Killing Kate Read online

  I’m wearing a sage green linen dress and I’m glad I’m dressed lightly, because although there is probably air conditioning and moving air with the help of two ceiling fans, Ixtapas is small enough that the heat from the kitchen permeates my hair, making it damp and slightly wavy. I’m wearing it loose around my shoulders, and I resist the urge to pull it back into a ponytail to get it off of my neck. Justin looks cool and comfortable in a white muscle tank top and khaki shorts and flip flops. He’s tanned and it makes his green eyes stand out more than usual. I’ve never seen his upper arms before, and find myself staring at how well built he is. He has a tattoo circling his left upper bicep of a dragon and it’s sexy as hell.

  “So how do you know about this place?” I ask him. “It’s awesome, but I swear I never would have known it was here from the outside. It looks condemned. And do you bring a lot of girls here?”

  Justin pours me a second glass of wine from a bottle he brought in based on Ixtapa’s BYOB policy. It’s a sweet but dry red and although I don’t know much about wine, it tastes deep and rich and I feel giddy from a glass. “To answer your first question,” he begins, “I painted the murals for Jose, the owner.”

  “Wow, really?” I look around me at the huge sunset over the ocean, the tropical birds, the beautiful women lying on the sand, the fruit vendors selling papayas. It’s all beautiful and colorful and lifelike, and even though I am not an artist, I know enough about art. I find myself comparing Justin’s work to Devin’s, as I do whenever I see artwork. The first thing I really notice is that Justin paints about life. Devin has always painted darker. Not usually as dark as the paintings I found that he had stashed away when we were moving. I don’t know what became of those paintings, and I don’t ask. Devin and I both have personal things we don’t share, but we still share so much. Maybe one day he’ll share his stashed away paintings with me but I can’t ask him to do that. There is too much that I keep to myself and I respect his privacy. “They’re beautiful,” is all I can say. “Seriously, I love them.”

  “Thank you,” he says, smiling. It’s such an unusual reaction to me. Devin would probably tell me I don’t know anything about art and say self-deprecating things about himself. I was used to that. “It was an exchange of goods and services. I paint the walls, Jose gives me free food for life.”

  “Aha,” I exclaim. “Good to know I’m a cheap date.”

  “Not that cheap,” Justin says, refilling my glass. I sucked down the second glass a bit too quickly and realize that I’m actually nervous around Justin. “Have more wine. I did pay for that.”

  “So what about my second question?” I ask him, raising one eyebrow as best as I can. I’m trying to give him a hard time, though I’d really like to know the answer. I’m finding myself in a precarious position of someone who knows a lot about me when I know almost nothing about them. “Since you get free meals, I’d assume you’ve brought lots of girls here?”

  “Well, I did bring one girl here before,” Justin says with a smirk. “You may have met her. She’s short, fat, and loud and I call her ‘Mom’.”

  I smirk back. “Very funny.” I pause and take a long sip of wine. “How is your mom?”

  “Good,” Justin nods. “She’s asked about you.”

  “Shit,” I whisper involuntarily. I’m sure there are millions of things Justin could tell her.

  “I didn’t say anything bad, Jenna,” he replies, looking at me sincerely. “I just told her I was taking you out tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  He nods.

  “Well what did she say to that?” I have to ask.

  He is eating a chip loaded with guacamole, purposely stuffing his mouth, I think, to avoid the topic. “Well,” he says, finishing his bite. “She said to make sure I open the door for you and treat you like a lady.”

  “She did not!”

  He nods. “She definitely did.”

  Now I’m smiling. “She’s cute.” Justin smirks yet again. I prefer it to his jaw clenching. At least I know I’m not making him angry. “So no other girls in your life? Either at the moment or before you happened to run into me at Jack’s funeral?”

  “Are you not so subtly asking about my past?” I nod slowly. It feels good to get out tonight, and it’s fun to take the focus off of myself and hear about someone else. “Okay,” he says, “ask me anything.”

  “Um,” I think, pausing and realizing he just managed to put me on the spot, even though I’m trying to grill him. Every girl dreams of asking a guy anything about his past but once awarded with the privilege, it’s slightly intimidating. “Tell me about your ex-girlfriends,” I say. There. Incredibly generic and leaves me open to follow up questions.

