The Value of Vulnerability (16 page)

She laughed aloud, sinking deeper into her cosy sofa, cradling the wine glass.

Okay, clearly she had issues she hadn’t acknowledged.
So, let’s acknowledge them.

There was a fear factor in getting involved with someone
again. But that wasn’t going to stop her. She hadn’t deliberately avoided dating, and actually had in the past year a couple times. There had been no intent to shut people out—it had just happened that way as a busy career created a rut. Compartmentalising her life had never been her way before the breakup, and she had to admit that of all the unhappiness Anthony had caused her, it was that separation from her life, from herself, that had caused most of the hangover of the breakup in the last year.

N
ow that she saw it, she could fix it. She
was
fixing it, as far as friends and family were concerned. It would be good to date someone. Have someone steady. Someone who fitted her and her life. Someone she fitted in return. And maybe, just maybe, fall in love with. While her past relationships had not been successful, she still hoped for something real.

That won’t be Ford
.

But he could be a bit of a fling before she sought someone who wasn’t
so messed up, who wasn’t a serial dater, and wouldn’t say ridiculous things like
more than a night and a good deal less than permanent.

“Way to woo a girl, Ford,” she chuckled.

But all the theoretical musings couldn’t eradicate the sheer physical attraction to him. And inexplicably or not, she genuinely liked him. Even though he was controlling, manipulative, and pretentious. Hey, nobody’s perfect, right?

So, where’s that leave me?

Making plans for an ill-advised affair with a dead-sexy man that hadn’t a hope of a future.

Maybe she could hold onto emotional economy for a while longer.
If she could, then she couldn’t get hurt.

So the theory went.

Essentially, though, she was a throw-caution-to-the-wind sort. To plunge heart and soul into her relationships, into her work, into anything that interested her. It was a strength. And a weakness.

“Hells,”
she muttered, tired of mulling it over. It would have to be taken to the girl-gang tomorrow night.

***

Erin glanced again at her phone. Damn. She was within firing distance of Zuzu’s, but maybe showing up with treats might smooth over some of the last weeks’ negligence in addition to tonight’s tardiness.

She ducked under the awning of a variety store, collapsing and shaking her umbrella before opening the door to the jingle of bells.

“Erin!” The man behind the counter smiled at her. “Where’ve you been?”

“Hey, Mr. Song. Been busy.”

“Better than bored. Lottery?”

“Yeah. Um.” She viewed the display, drumming her nails on the plastic. “I need three—hells, might as well get for me, too—so four of those blue and silver scratch-and-lose, and four of those Christmasy ones.”

Mr. Song pulled out the display tray and Erin removed the requested scratch tickets.

“Tickets for tomorrow night?” he asked. “Thirty million.”

“What would I do with thirty million dollars?”

“Well, you could pay off my mortgage for me, for starters.”

She grinned. “Okay. Deal. Four quick picks, please. Separate tickets.”

“Meeting the girls?” he asked as he printed the tickets.

The door jangled again, cold air blowing through the small store as a new customer entered.

“Yeah, it’s been awhile.”

“So the tickets are to encourage their forgiveness?”

“You have no idea!” She laughed. “What do I owe you?”

She dug out her wallet, asking after his family as she paid. Promising to see him soon—hopefully with a cheque for his mortgage—she turned and bumped into the man behind her and to the left at the magazine rack.

“Sorry! Not watching where I was going.”

“No problem.”

She looked at his face. “Oh, hi!” Then grinned sheepishly. “You looked familiar, but I don’t think we’ve met before, have we?”

“Don’t think so.” He looked back to the magazines, selecting a comic book.

“Maybe Comicon in November?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe.”

The bells jangled again as she opened the door. “Bye, Mr. Song!”

“Merry Christmas, Erin.”

The rain had stopped, and she ran for Zuzu’s, cursing as she checked the time again.

“They’re in the back,” a bartender called to her over the crowd as she entered.

“Thanks, Jess.”

“Egg nog, Erin?
Egg nog?
I had to send my bar-back to Song’s for it.”

“Oh, man! That was just a joke.”

“They’re saving the round for your arrival.”

“Ew. Send me a pint with it, will you?”

She found her friends and sister in the back of the bar, and tolerated the groans about the time, and Stephanie’s relieved recitation that at least she hadn’t waited at the office for Erin to finish up, et cetera. But then she produced the scratch tickets and the quick picks, fresh drinks arrived, and they dropped the harassing litany of all of her faults.

They caught up over pints and pub-grub, three of them emptying their rum and egg nog into Brooke’s glass after a dutiful toast-and-sip, as she was the only one who liked it.

Finally, heaving a breath, Erin said:

“I’m, um, kind of seeing someone. I think.”

Glasses froze halfway to lips.

“Who?” Liana asked.

This was the awkward part—telling Stephanie about Ford. But Stephanie proved more thrilled that she was best friends with someone who might show up in
The Daily
someday than upset about withheld information, and she waved away Erin’s earnestly phrased rationale.

“But aside from being grossly wealthy and fantastically squee, what’s he
like
?” Stephanie wanted to know.

So she told them about the limo ride, the flirting game, how he met her later. Skimmed over the make-out session in the car with a casual “he kissed me goodnight,” and laughingly waved off their demands for details. She showed them the gloves and talked about the lunch dates.

Pressed for more details, she talked instead of
him
, things he had said and how he said them, still silently seeking an encompassing descriptor for him. And wishing she knew more of him.

At last, she realised that no one else had spoken for several minutes, and she came back to earth to find three sets of stunned eyes staring at her.

“What?”

“Um,” said Brooke.

“Sis,” said Liana.

