You Are Not Alone Page 17

  I tuck away my phone, change in the locker room, and walk into the studio. I find a spot in the second row. The class is crowded, as usual, since the teacher has a huge following.

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m drenched in sweat. My arms are shaking and I know my legs will be sore tomorrow. But my mind feels gloriously uncluttered.

  I walk into the locker room and head to the sink to splash cool water on my face and wash my hands. When I raise my head again, I notice the woman at the sink to my left.

  She looks a lot like the redhead I saw at Amanda’s memorial service.

  Our eyes meet in the mirror and she appears surprised. Maybe it’s because she caught me staring at her.

  I smile. “Hi.”

  She just nods.

  It could be the wrong woman; I didn’t get that close to her. Even if it is her, she probably didn’t recognize me. I’m no longer wearing glasses, and my hair is lighter and shorter.

  I quickly turn away and gather my things.

  When I exit the studio, she’s right in front of me, pushing open the door. She looks back reflexively as she holds it, the way people do to make sure they don’t let the door close on someone, and I step through.

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” Her Boston accent sharpens the word.

  Pahked ya cah in Hahvad Yahd.… It must be her.

  She’s still looking at me a little funny, as if maybe she can’t quite place me yet. I’m about to bring up the connection, then I imagine how our conversation would go: I saw you at a memorial service.… No, I didn’t know Amanda, but I’ve become friends with her friends … who I think are your friends, too?

  It sounds weird.

  When I step onto the sidewalk, she’s still in front of me. But she isn’t moving in either direction. She seems to be waiting. So I just turn to the right and head for the subway.

  I don’t look back. But I swear I can feel her eyes on me.

  * * *

  By the time I’m climbing the steps out of the Thirty-third Street station, I’ve mostly put her out of my mind. I’m excited for what I’m going to do tonight: cook a healthy dinner, then activate my dating profile.

  I chat with my mom as I walk down the street, telling her more about the research position at Quartz and promising to come home for Thanksgiving. I even feel ready to endure a weekend with Barry.

  But the oddest thing happens; I guess it’s muscle memory, or some pattern in my brain that needs rerouting.

  I walk into my old building before I remember I don’t live here anymore.

  I don’t even have the keys; I gave my set to Jody.

  I stand in the lobby, looking around for a moment. Then I push back out the door.

  The woman I was when I lived here is gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CASSANDRA & JANE

  “DATAGIRL,” JANE SAYS AS her fingers move across her laptop’s keyboard. “Stacey said Shay activated her profile less than an hour ago.”

  The sisters are secluded in Jane’s Tribeca apartment, a few blocks away from Cassandra’s residence. They’re still in work clothes, though they’ve kicked off their heels, and the delivery sushi they ordered for dinner is laid out on the kitchen’s granite island. Neither woman has touched it.

  Cassandra’s slim black pants slip down low on her hips as she paces in loops from the living room through the open kitchen and back again. Jane’s cat—the one Amanda used to adore—leaps onto the couch and rubs her head against Jane’s leg. Hepburn has been unusually affectionate lately, as if sensing her owner’s distress.

  “Found her,” Jane says.

  Cassandra moves toward the sofa, and Jane tilts the screen so they can view it together. “Nice pic,” Cassandra remarks, her tone holding an edge.

  In the profile photo Shay uploaded onto Cupid, she’s exuberant. She’s trying on a floppy straw hat and laughing, her face tilted up toward the sun.

  That shot of Shay is strikingly similar to one of Amanda doing the exact same thing, at the same kiosk, on the High Line last spring. Jane took that picture as well. Amanda posted it to her Facebook page a couple of months before she died.

  It was easy to maneuver Shay: After they’d led her onto the High Line, Cassandra had paused at the kiosk. She and Jane had grabbed a few hats, Jane pushing a straw one into Shay’s hands before directing her on how to pose.