  “Wow, um, okay,” Justin says, unable to avoid smiling. “There aren’t many to speak of. After you and Devin were out of the neighborhood, I had one girlfriend in high school named Shelley. Do you remember the McClellan’s? No? Well there was one in every grade level. I think you had Sean in your year.” I shake my head, no, though I imagine it was one of the forty Irish kids with red hair and freckles. “She cheated on me with this guy Patrick Martin our senior year. I thought I was going to marry her ever since we were fifteen, but that’s how high school relationships go. You think you’re with the love of your life and nothing interesting will happen to you after high school.”

  “What a bitch,” I say, and he shrugs.

  “Whatever. She was sixteen and cute, and I was seventeen and brooding. It sounds like one of your musicals.” I nod and smile. “She probably got depressed from the idea of being around me. At the time I thought the pain and heartbreak would kill me. Now I know she was meant to get pregnant before she graduated and have seven kids before she was thirty.”

  “Seven!” I gasp. I can barely take care of myself. I can’t imagine having to take care of one kid at my age, let alone seven in a few years.

  “I think there was a set of twins or triplets in there,” Justin explains. “You know the Irish.” I sure did. He smiles and finishes his glass of wine and looks at me. “What about you? Any high school boyfriends I should be aware of?”

  “Not so much,” I say. I don’t offer up anything further for a minute. In high school I was a complete slut, but I certainly wasn’t able to refer to any of the sexual encounters I’d had as a boyfriend. I don’t want to be dishonest, though. “I wasn’t celibate in high school,” I explain, “but I didn’t really date. I acted pretty stupid in the backseat of a lot of cars but I can’t say I was ever in love with anyone or thought I’d get married like you did.”

  Justin nods. “Fair enough. Want me to keep going? Or are you getting jealous?”

  “No,” I say. “Keep going. I feel like I don’t really know much about you. I mean after we were kids.”

  “Devin told me you don’t really remember much from when you were a kid.”

  “True,” I agree, relieved to be called out and to not have to keep that to myself. “Devin fills in some gaps. Kate fills in others. I remember bits and pieces every now and then. More about when I lived with Mom and Frank.”

  “Gotcha,” Justin says. “I went to college for a couple of years after high school and dated a few girls but nothing serious. One girl named Kristine and I were serious for a bit but less than a year. We never even lived together.”

  “Have you ever lived with anyone?” I ask. “I mean, not your parents.”

  “No,” Justin shakes his head. “I usually like to spread out my painting stuff and work wherever in my house. Empty pizza boxes and dirty dishes tend to scare away most girls.”

  “You sound like you live the way I do,” I say. I tell him about my sparsely furnished apartment with overflowing ashtrays and no bed frame. He laughs. “I think Devin and I are only keeping the house neat because we think we’ll piss each other off if we don’t.”

  “Good, hopefully you guys keep it that way,” Justin agrees.

  “How many women have you slept with?” I ask him point blank.


  “Four.”

  “That’s it?” I blurt out. Justin turns red and I glance down at my hands resting on the table. Now I feel like a huge whore. I am briefly interrupted when Jose brings our food to the table. The smell of grilled steak makes my mouth water, even though I’m not actually hungry after all of the grazing I’ve done. I think my new living situation has caused me to put on a few pounds, which really just means my ribs are slightly less visible than they were when I moved in. I cut into my steak and have a bite. I pretty much die it’s so good. I make sure Justin knows it and he looks really happy to have made me happy. “Do you want to know how many men I’ve slept with?” I ask him quietly.

  “I’m not really sure,” Justin says, his brows crossing in concern. He puts down his utensils and looks at me. “Is it going to set you off if you tell me?”

  “I’m offering up the information of my own free will,” I say. “Kate tends to show more when something happens against my wishes, if that’s what you mean by setting me off.”

  “Only if you want to tell me,” Justin says.

