My Dark Vanessa. Kate Russell Elizabeth
It’s a shocking change. Five years have passed since I saw him last, long enough for age to ravage a face, but I imagine this happening since Taylor’s post, like the myth about people being so overcome with grief they go gray overnight. A sudden thought turns me cold—maybe this could wreck him. It could kill him.
I shake my head to ward off the thought and say, more to myself than to him, “This could all end up ok.”
“It could,” he agrees. “But it won’t.”
“Even if they force you out, would that be so bad? It would be like retiring. You could sell the house and leave Norumbega. What about going back to Montana?”
“I don’t want that,” he says. “My life is here.”
“You could travel, have a real vacation.”
“Vacation,” he scoffs. “Give me a break. No matter what comes of this, my name is ruined, reputation destroyed.”
“It’ll blow over eventually.”
“It won’t.” His eyes flash hard enough to stop me from pointing out that I know what I’m talking about, that I was once driven out of there, too.
“Vanessa …” He leans forward on the table. “You said the girl wrote to you a few weeks ago. You’re sure you didn’t respond?”
I give him a long look. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“And I don’t know if you’re still seeing that psychiatrist.” He bites his bottom lip, leaves the question unsaid.
I start to correct him—she’s a therapist, not a psychiatrist—but I know it doesn’t matter; that’s not the point. “She has no idea. I don’t talk to her about you.”
“Ok,” he says. “That’s good. Now also about that old blog of yours, I tried looking it up—”
“It’s gone. I took it down years ago. Why are you grilling me like this?”
“Has anyone other than that girl contacted you?”
“Who else would? The school?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m just making sure—”
“You think they’ll try to get me involved?”
“I have no idea. They’re not telling me anything.”
“But do you think they’ll—”
“Vanessa.” My mouth snaps shut. He hangs his head, takes a breath, and then continues slowly. “I don’t know what they’re going to do. I just want to make sure there aren’t any stray fires that need putting out. And I want to make sure you’re feeling …” He searches for the right word. “Steady.”
“Steady,” I echo.
He nods, his eyes fixed on me, asking the question he doesn’t dare speak out loud—if I’m strong enough to handle whatever might come.
“You can trust me,” I say.
He smiles, gratitude softening his face. There’s relief in him now, a looseness to his shoulders, his eyes roaming the coffee shop. “So how are you?” he asks. “How’s your mom holding up?”
I shrug; talking about her with him always feels like a betrayal.
“Are you still seeing that boy?” He means Ira. I shake my head and, unsurprised, Strane nods, pats my hand. “He wasn’t right for you.”
We sit in silence through the clatter of dishes, the hiss and whirr of the espresso machine, my thumping heart. For years, I’ve imagined this—being in front of him again, within reach—but now that I’m here, I just feel outside myself, like I’m watching from a table across the room. It doesn’t seem right that we can speak to each other like normal people, or that he can bear to look at me without falling to his knees.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “We could get a bite.”
I hesitate, check my phone for the time, and he notices my black suit and gold name tag.
“Ah, working girl,” he says. “Still at that hotel, I take it.”
“I could call in.”
“No, don’t do that.” He sits back in his chair, his mood instantly darkened. I know what’s wrong; I should have jumped at his offer, said yes right away. Hesitating was a mistake, and with him, one mistake is enough to ruin the whole thing.
“I can try to get out early,” I say. “We could go to dinner.”
He waves his hand. “It’s all right.”
“You could spend the night.” At that, he stops, his eyes traveling over my face as he contemplates the idea. I wonder if he’s thinking of me at fifteen, or if he’s thinking of the last time we tried, five years ago, at his house, in his bed with the flannel sheets. We tried to re-create the first time, me in flimsy pajamas, the lights low. It didn’t work. He kept going soft; I was too old. Afterward, I cried in the bathroom, the tap running and my hand clamped over my mouth. When I came out, he was dressed and sitting in the living room. We never spoke of it again, and since then stuck to the phone.
“No,” he says softly. “No, I should get back home.”
“Fine.” I push out of my chair so hard it squeaks against the floor, like nails across a chalkboard. My nails on his chalkboard.
He watches as I slide my arms into my coat and heft my purse to my shoulder. “How long have you been at that job?”
I lift my shoulders, my brain snagged on a memory of his fingers in my mouth, chalk dust on my tongue. “I don’t know,” I say faintly. “Awhile.”
“It’s been too long,” he says. “You should love what you do. Don’t settle for less.”
“It’s fine. It’s a job.”
“But you were made for more than that,” he says. “You were so bright. You were brilliant. I thought you were going to publish a novel at twenty, take over the world. Have you tried writing lately?”
I shake my head.
“God, what a waste. I wish you would.”
I press my lips together. “Sorry I’m a disappointment.”
“Come on, don’t do that.” He stands, cups my face in his hands and lowers his voice to a murmur as he tries to settle me down. “I’ll come stay with you soon,” he says. “I promise.”
We exchange a close-lipped kiss goodbye, and the barista at the counter keeps counting the tip jar, the old man by the window continues his crossword puzzle. Him kissing me used to be fodder for rumors that spread like wildfire. Now when we touch each other, the world doesn’t even notice. I know there should be freedom in that, but to me it only feels like loss.
At home after work, I lie in bed with my phone, reading over the message Taylor Birch sent me before posting the accusations against Strane. Hi Vanessa, I’m not sure if you know anything about me, but you and I are in the strange position of sharing an experience, something that, for me, was traumatic and I’m guessing it was the same for you. X-ing out of the window, I bring up her profile but nothing new is posted, so I scroll through the old content: photos of her on vacation in San Francisco, eating Mission burritos, a selfie with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background, photos of her at home in her apartment, crushed velvet couch, gleaming hardwood floors, and leafy houseplants. I scroll further back to photos of her in a pink pussy hat from the Women’s March, eating a doughnut as big as her head, and posing with friends at a bar downtown in a photo captioned Browick reunion!
I move to my own profile, try to see myself through her eyes. I know she checks on me; a year ago, she liked one of my photos, an accidental double tap she immediately undid, but I still saw the notification. I took a screenshot and sent it to Strane, along with I guess she