  It could prove invaluable later to have public evidence of Shay’s unrelenting desire to replicate elements of Amanda’s life.

  But it won’t be enough.

  An even more urgent element must be established: The other women in the group must be led to believe Shay is obsessed with Amanda—and that her preoccupation has only been growing since Amanda’s death.

  Earlier tonight, the sisters tried to plant the seeds establishing Shay’s fixation by sending Beth and Shay on a collision course. Jane made separate dates with them to meet at the same CrossFit class. Jane canceled a few minutes before it began, pleading a fabricated work emergency.

  Both women thought they alone were to meet Jane at the exercise studio.

  The best-case scenario, the sisters had agreed, would have been for Beth to notice Shay—to recognize her from Amanda’s memorial service or from the photograph Cassandra had distributed before it. Even if Beth hadn’t remembered Shay, she might still have been spooked by Shay’s resemblance to Amanda.

  It seemed unlikely the opposite would happen, that Shay would recall Beth from the service and approach her. But if she did, the sisters could use this to their advantage as well: It would be evidence of Shay’s dangerous obsession.

  Unfortunately, the text Beth sent immediately after CrossFit made no reference to anything unusual occurring: I’m never going to forgive you for signing me up for this torture and then backing out. I can barely walk!

  The sisters need to come up with something else, quickly. The police surely homed in on the discrepancy between the story Daphne told them and the one they heard from Kit. Daphne may not hold up well if she is summoned for further questioning.

  All that they’ve built could be destroyed.

  Cassandra collapses on the deep chenille cushion next to Jane, tucking her feet beneath her. She reads from Shay’s profile:

  “‘Looking for someone who is active, but is also happy relaxing on the couch, sharing a pizza and talking, or watching a movie.… It would be great if you were at least as tall as me (I’m five feet ten, but I rarely wear heels).…’

  “She wants a guy like Sean,” Cassandra remarks, then continues:

  “‘My friends say I’m kind and smart—a great catch. Who am I to argue with them?:) If I sound like someone you’d like to meet, maybe we can start with a friendly drink and see where things go.…’”

  “I think the ‘great catch’ line is a direct quote of yours,” Jane points out.

  “She’s pretty malleable.” Cassandra looks at Shay’s photo again. There are so many eerie overlaps between her and Amanda now.

  But their styles are different: In the pictures, Shay wears jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, which Amanda would never have chosen.

  “Shay’s wardrobe could use some tweaking,” Cassandra muses. “We should take her shopping.”

  Jane nods slowly. “Or we could suggest she visit a certain boutique where she could pick up some great outfits for when she starts dating.”

  A smile spreads across Cassandra’s face. “Genius. We’ll send her to Daphne’s. There’s no way they can miss seeing each other.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  SHAY

  According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, a typical person will have ten different jobs before the age of 40. One reason why people switch employment is because raises average just 3 percent per year in most occupations—but moving to a different company can mean a more substantial increase in salary. Women hold almost as many different jobs as men throughout their lifetimes, despite the fact that women typically take more time out of their careers for child-rais
ing activities.

  —Data Book, page 51

  AT 5:30 P.M. I PULL on my jacket as I step outside. The temperature is starting to dip into the high forties, and it’ll be dark soon, but I’ve been inside all day and crave fresh air.

  I spent the day filling out forms for Quartz’s human resources department, then I began research for my first assignment: analyzing different energy drinks on the market and outlining the various similarities and differences between them.

  The hours flew by as I lost myself in compiling each brand’s characteristics and market share.

  I’d set my phone to Do Not Disturb mode so that I wouldn’t get distracted, only allowing in calls and emails from Quartz. If I wanted this to turn into a real job, I’d reasoned, I needed to treat it like one.

  Now, as I head south on Second Avenue, I scan my email and text messages. There’s nothing interesting, so I pull up the app for Cupid.

  A little cupid emoji has a heart-shaped bubble coming out of its mouth with the word Four!