  “I have been with six men voluntarily,” I tell him. “And likely close to one hundred involuntarily.” Including one this week, I think, who could be counted on both sides. Justin is quietly looking at me. I feel like I’m being judged, but I want to be honest, and he’s listening. “I’ve had syphilis, gonorrhea and chlamydia before I was ten. I’ve seen four different psychiatrists. I spent my last year of high school getting my GED in a mental institution. Have I scared you off yet?” Justin shakes his head, no, but his green eyes are wide and concerned. “I’ve been diagnosed with D.I.D., which I’ve already told you about. I’ve also been diagnosed as depressed with a tendency toward extreme compulsive behavior. I had one psychiatrist call me a nymphomaniac when they found out I have a tendency toward compulsive masturbation and exhibitionism.” Justin has barely touched his food. He is looking directly at me. I can’t even tell if he’s breathing, and I’m feeling nauseous about how he will react. “Say something” I say. “Are you scared of me?”

  “I’m scared for you,” he says. “Just because I can tell you’re unhappy. If you’re depressed, I think you should get help. But I know how you feel and I can’t make you do anything unless you’re dangerous. Either to me or Devin or yourself or whomever. But as for being scared of you, no, not at all.” He reaches under the table and I feel his hand on my knee. “I understand why Devin wants to help you so badly. It’s hard not to care about you, Jenna.”

  I am so confused. Why isn’t he running out the door? Why is he looking at me with something that’s not pity or disgust but rather with concern and thoughtfulness? Did he just say he cares about me? It’s too soon for that, I think. I feel like my chest is going to explode, and I don’t understand whether it’s a feeling of grief or relief. “I think I’m full,” I hear myself saying. “Can I take this home?”

  “Of course,” Justin says, and motions to Jose. I gush to Jose about how amazing the food was and swear I’ll be back, if just for that mango salsa. He apparently really wants me to come back because he sends us home with a vat of it. I feel bad for not eating more of the steak, but I’m ready to burst.

  “Next time you come,” Jose tells me, “You try the fried ice cream.” I swear I will but the thought of more food makes me want to explode in tiny pieces all over the restaurant. Jose kisses my cheeks like an old friend and we say goodnight and leave. The minute we are outside Justin backs me up against the wall and kisses me. Everything below my waist becomes slippery and I almost lose my grip on the leftovers.

  A group of gangbanger kids across the street whistle at us and say something that’s likely obnoxious. Thankfully I don’t speak enough Spanish to know if we’re being insulted or complimented. “Can we go to your house?” I ask Justin. He nods and opens my door for me to let me into his car, just like his mother told him to.

  “Just so we’re clear,” Justin says as he drives toward his house. “I don’t intend to fuck you tonight.”

  “What?” I say, startled by the comment. “Well, I didn’t assume you would.” Except that I did assume exactly that.

  He shakes his head. “To further clarify things,” he continues. “I don’t intend to fuck you ever.”

  I whirl my head to look at him. “So what, you tell me that you care about me, kiss me hard enough to melt me into a pile of jelly, and then tell me you don’t want me?”

  He looks at me pointedly. “I think something you are missing and have missed out on your whole life, Jenna, is the difference between being fucked and being loved.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling like a complete schmuck. “I see.”

  “You don’t see because you don’t know,” he tells me. “I’ve known you a long time, even though there’s a lot I don’t know about you. I’ve known Devin forever, and the one thing I know about him is that he is the one person in your life that has loved you, but he’s your brother. Everyone else in your life has used you, or ‘fucked’ you, so to speak. I want to show you how you can be loved and also touched, because I think your entire life you’ve associated men touching you with being used, or fucked.” He looks at me and I sheepishly look down and realize my hands are pressing hard against my inner thighs, which are pushing themselves together. I want him to do everything to me that’s going through my head and I can barely wait. He takes my left wrist and pulls it away. “Save that for when we get to my place.”

  “I can’t really wait,” I breathe.

  “Smoke,” he tells me. I do as he asks me to, cracking the window and lighting up. He takes my left hand and clasps it in his right hand and squeezes. I feel comforted and comfortable.

