Officer Martin: To clarify, you were sexually intimate with Carey Duncan?
JM: Yes. But things with us aren’t the same anymore. I made some mistakes with her, as far as disclosing certain information is concerned.
Officer Martin: And what information would this be?
JM: Ted Cox and I had a deal that if the Netflix show was picked up for a second season, he would give me an executive producing credit and the job of lead engineer.
Officer Martin: And was Ms. Duncan given a similar deal?
[Note: The subject didn’t answer]
Officer Martin: Mr. McCann? Was Ms. Duncan offered a similar deal if the show was continued for a second season?
JM: Not to my knowledge. [long pause] It was my hope that—I don’t really know what to say. It was complicated.
Officer Martin: Complicated how?
JM: Complicated because my résumé was in the trash, and Carey was in an impossible situation and suddenly I had the chance to help her get out of it but it would mean blowing everything up. I wasn’t sure I was prepared to do that.
Officer Martin: Mr. McCann, you don’t need to be defensive. No one is accusing you of anything here.
JM: Okay, but I can assure you that Carey and I being sexually intimate had no effect on the incident. None at all. What are you writing down?
It doesn’t happen often, but I do have occasional moments of brilliance. Like taking first place in the seventh grade spelling bee. The final word was rhythm. I turned bright red, but spelled it correctly not because I’d been studying for days like I told my mom, but because I’d been babysitting for a neighbor the night before and read their 1972 edition of The Joy of Sex cover to cover. Twice.
Another would be not giving Rusty and Melly the Wi-Fi password in Laramie until the last possible second. Their usual cabin—where Melly collected river rock for wall pieces—doesn’t have Internet or cell service at all. I knew that as soon as we turned down that wooded drive and Melly saw she had zero signal, she’d assume we’d have no Wi-Fi here, either.
See? Brilliant.
But my plan could only work for so long. Eventually I had to relent so we could plug in and collectively stress over the premiere of Home Sweet Home together.
On the night of the premiere, the tension in the house feels like a low electrical hum. I’m on my way to make sure Melly and Rusty are both mentally prepared for tonight but am instead lured to the kitchen by the smell of garlic and onion sautéing in butter, of something chocolate baking in the oven. I find an aproned James at the stove, a kitchen towel over his shoulder and a wooden spoon in his hand.
The sight catches me beneath my heart, near my lungs, sending me into a tight, breathless spiral of imagining this moment in a different context, somewhere far away from this cabin. I stare at the broad line of his shoulders, the way his T-shirt stretches across his back and tapers down to a trim waist, a fantastic ass—
Wait. I lean against the counter, and he glances over at me, raises a questioning brow.
“Are you actually wearing a T-shirt, James McCann?”
“Always so obsessed with my clothes.” He grins and turns back to his cooking.
“There’s definitely a joke in there about being more obsessed with you out of them.” Uneasily, I look around the kitchen and out into the living room. “Where are the prisoners?”
He reaches for a pair of tongs. “They were driving me nuts, so I told them to find something to do.”
I gape at him. “And they listened?”
“I think they can only be obstinate for the sake of being obstinate for so long before even they have to find some way to fill their time.”
“Do I ask or want plausible deniability here … ?”
James smiles down at the stove, sliding some chopped tomatoes from a cutting board into the pan. He adds some browned ground turkey to the mix. It smells incredible. “They’re outside. Rusty found some woodworking stuff in one of the sheds and needed help dragging it out. I told him I could help or I could make dinner—wisely, he chose dinner. And since he didn’t dare ask you—”
“No,” I say. “You mean—?”
Amused, he lifts his chin toward the window, and I follow his gaze. Rusty and Melly are arguing over the top of a dirty old table saw they must have brought outside, a serpent of extension cords coiled on the ground at their feet. Melly is in one of her velvet sweat suits, her bright blond hair piled in a bun on top of her head. Instead of heels, she’s in a rare pair of sneakers and looks almost comically small next to her giant of a husband.
“Should we be concerned?” I ask, watching as Melly throws something across the table. “Aren’t there like, power tools and rusty nails out there? Aren’t you worried someone might use an ax?”