Ms. Taken Identity (21 page)

This doesn’t sit well with her. She leans up on her elbow. “Hey, what if we ask someone to have it a few days earlier, or
later?”

I give her a look like, “You can’t be serious.” What I’m thinking is, “Jesus, I hadn’t thought of that.” “Don’t you think
that’s a lot to ask, on such short notice, making everyone change their plans just to accommodate us?”

She gets one of those faces like she wants to fight it, but then sinks back into the bed.

I scoot closer and smooth her hair behind her ear. “Marie, listen. We have the big holidays coming up next month. Cookies
and eggnog and a visit from St. Nick. Why don’t we make plans for that?”

She doesn’t respond.

“I promise we’ll do it right. Spread it out, visit all the families. Okay? And as for
our
Thanksgiving,” I whisper into the nape of her neck, “why don’t we do something on Wednesday? Get a bottle of wine, cook up
dinner or get takeout, watch a movie. Whatever you want to do.”

She still doesn’t answer, but does back her body into mine, so that now we’re spooning and getting warmer by the second. That’s
a yes, by the way.

So I’ve bought myself a little time. A couple weeks at least. That should be plenty of time to come up with a thoughtful,
sincere, and casual way to straighten out this whole mess. Or hop on a slow boat to China.

On Thursday I reach a milestone that under any other circumstances would be cause for trumpet blasts and cannon fire: I finish
my novel.
Catwalk Mama
is done. Not done in the sense that it won’t need a bit of tweaking here and there, but done in the sense that you could
sit down and read clean through to page 316 and the story would be complete and whole and satisfying. I pack it all up and
send it to Katharine, and to celebrate… I head to Bookzilla.

It’s not exactly the way I’d prefer to mark the occasion. A celebratory dinner with my mom or Bradley or Marie would be a
thousand times better, but a problem, since my mom doesn’t know I started, Bradley doesn’t know I finished, and Marie doesn’t
know who I am. But actually it’s okay being here. This is where it all started, basically, and it feels good to come back
for a visit that doesn’t involve theft. In fact, with nothing on my mind, I grab a cup of caramel mocha latte, sit in the
café, kick back, relax, and enjoy.

I watch the guy with the biography of John Adams and the older woman with a travel book on Venice and a couple with a book
on infant care—though she doesn’t look pregnant, so they must be starting this early—and the others with their paperbacks
and hardbacks and bestsellers, and they all seem so absorbed and engrossed that I let myself imagine for a moment that someone
in the not-too-distant future will take
my
book off the shelf and come here and sit and enjoy it, and if they do that, and get a laugh or smile out of it, or walk away
feeling better than they did before, that would be good. Great, even.

Before I leave, I head up to the front counter to take care of some long overdue business. I don’t know the proper protocol,
so I jump right in.

“A couple months back, I walked out with a book I didn’t pay for. I’d like to pay for it now.”

The woman just looks at me. “So… you just walked out with it?”

“Yep.” I smile.

“Hmm. I’m not sure how to handle that one.”

“How about if I just give you the money for it?”

She gives her head a sad little shake. “Sorry, I can’t do that. Then my drawer won’t balance. Let me ask Val.”

She asks Val, but Val just squints her eyes at me.

“I need to call my manager,” my gal says, picking up the intercom phone. “MANAGER ON DUTY, PROBLEM AT CASH WRAP. MANAGER ON
DUTY, WE HAVE A PROBLEM AT CASH WRAP.” She hangs up. “Did that come through?” she asks.

“It did.”

The manager comes over, and he’s the kind of guy you’d expect to see leading the football team in tackling drills. I’m thinking
maybe he’ll make me run laps or do push-ups. The cashier explains the situation, and he looks over at me to make sure he’s
gotten it right. I nod.

“Well, sir, what we can do, I guess, is I can scan another copy of the book and charge you for it. That way the register comes
out okay. It throws inventory off, but it’s the lesser of two evils.” He steps out from behind the counter. “What did you
say the book was?”