“Omigod,” said Stephanie.

“
What?
” she demanded.

“Um,” said Brooke again. “Stop me if I get anything wrong: he’s highly intelligent, manipulative, slick, charming, spontaneous, unapologetic, and competitive.”

“And judging from the lack of detail you’re giving us,” Liana added, “secretive.”

Erin nodded. “Pretty much.”

“Erin. Sweetie.” Brooke threw up her hands. “That’s almost a classic sociopath.”

She snapped her fingers and pointed at Brooke. “
Yes!
Sociopath!
That’s
the descriptor I wanted.”

And then—

“Oh, damn.” Leaning an elbow on the table, she clasped her forehead in her hand. “Not good.”

“Sociopaths are also delusional. And liars,” Stephanie put in a hopeful tone, gesturing with a ketchup-laden fry. “He’s not that. Those. Is he?”

“I don’t know.” She stared blankly at grains of salt on the scarred tabletop.  Maybe a liar. “I don’t think so.”

Stephanie trailed non-ketchuped fingers over her phone screen. “Then maybe he’s only a partial sociopath. Hold on. Googling it.”

“Who was that guy you dated for thirty seconds last year, Erin?” Brooke wanted to know. “He wasn’t a prize, either.”

“Two-dates-from-hell Ryan,” Liana identified. “Wouldn’t’ve had sex with him using a surrogate, I believe was the final analysis,” and they all laughed.

Erin tilted her face to the ceiling. “Why do I pick such men?”

“Why do you have second dates with them?” Liana snagged the last wing.

“Maybe a holdover from when you were a kid,” Brooke said. “Childhood trauma and all that.”

“Nah, that doesn’t make sense,” she objected. “That just left me with a bit of claustrophobia. But there has to be an explanation. Chris in first-year. The debacle with Anthony. A slew of other losers between them. Two-date Ryan. Is it me?”

“Probably,” Liana agreed. “Little ray of sunshine trying to rescue the stray and evil puppies?”

“Hey, just because I look for positives—”

“Ere, you thought Oscar on
Sesame Street
was just misunderstood. And that if Pinky weren’t so stupid, Brain could have ruled the world and found happiness in his achievements.”

“Well, Brain wouldn’t have needed to be evil if he met his goals,” she said.

“And when you were a kid, you didn’t bring home stray puppies and lost kittens. You brought home cats that scratched. And dogs that bit. Fleas and mange everywhere.”

“I did not!”

“Really? What did we name that one dog?”

“Snappy,” Erin muttered into her pint glass.

“My point is,” Liana insisted, “that you think everyone is rescue-able. If your life was a movie, you’d be ditching the decent hero for the villain. You’re a do-gooder who likes a challenge.”

“Here!” Stephanie said, eyes on her phone. “Oh. Interesting. I was thinking
psycho
path, apparently. A sociopath isn’t as bad. Less likely to be a serial killer.”

“Oh. That’s good news.” Erin drained her pint. “I need another drink. And salt. And grease. More wings.”

“Here’s another site. Oops. Says they’re the same thing.” Stephanie made a face. “Sorry. I’ll keep looking.”

“Look at it this way,” her sister said, flagging their server. “At least you know before you’re too involved. You’re getting out before any damage is done.”

She looked at Liana.

Liana looked back. “Seriously, Erin! You can’t be considering seeing him.”

“You can’t,” Brooke said.

“I would,” Stephanie piped. When all eyes turned to her: “Well, he’s hot! You have no idea.”

“How hot can he be?”

“Really hot,” Erin and Stephanie chorused.

“I like him,” Erin attempted a less shallow rationale while Stephanie sought an online image of Ford to prove his hotness level.

“Why?” Liana indicated another round and basket of wings to the server.

“I don’t know. He’s . . . likeable. A really dry sense of humour.”

“That’s all you’ve got?”

“No, look.” Stephanie showed the screen to everyone. “I mean, isn’t that phenomenal? And he’s even better in person.”

Silence from Brooke and Liana. Then Brooke squeaked. “Wow.”

Liana grabbed the phone. “You got to kiss
that
? Lucky girl.”

“Never mind his looks. I
do
like him, without being able to define the why of it. The sociopath part—it’s a façade. Or a defence—”

“You hope,” her sister muttered, handing the phone back to Stephanie.

“That’s stupid, Ere,” Brooke said. “A normal person isn’t going to
pretend
to be a sociopath.”

She rolled her eyes. “What I meant was that he’s more than that. That there’s someone else inside who doesn’t get shown to the world.”

“Multiple personalities, too?” Liana suggested, obviously smothering a laugh.

Brooke added: “I assume you’ve only seen best-behaviour mode from him. And that’s sociopathic. Can you imagine what
bad
behaviour is going to look like?”

She had an inkling. But stubbornly: “Being a sociopath is not inherently wrong. I don’t think. But in any event, it isn’t like we’re doctors doing a diagnosis. He might not be a sociopath at all.” She rubbed the tip of her nose to make sure it wasn’t growing. “Anyway, I think the real person is worth a shot.”

“Shots!” Stephanie was good at picking up on dual meanings of words. “Annie, Jäger all round, please!” she called to the server, who tossed back a thumbs up. To Erin: “Not that I’m discouraging you, but what if the sociopathic façade
is
hiding a psychopathic serial killer?”

Erin laughed helplessly, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “I’m sure he’s not a serial killer.”

“Serial dater, though. Never seen with the same woman twice. At least in
The Daily
.”

That prompted demands from Brooke and Liana for all the gossip Stephanie had on Ford (who needed Google when Stephanie was around?), and Erin listened, heart sinking.