  I click on it and see four messages. There’s a little flutter in my chest. I haven’t been on a date in months. And now four guys might be interested in me?

  I can’t wait to see who has reached out. I glance around and see an inviting-looking new bistro on the corner ahead. I head there, keeping my phone in my hand.

  Plenty of tables are open this early, so I ask for one by the fireplace. As soon as the waiter takes my order for a glass of red wine and a hummus plate with veggies and pita, I open up the app.

  It feels a little like Christmas morning and I’m about to unwrap the bows on mysterious presents. Anything—or more accurately, anyone—could be inside.

  I deflate a bit when I read the first message. His profile handle is SilverFox. And his opening line is Ever consider an older man?

  Not one old enough to be my father, I think.

  I go on to the next message. This guy attached a photo, which I click on to open.

  Then I recoil. It isn’t too graphic—it’s just a shirtless selfie—but it’s so generically cheesy. His message doesn’t make a better impression. All he wrote was Hey. I imagine him doing this to almost every woman on the site.

  The third guy is wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap in his lone photo. I’ve got a really busy schedule, so I’m not looking for anything serious. But want to meet up for a drink one night?

  I wish he’d written more about himself, so I check out his profile. It’s pretty spare. It’s hard to get a sense of who he is. Could he be married? I wonder. I think about it a little and decide to write back, Can you tell me more about yourself first?

  But before I do, I check out the final message. The first thing I notice is the photo—of a guy with brown hair, a shy smile, and horn-rimmed glasses. He looks slender and fit. Appealing, but not intimidating. His username for the site is TedTalk.

  A swooping feeling is in my stomach.

  Hi DataGirl, I’m Ted. I’m definitely active—I love pickup basketball and hiking—but I also enjoy quality time with a good pizza.

  “Excuse me,” the waiter says, and I glance up to see him holding my wine and hummus plate.

  “Sorry.” I pull my arms back off the table. I hope he didn’t see what was on my screen. Even though it seems like everybody does online dating these days, I still don’t want a stranger knowing something so personal about me.

  The waiter spends far too long arranging my cutlery and offering me more water. All I want to do is get back to Ted.

  I go back to his message the moment the waiter leaves: Heels won’t be a problem for me, since I’m six foot one. Anyway, if you’d like to chat more, you know where to find me.

  I immediately click on his profile.

  His information is listed: thirty-five years old, never married, mechanical engineer, lives in Manhattan. The category of relationship he’s seeking is Serious.

  I’m beaming. He sent the message at eleven-thirty this morning. So it’s been more than six hours. I won’t look overly eager if I reply.

  I’m not good at flirting in person, but it seems easier here, in the darkened bar. I think for a minute, then write back, Hi Ted, Here’s an important question: Thick or thin crust? DataGirl/aka Shay. P.S. I like hiking too, but there aren’t many places to do it around here. Unless you know of some secret spot?

  I’ve asked him two questions. That was deliberate, to keep the conversation going.

  I dig into my hummus plate, suddenly ravenous. While I crunch on a carrot stick, I begin to scroll through photos of other available men who meet the parameters I set: between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-eight, single, within twenty miles of me, and seeking a serious relationship.

  It’s unbelievable how many there are: So many guys want the same thing I do. I’ve probably passed a few of them on the street or stood next to them in line at the deli or on the subway. There could even be one in this bar.

  Some universally known signals indicate when people are off the market—an engagement ring, a wedding band, even a claddagh ring—but no similar items let the world know you’re looking.

  I scroll through more photos. Quite a few guys are appealing, even after I’ve discounted the ones in muscle shirts flexing, or others who seem to be trying to show off their status by standing next to expensive cars or boats.

  I read through dozens of profiles. Some are funny, some are straightforward, and a lot are so spare they’re little more than biographical details.

  But no other seems as attractive as Ted.

  Just as I think this, the cupid icon bursts onto my screen. One!