At this point, Val and her new customer and everyone waiting in line are all looking at me, and I’m sure I’m blushing, because
I feel like I’m blushing, all hot and prickly. I’m tempted to walk over to him and whisper the title in his ear, despite how
that
would look. But I don’t. Instead…

“
The Cappuccino Club
,” I say. And then, just so he’s got it, I add, “By Katharine Longwell.”

“Yep. I know it.”

And then he walks away to fetch it, no different than if I’d said
Macbeth
, and then he comes back and swipes it and I fork over the $26.85.

“Would you like a receipt with that?” he asks a little sheepishly, since now that I’ve coughed up the money and have no book
in hand, he’d like me to leave with something.

“No, thanks,” I say. Besides, I’m already leaving with something: the knowledge that at least in this small way, I’m still
capable of telling the truth.

Marie has to work on Saturday, so we meet at the sandwich shop next to her salon for lunch.

“How about dinner tonight at Canyon Café?” she asks as we’re finishing up.

“Sure.”

“And I’ll just meet you there,” she half-mutters, trying to sneak it by.

“Meet? Why?”

“No reason.” She uses her napkin to wipe her mouth, but it looks more like a bank robber’s bandana since it covers everything
but her eyes. “I just thought it’d be fun.”

“Really. You wanna try that again, Jesse James?”

She lowers the napkin. “That obvious, eh? Fine. Just meet me there.”

“Cool. A surprise. So what is it?”

“Like I’m going to tell you. That’s the whole point of a surprise, now isn’t it? To be surprised.”

“I suppose. And you’d be surprised if I didn’t show up?”

“Yep. And angry.” She gets up and leans down to kiss me. “I’ll see you at seven.”

I spend the rest of the afternoon not knowing what to do with myself. With the book finished, I feel like I’ve quit a full-time
job, one where I was putting in twelve-hour days, and now I’m bored. I get to the restaurant around six and sit at the bar,
watching a hockey game. Around five till seven, my phone rings. It’s her.

“I just pulled up at the restaurant,” she says. “Where are you?”

So she didn’t see my car. “Close. Now, about that surprise you were talking about. Wanna let me in?”

“Be patient. You’ll see soon enough.”

“Ah, so it’s something I get to look at. Are you wearing it?”

“Not quite. But actually it’s not an ‘it,’ it’s a ‘them.’ And I have my arms through one of them right now.”

“So, you have your arm through one of them, but you’re not wearing it. Hmm.” I get up from my stool and take a more covert
spot, where I can still see the front door. My plan is to watch her walk in and impress her with my riddle-solving skills.

“Think about it,” she says. “What can you put your arm through, but you don’t wear?”

“Let’s see… Oh, I know. The shower curtain. When you reach in to test the water.”

“Exactly! How’d you know?” I hear another voice on her end, and she repeats what I said, “shower curtain,” and then there’s
laughter. “
Arms
, Jason. You can put your arms through other people’s
arms
. I’ve brought people. Two of them.”

“Oh?” I say, and immediately my stomach flip-flops a little, because when we go out with people, they’re usually friends from
the studio, and there’s no surprise in that, and there wouldn’t be tonight. Which means she’s brought another kind of people,
which I’m not sure I like, and the instant the door swings open and I see the people she’s brought, I like it even less. Bradley
and Skyler.

Fuck!

I wheel around so quickly that I knock into a guy and he stumbles, but tough luck for him because I dash for the bathroom
and duck into a stall.

“Jason? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m still there,” I say, panting. “It’s just… there’s an accident up ahead and I need to be careful here.”
My legs are shaking, so I sit down. I need to get off the phone before she hears someone whistle or fart or flush. “Hey, Marie.
I have another call coming in. Let me put you on hold.” I hang up.

Son of a bitch!

