Page 75 of Things We Do in the Dark
“I’ve spent the last month trying to place where I’ve seen you before,”Jimmy said in a low voice. “But I remember now. Toronto, right? The strip club? I believe we spent some time together in the Champagne Room.”
Paris felt the heat bloom in her cheeks, a dead giveaway. She couldn’t have lied in that moment if she wanted to. “I’m not that person anymore.”
“When people say that, they always mean it metaphorically. But I can tell you mean it literally. And believe me, I understand. I’m not that person anymore, either.” Jimmy’s eyes were intense. For a comedian, he could be very serious. “I’ve reinvented myself, too.”
Not like I have.
“I was using a lot back then,” Jimmy said. “There are entire chunks of my life I can barely remember. I don’t know why, but I remember you. And if I ever did anything back then that made you uncomfortable… if I ever, you know, forced you to do something that you didn’t want to do—”
“You didn’t force me.” Paris didn’t want him to finish the sentence, because she didn’t want him to actually say it out loud. “You were respectful. And I was an adult.”
“Barely.”
“I was twenty,” Paris said. “A year over the legal drinking age in Ontario. And for what it’s worth, I was sober the whole time, even if you weren’t.” She picked up her coffee, realized her hands were shaking, and set it back down. “I left that life behind when I left Toronto. I’m not proud of it. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
His vivid blue eyes remained fixed on hers. “I’ve upset you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I understand more than you think,” Jimmy said. “You might have one previous version of yourself you don’t like. I have several. But this version of me, sitting here with you, is a version of myself I actually do like. And I don’t want to fuck it up by getting kicked out of the studio. You’re the best yoga instructor I’ve ever had.”
“How many have you had?” Paris asked, curious despite herself.
“Kid, I’m from Los Angeles. I’ve had at least two dozen. But the worst instructor ever was this guy named Rafael. The guy was always sweaty. He had zero body hair, and he always wore these little redBaywatchshorts. Anyway, one day he was helping me raise my leg, and I fell on him. We were like two wet, salty seals sliding over each other…”
Paris laughed. And continued to laugh for the next hour, until it was time to head back to the studio.
Over the next few months, coffees led to lunches, which led to dinners. He took her to a couple of outdoor concerts at the Chateau Ste. Michelle winery, where they saw Barenaked Ladies (one of her favorite bands growing up) and Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons (Jimmy knew Frankie personally). After the second concert, she kissed him. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, despite the twenty-nine-year age gap.
“Do you think he’s too old for me?” Paris asked Henry the next morning. “Be honest. Does it look bad?”
“Honey, he’sJimmy Peralta.” Henry rolled his eyes. “The fact that he makes you laugh makes him a keeper, and retired or not, he’s still got it.”
“Got what?”
“It. That thing that makes him special.” Henry saw the confusion on Paris’s face and laughed. “You’ve been happier than I’ve ever seen you, P. Don’t self-sabotage by overthinking it. You deserve good things. You deservehim.”
It was easier said than done. She wasn’t used to good things, to things being easy, to people being kind. When she was thirteen, Deborah had told her that some people were just born into hard lives, and their job was to claw their way out.
Or, Paris has since learned, you could simply become someone else.
She tosses the magazine into the recycling bin. She doesn’t need it—she lived with the man. And the photoPeopleused is framed on their mantel at home, anyway.
In the five days she’s been at the Emerald, she hasn’t heard a peep from her lawyer. Assuming Elsie stillisher lawyer. It’s Hazel who calls to tell Paris that the police have finished with her house and that she can finally go back home.
The smug hotel manager is happy to see her go. He even calls her a car service, and there’s a black Lincoln Town Car waiting at the same back entrance where she was dropped off. The driver takes a good look at herankle monitor, but politely says nothing about it until they turn down her street, where they see a huge swarm of people with cameras milling around.
Thankfully, the Town Car’s windows are tinted dark. If anything, the crowd is even bigger than it was the morning of her arrest. At least the yellow crime scene tape she saw on the news is gone. From the outside of the house, you’d never know anything happened. She has no idea what the inside is going to look like.
“Someone needs to tell them that the view is the other way,” the driver says, looking at her in the rearview mirror. “So. How would you like to do this? I’m assuming you don’t want them to get a shot of you with that ankle monitor on. If you want, I can pull straight into your garage, assuming you have a door that connects to the inside of the house.”
It’s clear he knows exactly who she is, but if it bothers him, it doesn’t show.
“That would be great,” Paris says. “I can open the doors from my phone.”
He pulls into the driveway and idles while Paris taps on her new iPhone, connecting to the home Wi-Fi. She spent the last two days at the hotel trying to set up her new phone like her old one, which the police still have. But the app doesn’t seem to be working. She’s logged in, but the actual hardware inside the house appears to be off-line. The police must have disabled the system.
“I can’t get the app to work,” Paris says, frustrated. “I’m sorry, but would you mind getting out and entering the code directly into the keypad? I promise I’ll give you a massive tip.”