  *

  “I cleaned up for you,” Justin tells me once we’re inside of his house. “It was a sty this morning.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. Justin lives in an old brick bungalow in Margate Park on a tree lined street. It appears quiet, though I know it’s not the greatest of neighborhoods. We are standing in his front room, or “fronchroom” as Chicago people like to say. I follow him back to his kitchen where he stashes our leftovers in the refrigerator. I notice all of the appliances are very up to date, even though his kitchen is small. “Don’t let me forget that salsa,” I tell him.

  “I might,” he teases. He grabs two beers from the fridge and closes it behind him. “Beer?”

  “Yes please,” I say as I watch him open them up. His arms tense up with working the bottle opener and I like watching them. In addition to his dragon tattoo, he has a small tattoo on his left wrist of a dinosaur. “I like your ink,” I tell him. “What’s the significance?”

  He smiles. “It’s a Brontosaurus,” he explains.

  “Those didn’t actually exist, you know?” I ask him.

  “I know,” he replies. “I like them though, because they’re proof that people aren’t always right about everything.”

  “That’s for sure,” I agree. “Is that and the dragon your only tattoos?”

  “For now,” he says. He hands me my beer and watches me drink about half of it in one gulp. I’m suddenly really thirsty. “What about you? Do you have any tattoos?”

  I shake my head. “Maybe one day. I asked Devin a bunch of times to draw me something that’s for me but he never does.”

  “What would you get?” he asks me.

  I shrug. “I’m not sure. I never think of anything clever like your Brontosaurus tattoo. I guess a bird, maybe.”

  He looks confused. “Why a bird?”

  I’m slightly embarrassed. “Because there are different ways a bird can live, and it’s not up to the bird, but rather how people treat the bird. Like you can own a bird as a pet and it will live and die in a cage. Or a bird can be born in the wild and will be free to go where it wants. And in some rare instances, a bird born in a cage can become free, or a bird born in the wild can become caged.”

  “Birds born in a cage and released would probably die if they were released in the wild,” Justin says.
r />   “Probably,” I agree, suddenly feeling sad. “But who would know or care?” We both consider that for a bit. “So give me the tour,” I say, breaking the silence. “Or is the rest of your house too messy to show me? Did you stash stuff under beds and in closets for company?”

  Justin grins. “I can show you around most of the rooms. Do you need to use the bathroom or anything? It’s right there.” He walks me out of the kitchen and into the hallway where the bathroom is. “This door is my bedroom,” he says, opening the door and showing me a very basic bedroom with blue walls and grey bedding and curtains. The boy has curtains, I think, though I’m not sure why it shocks me. Part of me is wishing the tour would end in the bedroom, but Justin leads me away to another door. He opens it to reveal stairs leading to a basement. “Down there is my studio,” he says.

  “Can I see it?” I ask. He nods and leads me down the stairs. The basement is partially finished with tiled floors and white walls on one side. Behind a wall with a door on the other side is for storage of Justin’s artwork and supplies, he shows me. He has several works in progress including a huge six foot painting of a smiling geisha, a series of small paintings of different parts of a tree that he tells me will look really cool when they are hung up in pieces on a large wall, and a portrait of an old man sitting on the El looking sleepy. “You paint a lot of different types of stuff,” I say. “But you’re really talented.”

  “Thanks,” Justin says. “I’m hoping to get the tree into an exhibit coming up this fall, and I have plans to do an underwater scene similar to that. Maybe I do a bunch of birds instead.”

  “Funny,” I say, feeling his eyes bore into me as he watches for my reaction.

  “Or,” he continues, “I could give you a tattoo right now. How would you like that?” He walks to me and I let him kiss me again, feeling lightheaded. His hands pull me toward him by my waist and I let my hands come up to his hair. It’s thick and a bit long in back, I notice. I push his mouth down to my neck and moan softly as his lips move against it and down to my shoulders. He moves the strap of my linen sundress away to uncover the rest of my shoulder, and then stands back to look at me. I meet his smoldering gaze and feel my heart pounding. “Can I take this off?” he asks me, hooking a finger into the strap of my dress. I nod and let him pull it over my head, and I am standing in my bra and panties in the middle of his basement. He looks me up and down, but not in a creepy way, but more in the way that artists tend to view things, assessing and studying. “I think you’re beautiful,” he finally says.