  I quickly click on the number, and the moment I see Ted has replied, I realize that’s exactly what I was hoping for.

  Shay, that’s a tough one, but I’m an equal opportunity pizza connoisseur. Anything but anchovies. So where’s your favorite place to get pizza? I’m pretty new to New York—I just moved here from Colorado a couple of months ago—and I’m still trying to learn more about the city. Kind of a culture shock, but I like it, even though my current apartment is the size of my old closet, haha.

  I feel my lips curve into a smile. Ted only waited about fifteen minutes before responding. I like that; he isn’t playing games. And if he just moved here from Colorado, he probably doesn’t know many people. Maybe he’s lonely, too.

  I’m not going to play games either. Still, I wait until I’ve finished my wine before writing back.

  I totally agree with you about the anchovies. Who puts fish on pizza?;) My favorite place to go is Grimaldi’s in Brooklyn—classic thin crust. You’ve got to try it if you haven’t already.

  I hesitate, thinking about what to write next. I could ask him more about his job, but I don’t want to make him feel like his occupation or income level is important to me.

  So I continue, I’ve only visited Colorado once, when I went skiing with my college roommate and her family. It was so beautiful. I’d love to go back someday.

  Ask him another question, I remind myself. I look at his pictures again—he seems even more appealing now—and notice he’s got a coffee mug by his left hand in one of them.

  I write, Are you a lefty?

  Then I backspace over it. I don’t want him to think I’ve been scrutinizing his pictures. I’m so new at this; I don’t know what the rules are.

  I play it safe, choosing this question: Do you ski?

  Then I hit Send.

  I pay my bill and step back outside. It’s even colder now, and completely dark, but the city feels vibrant. I wonder where Ted is right now; maybe in his closet-size apartment. Or maybe he’s still at his office. He could be in any of the buildings I pass.

  Knowing he’s around makes the city seem smaller, somehow, in a good way.

  Superstitions aren’t logical, but I can’t help playing a little game with myself: If I don’t check my phone until I get back to my apartment, he’ll have written back.

  I reach home, and as soon as I’ve slipped off my coat and shoes, I take out
my phone.

  Ted has written back. He asked two questions of his own:

  How about we continue this conversation in person? Can we meet for a drink Friday night?

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  AMANDA

  Two months ago

  A TRICKLE OF BLOOD ran down Amanda’s shin.

  She cursed and reached for her washcloth, pressing it against the small cut, then turned off the shower. She’d rushed while shaving her legs because she was late. Just as she’d been getting ready to end her shift, a delivery truck had rear-ended the back of the Explorers Camp bus on the FDR. A half dozen kids had been rushed to the ER with injuries ranging from whiplash to bruises to the most severe, a fractured wrist and possible concussion. She couldn’t leave with crying children filling up exam rooms as parents flooded in.

  It was the worst possible time for the bus accident.

  She’d stayed an extra hour, comforting a little boy whose arm was in a sling, until the boy’s father arrived. She snuck the child a lollipop on her way out the door, feeling guilty that she’d rushed through the release paperwork.

  She was due at a bar called Twist near the northern part of Central Park in a little over an hour. She was going to be late.

  Normally, if she was heading out for a night on the town, she’d style her hair, creating gentle waves around her shoulders. But now she quickly blow-dried it before pinning it in a loose twist. She spent precious time on her makeup, applying tinted moisturizer and darkening her brows with a light brown pencil. Luckily she’d already picked out her outfit: a wheat-colored sundress with wide shoulder straps, gold hoop earrings, flat sandals, and a small purse.

  She filled it with a burner phone, some cash, a credit card, and a pair of black cat-eye glasses with clear, nonprescription lenses, since her vision was perfect. She opened the cabinet beneath her bathroom sink and reached behind the extra toilet paper, feeling around until her fingers closed on the little plastic mouthwash bottle. She double-checked that the cap was secured before she slipped it into her bag.