The Dirty Ones

The shower turns off, jolting me back into the present.

Was that the world’s quickest shower or did I just lose time?

That stupid book. Just what the fuck is happening right now? Is it just a reminder? Just a subtle way to remind him that he’s owned and that job in DC that will make him so powerful in the eyes of others is really nothing more than a puppet show?

But why a book? Why that book? Why publish it when everything was such a secret back then? It makes no sense.

I mean, I guess it makes a little sense. Our story, our true story, is in the hands of the public. They think it’s a fiction, but would it be so hard to start a rumor that those people in that book are real? That the story is real? And hey, guess what? The star of that story is none other than Connor Arlington?

It’s a very short leap, I realize. And in the twisted, dirty world we live in, it actually makes perfect sense.

“What are you doing?”

“What?” I breathe, turning my head to see him standing in my doorway wearing nothing but a towel.

“Why are you just standing there like that?”

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Because you say that a lot and it’s never true.”

“I said that once ten years ago.”

“You said that ten minutes ago, Kiera. What the hell is going on?”

“Nothing,” I say, stepping into my closet to make him disappear. “Just… get dressed.”

He sighs across the room, then he must turn and walk away, because the floorboards creak.

I wait in my closet like some stupid person waiting in a closet. Unable to form coherent sentences, apparently. Because that was a bad one.

Maybe I should get out more? Maybe living alone up here in Vermont isn’t the best idea after all? Maybe I’m turning into one of those weird reclusive writer people who have no social skills and everyone thinks lost their mind back in their twenties?

Except I’m still in my twenties. Got two more months of twenties to go, in fact. So if I’m this weird at twenty-nine, how bad will I be at thirty-nine?

I have an entire lifetime of weird habits yet to be collected. I cannot accumulate all my eccentricities before I hit thirty.

“Kiera,” Connor calls from the living room.

I slide my eyeballs to the side, wondering if he’s coming back here again. “What?”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” I say, then cringe. Because seriously, my game is gone. I really need to get out of this house and find more game.

No. No more games. The last thing I need is more games. I play enough of those in my day job. All my characters are borderline insane, living these weird on-the-edge lives, playing with fire and—

“What the hell is going on?”

Shit. He’s back. How long have I been in this closet?

“Would you just talk to me?” And then he’s behind me. I can see him in the mirror. Some alternate reality version of him stares at me like I’m a—“What are you doing?”

“I’m just thinking.” I sigh.

“Well, you look lost.”

I turn around to see the real version of Connor Arlington and realize… none of this is how it’s supposed to happen. “Why did you come here?”

He averts his eyes. Like he’s ashamed. But he’s also very used to being put on the spot, so he recovers an instant later. A career in politics does that to you. Makes you bolder, I guess. Better able to handle the tough questions. I picture him practicing his speeches. All his various handlers surrounding him, throwing out questions he’s not expecting so when it happens with strangers he’s got all the right answers on the tip of his tongue. He rattles them off instantaneously. Like shooting stars across the dark night sky.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to accuse you. I mean, I did.” He smiles. It’s one of those winning politician smiles. Bright white teeth and a secret hidden chin dimple. He’s got this election in the bag for sure. Every housewife in New York state will be dreaming about that smile between their legs one year from now. “But it was wrong,” he continues. “I shouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion just because…”

“Just because I write dirty books for a living?”

He nods. “Yeah. I didn’t know Sofia and Camille were writing that stuff too.”

“If you did, you’d suspect one of them first instead of me?”

He sighs. He’s sighing a lot tonight. “No,” he admits. “No. I’d still have accused you first.”

I nod. One of those “I get it” nods. I’m everybody’s natural first choice when it comes to that nagging question titled, Who wrote the anonymous, dirty, secret book without telling us first?

I shrug. It’s a long one. The kind that where your shoulders get stuck up by your ears because you’re just not sure what to do with that information but deep down you know you can’t deny it’s the right conclusion.