The simplest solution would be to climb out a bathroom window, and that’s how it’d work in a sitcom, though depending on the
sitcom, and the character I play, I would either make it out unscathed or I would get caught in the window, then the three
of them would appear on the sidewalk, and I would throw my coat over my head to avoid being seen, but they would notice me
anyway, which would have the studio audience in stitches. Unfortunately—or fortunately—there’s no bathroom window. The only
way out is the way I came in, and the way they came in: the front door. I wait till the bathroom is empty, then I peek out:
all clear. I slip out into the hallway and inch my way toward the bar till I see them: they’re sitting on the other side.
Put my head down and run, or crawl: how about those for options? Then I spot a waitress, which gives me an idea. I signal
her over.

“You okay?” she asks.

“No. Not at all. I need to get out of here without some people at the bar seeing me.” I pull a twenty out of my wallet. “Do
you think you could help?

She eyes me and my money suspiciously. “Did you do something bad to those people?”

“No, I swear. It’s a long story and I’d love to explain, and I think you’d get a kick out of it, but right now I just need
to get out of here.”

She gives me another once-over. Maybe it’s the sweaty forehead that convinces her. “Okay. Who is it?”

I point them out.

“I’ll mistake the guy for someone I went to school with.” She brushes the money away. “You keep that. Just come back sometime
and tell me why I had to do this. And leave a big tip.”

“The biggest.”

She smoothes her hair back and straightens her blouse and walks to the other side. When she gets behind them, she stops, gawks
at Bradley, and taps him on the shoulder. “Kevin!” she belts out over the din. Bradley turns. Skyler turns. Marie turns. I
run, shielding my face with my hand, heart thudding in my chest, straight out the front door, and I don’t stop running till
I get to my car, and only when I’m inside, doors locked, slouched down on the seat, do I allow myself a peek back. No one.
I wait until I’m off the lot to call Marie back.

“Sorry we got disconnected,” I say.

“Is everything all right?”

“I’m afraid not. That was my mom who called. She’s sick and she needs me to run to the drugstore.” Then I add, because I know
she’ll be telling Bradley/Kevin: “Her fiancé would do it, but he’s in Greece. Flying a plane. He’s a pilot.”

“I’m sorry to hear she’s not well. You want me to come over?”

“No. That’s the last thing my mom would want. To meet you under these circumstances. She could be contagious.” I pause, breathe,
put some nonchalance in my voice. “So anyway, who were the surprise guests?”

“Oh, no one. I’ll save it for another time.”

“Okay then. Well, I’ll give you a call later on, let you know how it’s going.”

I give her a minute or two to break the news to Bradley and Skyler, then I call Bradley’s cell phone. As expected, he has
it turned off and I get his voice mail, and I leave a message that I’m at Colchester’s grabbing a bite to eat, and he should
join me if he can. Of course, I’m not holding out much hope that he’ll show, since I get the feeling he’s previously engaged.

Bradley and I shoot baskets the next day, despite the cold, because I want to feel him out, see if he suspects anything. He
doesn’t, of course. But why should he? Put the pieces together and the picture you get looks nothing like me: Jason is Jason,
a pharmaceutical rep who drives a Malibu, who loves to dance and has his own shoes, who will watch chick flicks, who will
go to malls, who will listen to Mariah Carey, and whose ill mother is engaged to a pilot. What signs point to me? That he
has brown hair and brown eyes and his parents are divorced? That’s half the male population of St. Louis, probably. Still,
I’m paranoid and twitchy, and when Bradley asks me how Colchester’s was, I’m glad I actually went, because I can tell him
all about it with a mostly clean conscience.

I spend the rest of the afternoon reflecting on how absurd this has gotten. Maybe if I were a spy in a foreign country, breaking
up terrorist plots or sabotaging hostile nuclear weapons programs; or maybe if I were an airplane pilot, like my mother’s
fiancé, with wives in three cities; or maybe if I were a mob-informant Donnie Brasco type; maybe then all the subterfuge and
trickery and double-dealing would be necessary just to keep myself alive. But I’m just a PhD candidate in a mediocre apartment
trying to carve out an unspectacular life with the woman I love. When did I become
The Fugitive
? But, of course, I know when I did: when I introduced the world to Jason Gallagher. One bad decision and it’s the gift that
keeps on giving.