Chapter 17
JANE
PLAYLIST: DOWN – JASON WALKER
Iopen my eyes, and it is with the most beautiful sunlight in my face. Next to me lies Amelie. Awake and staring at the ceiling.
She registers that I am awake and turns her head to me.
“Hi,” she says.
It’s what she always says.
“Hi back,” I say.
It’s a routine we now have. A routine in the mess we created.
I roll onto my back.
And now, with the daylight illuminating the room, highlighting all the rules I have broken with her, reality is catching up with me.
I broke the rules.
I thought it would do more with me.
But it doesn’t.
“Are you going to freak?” she asks me, her head propped up on her hand.
“No,” I say automatically, and add on second thought, “Maybe.”
She laughs.
“Just pretend I’m Louise.”
“I don’t want you to be Louise, I like you just the way you are.”
“So you’re saying you like me,” she says, and of course, she has to focus on the one word that slipped from my mouth unwillingly.
I huff as a non-answer.
“Have you been awake for longer?” I ask her to navigate the topic elsewhere.
“A while,” she says.
“Have you trouble sleeping?” I ask and observe her closely.
“A while now, yes,” she says carefully. “I came to New York to figure out who I am, instead—” She pauses. “It’s like you said. I can’t outrun my past.”
She looks away to somewhere above me, and I know it is probably the closest she has allowed me to come.
“In case you ever want to share it, I am a good listener.”
A weak smile tugs at her mouth, and she looks me directly in the eyes.
“I can’t,” she says, leans into me, and places a kiss on my forehead. “We should get back.”
“Can’t or don’t want to?” I ask her as she gets up.
“Can’t.”
Another piece in the puzzle, she is.
Her phone vibrates on the desk with the TV on. The very desk she licked me—
My cheeks flush immediately just from the thought of it.
“What’s up?” she asks as she answers the call. I watch her standing there, naked, on the phone.
“Yeah, we’re alright, heading to Jacksonville and will fly from there, in case we can catch a plane.”
She leans on the desk and looks at me.
“No, you don’t have to,” she says, but I am too distracted to think about who that is and what she might be talking about with whom.
She is moving naked so naturally, so unconcerned.
I could never. Would never. I am not particularly fond of my body; my mother made sure of that.
But Amelie, she seems to love being naked. To show her body.
“Yes, ma’am,” she says, laughs, and hangs up.
“Get up,” she orders me. “We have a plane to catch.”
“Do we?” I say, not getting up, because it’s daylight and I am naked underneath the sheets.
“We do. You’ll like it this time.”
I know I won’t, but there is no point arguing with her, so I just lie back down and wait until she is in the bathroom to get up and dress.
Three hours later, after driving through destruction, chaos, and nothingness, we turn onto a road with a sign reading “JAXEX, Jacksonville Executive at Craig Airport.”
“What are we doing here?” I ask, already guessing the answer, but I need to hear it.
“Flying home,” she says, and parks the car in a reserved lot.
A man in a suit walks up to us.
“Miss Degard,” he says. Not a question, a fact.
“Our baggage is in the trunk; we also need this car returned to the rental in Orlando,” she says, handing him the keys.
“Of course, Ma’am. If you and your company would follow me, please.”
I have no words for what is happening. We are treated like the most important people in the world—a fact that makes me slightly uncomfortable.
A few minutes later, I follow Amelie up the stairs into a private jet. Not a small one, the complete opposite.
We are welcomed by a pilot and a stewardess.
“How?” I ask her as she sits on a white chair at a table.
“El,” she says. “It’s hers.”
“She owns a jet?” I ask incredulously.
“Amongst other things, yes. She’s Whitney-Morgan.”
“Who?”
Amelie scoffs, laughing.
“Whitney-Morgan, the investment firm and bank.”
“Oh,” I say. I have heard of it, of course, nothing good.
There is a moment’s pause. We are offered champagne and lunch. One of the best meals I've ever had. A variation of fish on a mustard-cream sauce, along with roasted beans and Creme Catalan for dessert.
Time flies by, and I realize I am not at all scared of flying in a private jet, which leads me to conclude that it’s not the flying. It’s the people.
I catch myself staring at her whenever I get the chance.
The closer we get back home, the more reality is catching up with me. Returning home to the place where the rules apply.
We land.
Walk down the stairs leading to an airfield.
“Listen, Amelie,” I begin.
“Don’t,” she says and turns on the stairs, “Leave today as it is. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
I want to argue, but she comes up a step, grasps my face with one hand, and kisses me.
“I want to remember this just the way it is,” she whispers back against my lips. “Reality can have us back tomorrow.”
With that, she lets go of me.
We are picked up by a black Range Rover.
“Hey Alex,” says Amelie to the uptight man waiting for us by the door. “Is she here, too?”
“No,” he says very efficiently, but then his mask slips as he puts a hand on Amelie’s shoulder to say silently. “She’s not good, things happened.”
“What happened?” asks Amelie immediately, and I just watch her switch into an entirely different mode.
“She almost OD’d the night before. Was a close call. I sat with her all night.”
I see the fear in Amelie’s eyes. I see how much she cares, and suddenly, it clicks.
They might not be in a relationship.
But Amelie loves her.
She loves her.
And while it is the last thing I should do in a situation where I just learned someone almost OD’d, I can’t help but feel a stitch in my chest. A stitch that asks me where it leaves me, when she is in love with another woman.
The entire ride in the car, I say nothing.
Because she warned me to stay away. She warned me that she is a mess. But I couldn’t. She couldn’t.
“Everything alright?” she asks me.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say. We both know it’s a lie because I am a terrible liar.
“Miss McKenzie, where would you like to go?” asks the man named Alex.
“50 West 84th,” I say, lost in thought, caught in an emotional storm.
We reach my home.
I get out.
They bring my stuff upstairs to my apartment, Amelie carrying my trunk, the driver carrying the lab equipment. He leaves without a word, and there is an awkward silence between her and me.
I fumble with my keys.
“Okay then,” I say and open the door.
“Jane,” she says.
“I’m fine, really,” I say in a detached voice as I roll in my trunk and throw my bag onto the floor.
At that moment, Black Matter appears at my legs, screaming at me.
“Hi to you too,” I say. “Didn’t like the cat sitter, huh?”
“You have a cat,” says Amelie with beaming eyes and sinks to her knees.
“Yeah, but she hates—“
Amelie grasps Black Matter before I can end the sentence. She will let go of her immediately, because Black Matter is feral.
Only nothing happens.
“—hates being picked up,” I mumble to myself.
“Hi you,” she says, holding her up, nose to nose. “You are such a beautiful void. And such a cool name.”
She squeezes Black Matter on her chest and holds her close for a moment.
“I miss having cats,” she says. “I once had a black void, just like you.”
She loves cats.
She had cats.
I am once more watching her with a half-open mouth.
Her eyes meet mine.
“Sorry,” she says. “I just—I miss—whatever.”
“You are the first person to survive picking her up,” I say. “She hates to be touched.”
Amelie chuckles.
“She hates to be touched by you, because you hate touch,” she says, lets go of Black Matter, smiles, and turns to the stairs.
“See you tomorrow,” she says and is gone.
Leaving Black Matter and me staring after her.