades that were under my belt.
My exploration of myself and the world around me looked a bit like a check list, but it worked for me. I actually like who I am today. Mostly.
Looking myself over once more in the mirror, I grab my bag from the hook and give my dog, Ernest, a few scratches under his chin.
“Be a good boy, okay? Maybe I’ll bring someone home for you to meet later…” I pump my eyebrows at Ernest who licks my nose in response. It’s been years since I’ve been on a date and also quite a while since I’ve had sex.
Sexual intimacy is not typically something I feel a need for, something else I learned about myself in college, but recently there’s been a bit of an itch that needs to be scratched, and the vibrator isn’t really cutting it.
Brody is handsome… not my usual type, if I even have one, but he’s age appropriate and, you know, here.
And though I don’t typically crave physical intimacy with a new partner, I have had the help of…
viewing materials to learn some things about what I like, and currently Brody is the best candidate for exploring that.
With the holidays coming up, I know I’ll need something to take the edge off—being low-contact with my parents makes this time of year especially lonely.
Several minutes later, I’ve parked and am walking into The Coffee Shop—a truly uninspired name for a literal coffee shop—to meet my date. Spotting Brody through the window, he looks objectively attractive. Blond hair slicked back, a bit of scruff, bright blue eyes.
He looks a bit like a Ken doll.
When I walk in, I see that he’s already gotten a coffee for himself. “Hi!” I greet, setting my bag down in the chair across from him. “I’m going to grab a drink. Need anything else?”
“Hey, Cole!” He stands, giving me an awkward side hug. “Good to see you. Sorry for not getting you something. I wasn’t sure what your order was.”
I wave him off. “No worries. I’ll be right back.”
At the counter, I order what I know will be a subpar double espresso from the college student currently working.
I watch as she fiddles with the espresso machine and wonder if it’s her first day on the job.
I’m so focused on how much she’s fucking up my drink, it takes me by complete surprise when someone walks out of the broom closet and straight into me.
I catch a glimpse of Ethel, the longtime owner of The Coffee Shop, as I attempt to stop my inevitable fall. It briefly crosses my mind that I need to find out her exercise routine because she doesn’t look even slightly off balance from our run-in, whereas I am bracing for my ass to hit the ground.
Suddenly, strong arms steady my off-kilter body while one single word is uttered into my ear. “Colette.”
My head whips around a little too quickly because my long ponytail smacks me right in the eye. I can’t even register the pain because dammit, why the fuck is he here? I take half a second to steady my breathing. “Benoit. I didn’t realize you were home.”
He’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be in Boston, far enough away that I don’t have to worry about running into him in town.
“It’s Christmas,” he deadpans.
Oh. Right. That.
“You don’t always come home for holidays.” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I want to grab the words out of thin air and shove them right back in. Maybe he didn’t notice.
I could never be that lucky, though. He smirks, eyes running up and down the length of my body. “Keeping tabs on me, sweets?”
Sweets?! “Don’t call me that,” I hiss.
In response, he crowds my space even more than he already had. “Hmm, what should I call you instead?” he whispers, sending goosebumps out in waves from where his breath hits my neck, forcing a gasp from my lips. An indignant gasp, I tell myself.
“Cole?” Brody’s voice says my name all wrong. Ben and I turn our heads toward the sound but don’t move away from each other. I feel Ben’s thumb smooth across the skin at my wrist, where he’s still holding me steady, and that’s all it takes.
Hastily, I move away from him, but Ben stays still, taking Brody in. Scrutinizing him. Brody’s eyes move back and forth between the two of us uncomfortably. Clearing my throat, I pull Ben’s attention back to me. “I’m on a date.”
His eyes don’t move away from my lips. “Of course you are. You’re almost thirty, aren’t you?”
Almost thirty… I scowl. So he does remember. The idiotic, godforsaken pact that he’s never once brought up since we made it nearly twelve years ago. How convenient that he decides to bring it up now! While I’m on a date!
Glaring, I turn away from him without another word, guiding Brody back to our table.
For the next forty-five minutes, I sip my mediocre espresso and listen to mediocre stories about Brody’s adventures in day trading.
The entire time I can feel Ben’s eyes on me like a brand.
It heats me from the outside in, my face probably turning bright red alongside my rising anger.
This was supposed to be a good date. Brody was supposed to fill a void.
And Benoit is ruining that by simply existing in the same room.
I grit my teeth, desperately trying to focus on Brody when I hear Ben call, “Remember our deal!”
Now that catches my attention. I turn my head so quickly, I might get whiplash. Ben notices and looks smug as hell as he saunters toward my table. “I wasn’t talking about you, sweets, but I’m glad to see I’m top of mind.”
He can tell that calling me “sweets” rankles me, and the fleeting thought passes that I would prefer him to call me Red like he used to. Before I can gather myself, Brody asks, “Uh, can we help you with something?”
Ben doesn’t deign to look at him. “I don’t know… Colette, can he help us with something?”
“That’s not really what I…” Brody starts, but Ben and I are both ignoring him now.
“What is wrong with you?” I hiss, fiddling with the rim of my mug.
His hand comes down to cover mine, tan and veiny. Fuck, I bet nurses love him. “I’m just sick of watching you practically fall asleep over here. You need to be stimulated, Cole.” He leans in closer, whispering conspiratorially, “He’s not very stimulating, is he?”
Vaguely I hear Brody mutter, “What the fuck? I can hear you.”
“And how would you know what I need?” I snap. “You might have known me in high school, but you don’t know me anymore, Benoit.”
“Oh but I do. And you hate that, don’t you?”
Yes. No. Yes!
“I hate you,” I seethe.
“Woah, maybe I should…” Brody stands, his chair scraping loudly across the floor, pulling me out of whatever haze I’ve been in.
Fuck.
Turning back to Brody, I desperately try to get him to sit back down. “No! Brody, don’t leave. Benoit is the one who is going to leave.” I give Ben my most pointed look.
Instead of listening to me, the fucker pulls up a chair, turning it around so he can prop his elbows on the back. “Nah, I think I’ll stay,” he says, dropping his chin into one hand.
“Yeah, I’m out of here,” Brody says. He gives me a look of pity that leaves me feeling mortified. I have to go back to classes with him like none of this ever happened!
Ben keeps staring at me, throwing a “Bye, Ken!” over his shoulder. I hate that Ben also noticed Brody’s doll-like looks.
“Wait, Brody!” I stand but immediately realize it’s too late, the door already swinging shut behind him. Instead, I turn toward Benoit—the true object of my wrath. “Get fucked, Bardot.”
“I’m trying, Red,” he replies without missing a beat.
I scoff, trying to hide what that statement ignites in me. “As if. I would never touch you with a ten-foot pole.”
He looks down pointedly, and that’s when I realize my finger is pushing angrily into his shoulder. I pull it back to a knowing smirk from Ben. “You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re too good for that dickhead.”
“Complimenting me now, Benoit? You’ve lost your touch.”
Ben stands, what used to be a lanky body has now turned into lean lines and muscles towering over me.
Slowly, he reaches past my shoulder and grasps a strand of my hair between his fingers.
The room stills as he wraps it once around his finger and tugs.
Whatever he sees in my eyes makes his pupils blow wide.
“Hmm…” he muses, giving one more pull, angling my head up toward his. “I don’t think I have.”
A mix of anger and disappointment wash over me when he lets go. He gets all the way to the door before turning around. “Seven months and two days, Colette.”
Mother. Fucker.