The sticky bun is heaven, the brown sugar and butter and cinnamon melding in her mouth, sparking associations with childhood treats and holidays and happiness. The sensation smooths her a little, like a stroke across ruffled fur. As she eats, she looks out the window at the people walking by, mummified in their coats and scarves. Despite the cold, people are out getting ready for the holidays. Jackie wonders why she doesn’t do this more often: drink tea from a porcelain cup, people watch, eat wicked pastry. The answer, she knows, is that she works too much. But still.
“Hello, Jackie.” Harlan looms over the table. She startles, and her cup clatters against the saucer. Before she can gather her thoughts, he’s pulling out the opposite chair. “Mind if I sit? We didn’t get a chance to catch up last night.”
Why does he keep sneaking up on her like this? She wipes her mouth with her napkin, pushes her plate to the side. “Actually, I was just leaving.” Her moment of calm ruined, all she wants is to go home.
He gestures to her half-finished bun and steaming teacup. “You’ll get a headache if you skip meals.” His brow is knitted with concern. He was always watchful of her erratic eating habits, and his reference to them now is both disconcerting and reassuringly familiar.
She sighs and takes a drink of tea. She’ll go when her sandwich is ready. There’s no point in making a scene.
Harlan settles into the seat. “All ready for your talk next week?”
Neutral topic. What a relief. She’s giving one of the Gottfried lectures on Monday night, part of a series open to the public. She provided the title months ago—“What Theory of Mind Teaches Us about Autism”—but beyond that she hasn’t given it any thought. She hasn’t had the bandwidth. “It’s on my agenda for the weekend.” She almost adds, Unless another disaster strikes, but stops herself. “It’s always hard to know how to pitch a talk to such a broad audience.”
He laughs gently. “You mean, when not everyone is a psychologist?”
“Exactly. I don’t know anymore what’s lingo and what’s true language.”
“Test it out on Miles. He’s your perfect lay audience.”
The reference to Miles has the effect of drawing a circle around her and Harlan, leaving Miles on the outside. Did Harlan do this on purpose? She’s been avoiding his gaze, but now she looks directly at him, judging his intent.
He smiles, and his eyes grow soft. “I can see you’re upset, Jackie. If something’s wrong—and it clearly is—you can tell me.”
She shakes her head. No way she’s going to spill about the data breach and her heated interchange with Nasira.
He leans closer, lowers his voice. “Is it Miles?”
“What?”
“I just thought perhaps . . .” He frowns, pulls back a little. “It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Said nothing about what?” Her heart rate kicks up a notch. “Did Miles tell you something?”
“Well we are friends. We do talk.” Harlan spreads his hands. “I only mentioned Miles because I assumed that was what is upsetting you.”
A weakness comes over Jackie. She stares at Harlan, willing him to tell her everything and hoping to God he doesn’t say a word more.
“I am sorry, Jackie. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
She leans toward him. “Please tell me.” She winces at the rawness of her plea, but she’s too desperate and exhausted to filter.
He shakes his head, shrugs. “I suppose I’m projecting because Nasira’s been somewhat distant lately.”
“Nasira’s distant? What’s that got to do with anything?” Harlan shakes his head again. “Did Miles actually tell you something or didn’t he?” Her mind is a storm.
He holds up his hands. “I’ve already said too much. Triangles make for unhealthy relationships.” He smiles, his eyes shining with sympathy. “You have to learn things yourself, Jackie, even if it’s hard. It’s the only way.”
More prevarication and riddles. Her frustration erupts. “Learn what?” Her voice is too loud, and people at the other tables turn to stare. Let them.
“You’re tired.” Harlan pushes back his chair. “Let’s leave so you can go home.”
“What am I supposed to learn?” Distress grabs hold of Jackie with a metal fist, rattling her. “What?”
He’s getting up, putting on his jacket. The room feels too close suddenly, the sweet smells now cloying.
She’s had enough. She throws on her coat, grabs her bag, pushes past Harlan, and nearly collides with the waitress proffering a white paper bag.
“Here’s your sandwich. Sorry for the wait.”
Jackie accepts the bag, thanks her, and hurries out the door. Harlan’s behind her, she can feel it, but she ignores him and strides toward her car, her scarf trailing in her hand.
At her car, she digs in her purse for her keys, and Harlan catches up to her. “You all right to drive?”
She beeps open the car, hands trembling. “I’m fine.”
“I’ll text you later.”
“Don’t bother.”
She gets inside, shuts the door. Her breath comes out in rapid white puffs. Harlan hasn’t moved. He’s waiting for her to leave, a concerned look on his face.
She resists the urge to give him the finger. She starts the car, backs up a few feet, and pulls away.
She’ll drive home and talk to Miles, ask him the questions that even now are stacking themselves in her mind.
CHAPTER 17
HARLAN
Jackie is always beautiful to me, but never more so than when she is on the knife-edge between distress and anger. I realize I’m supposed to find her at her best when she is laughing and playful or when she is calm and studious or even when she is asleep, although I never understood the attraction of the last. When a person sleeps they are entirely mysterious, and there is nothing beautiful about that, at least to me. She could be dreaming about anything or anyone, finding pleasure and satisfaction in another man’s (or woman’s) arms, rowing a boat across a swamp filled with snapping crocodiles, or climbing an endless set of stairs to escape the monster whose breath is hot on the back of her legs. If I can’t know what is in her dreams, then how could I possibly love her best then? Dreams are mere by-products of the daily housekeeping our brains must undertake, but that doesn’t rob them of their emotional significance, only of their meaning. So, no, Jackie asleep is beautiful, but that is not how I prefer to think of her.
When she is distressed and that distress is colored by indignation or frustration, Jackie is simultaneously the epitome of fierce strength and vulnerability. She could explode or implode; all bets are off, unless you know her like I do, and even I have judged wrongly which way she would fall. Today, for example, she was there, on the precipice, but too exhausted to give in to the anger, to allow it to ignite her so she could then extinguish it with a flood of her own tears. I brought her to that perfect point once, the day she left me. Ironic, yes, but it was nearly worth losing her. Today confusion and exhaustion muddled her emotion and kept her from telling me her problems and her secrets, or what she believes are her secrets. They are, in truth, already mine.