I nod. “No worries. I can entertain myself. Take as long as you need.”
As she moves down the hall toward the first door on the right—her bedroom, I’m assuming—I pull out my phone, more tempted than ever to do a little internet investigating. Her best friend, Henri, did a deep dive on me, after all.
He practically handed me an invitation to do the same.
But I hate it when a woman I’m dating does that to me. A quick search to make sure I’m not a serial killer or have a slew of DUIs is one thing; digging deep enough to see where my mom lives or how many awards I won at culinary school is another. Call me old-fashioned, but I like being able to share my past in my own time, revealing parts of myself as it feels right to do so. That’s how intimacy is supposed to work. It’s something you give and earn, not something you sneak around and steal with ninja search engine skills.
Natalie clearly shared as much as she was ready to share. If I start looking for more information on the break-in—and what happened to the man afterward—I’ll be violating her privacy.
Fuck privacy. The more you know about this guy; the better equipped you’ll be to keep her safe if he comes sniffing around again.
The thought surprises me, but the more I think about it, the more certain I am that my intuition is right. Something in her voice when she mentioned the man made me think she knew him before the break-in, maybe even knew him well. And I’ve done enough reading to know that all too often, when women are attacked, it’s by a boyfriend or significant other.
But surely Crissy would have known the man wasn’t a vampire if he’d been dating her mom…
“She’s never introduced a guy to her daughter before, dumbass,” I mutter to myself as my thumbs hover over the letters at the bottom of my screen, torn between wanting to be worthy of Natalie’s trust and the need to know that she’s safe.
Finally, I settle for shooting Jess a text—Would you be able to grab a police report from San Francisco for me? If I decide I want to see it?
Almost instantly she shoots back—Absolutely. If the SFPD site is as old as the ones Sam and I used to hack into in high school, I can grab it easy peasy without anyone being the wiser. If not, we can file a Freedom of Information request, assuming the investigation is closed. If it’s open, they won’t share it.
Taking a breath and another glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m still alone, I reply—Awesome. Thanks.
You’re welcome, she texts. You’re also going to tell me why you need a police report as soon as you get home. If Natalie is a criminal, we should discuss next steps. I mean, I adore her, but your safety comes first. As long as she’s a white-collar criminal and doesn’t get caught, it’s probably still okay to fall madly in love with her. But you don’t want to get in deep with a serial killer who kills other serial killers or something. People who do that tend to get caught in the crossfire, dismembered, and buried in a watery grave.
Sighing, I type—You’ve been watching too many Dexter reruns. And Natalie wasn’t the perp; she was the victim. I just want to make sure she’s safe.
I’ll have all the information by the time you get home, Jess says.
NO—I insist, my pulse racing faster. Seriously, Jess, don’t. I haven’t decided whether I feel okay about nosing around in her business behind her back.
It’s the internet, Jess says. It’s public knowledge. It’s not being nosy if it’s right out there in the open. Or if I could access it with the government’s approval and a couple of forms but choose to work around that because forms are annoying.
Thumbs flying as I hear Natalie call out to Crissy that she’s almost ready and going to win the “who can get dressed the fastest” contest, I say, We’ll debate the ethics of unearned intimacy later. Just don’t do any digging until I give you the green light, okay? This is my relationship and my decision.
Okay, fine, Jess says, accompanied by an eye-rolling emoji. But I will continue to search the hell out of any guy I’m considering meeting in person. I’m not interested in being murdered, catfished, or arriving at the coffee shop to see that Dirk’s profile pics were all fifteen years old and that he’s recently contracted a weird illness that makes his neck skin molt like a reptile’s. Not that there’s anything wrong with having reptile skin, but I know damn well Dirk wouldn’t like me if I had crusty neck flesh—as evidenced by the fact that he’s only looking to date women five to ten years YOUNGER than he is and has FIT OR THIN selected as his preferred body types. So, why should I be expected to be understanding about his grossness when my grossness would be summarily rejected? It’s a double standard, Cameron, and it sucks. I want to be gross, too. I want to have flaws and be considered as a potential mate in spite of them. I want to date men that are younger and make more money than I do, but know they’ll give me a chance simply because the other single women out there are mean or not interested in settling down or don’t share my moral code.