Dead Politician Society

Chapter 66: Clare

Kevin shifted his naked body a few inches away in bed.

“You’re not into this tonight,” he said.

Clare sighed. “Sorry. I’m under a lot of pressure. Stress is the biggest buzz kill. You’re still the sexiest man this side of Yonge Street.”

“You have another man in the east end?”

“No.” Clare laughed. Sure, Matthew lived in the Beaches, but she’d only ever been with him on campus. Which was west of Yonge. And anyway, Kevin was way hotter. “What I meant to say, because half the city clearly isn’t enough for you, is that you’re the hottest man in Toronto, so it’s not you. It’s me.”

He tilted her chin so he could catch her eye. “Is this something to do with your uncle?”

She struggled to imagine what he could be talking about. “Oh, you mean the uncle you met this afternoon? Outside the donut shop.”

“He isn’t your uncle, is he?”

Her eyes darted away from his as she took in the rumpled bedsheets, the dirty hardwood floor with a week’s worth of clothes scattered randomly across it. She had a bizarre urge to get up and clean, or at least tidy up the clutter. But she forced herself to stay in the conversation.

“Of course he’s my uncle. Why would you think I’d lie?”

Kevin shrugged the shoulder he wasn’t lying on. “He didn’t look like you. I thought maybe he was a friend of your parents’ that you’ve known since you were a kid so you called him ‘Uncle.’”

“Oh.” Clare’s heartbeat started to normalize.

“What was his name again?”

“Are you testing me?” Clare tried to act annoyed.

Kevin laughed. “Wow, you really are stressed. I just forgot your uncle’s name. If I see him again I don’t want to look like an idiot.”

She couldn’t remember what Cloutier had said. Something common and one-syllable. She took a guess: “His name is Glen.”

“Wrong!” She could feel Kevin trying to catch her eyes again. “It isn’t Glen. And I don’t think it’s Steve either—which is the name he used to introduce himself.”

“Jesus, Kevin. Why do you think you can interrogate me like this?”

He gripped her arm. He didn’t use too much force, but it made Clare feel trapped, like she was in handcuffs. It also felt strangely good to have someone want her this much.

“I like you,” he said. “A lot. But you tell lies that don’t make sense. Are you a compulsive liar?”

“No. Don’t be an asshole. Are you?”

“You act like you’re protecting some great important secret. But really I think you’re just petrified to be yourself.”

Clare’s mouth hung open. She tried to make it look like outrage as she scrambled for a line that could convince him. When she was able to speak, she said, “You’ve known me less than a week. I don’t expect to know all your deep secrets by now. Why should you know mine?”

“Keep all the secrets you like. But keep the lies, too. I don’t want them.”

She rolled her eyes. “You should write country music lyrics.”

“Forget it, then.” He pushed the covers back and found his jeans in the pile by the window. “At first I just thought you lied a lot, and maybe I could bring you around. I have a cousin who was a compulsive liar and he’s better now that he’s married with kids and more confident.”

“I don’t understand what you think I lied about.”

“Please. The night we met you told me you’re a cop. I mean, of course I can excuse that. People lie to strangers in bars all the time. I’ve told women I was an aerobatic flying ace for kicks. So the next morning, you say you’re off to the mechanic shop where you work, and I think cool, she’s a mechanic. But then I meet you again and you say you’re a student? Is there a true fact in any of those statements?”

“I’m a student. And I do sometimes work in an auto shop that my friend owns. I was apprenticing with her until she encouraged me to get a university degree. I can bring you to meet her if you like.”

“Yeah. I would like that. But I want to know who not-Steve-not-Glen is. Call me an idiot, but your body language told me he wasn’t a friend. If you’re in over your head, I want to help you.”

Clare felt wretched. She wanted to pull him back into bed and tell him everything. But until she got the official goodbye papers from Morton, she was clinging to her cover role like a life raft. If she let go, she had no idea who she wanted to be. It was freaky how well Kevin had pegged her.

But what could she say that might make him stay? She couldn’t tell the truth and he seemed to know when she was lying. The only option was to take it bigger.

“The guy’s my drug dealer. Sells me marijuana. Doesn’t like people to know his real name. Maybe that’s overly paranoid for a small time dealer, who knows? But I respect his right to privacy. I call him Pete, but that’s probably not his real name, either.”

“Okay,” he said. “So show me your weed supply.”

“What?”

“This is the fourth night we’ve spent together and I’ve never seen you smoke anything stronger than cigarettes. Or smelled it in your hair, or on your clothes, or in your couch cushions. Or seen roaches in your ashtray. Anyone with their very own dealer would have at least one telltale sign.”

This guy would make a better detective than Clare. It was breaking her heart to get rid of him. But she clearly couldn’t let him stay.

“You don’t get it, do you? You can’t come into my life and demand to see into every crack and crevasse. I haven’t smoked up with you because I like you. I was afraid you were against it. There’s this new invention, laundry detergent, to make my clothes smell fresh. And this magic potion called shampoo that does the same for my hair. I don’t smoke in my apartment because my landlord smelled it once and said he’d evict me if I smoked drugs in here again.” She was tempted to add so there but held back.

“Okay.” Kevin took his watch from Clare’s dresser and put it on. “You can lie all you like, but lie to yourself, not me. I’m out of here.”

Clare locked the door behind him. She was shaking, hard. It was still early—not even ten p.m. She grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat on her couch with the lights out.

She dialed Lance. A stupid voice message—Shauna’s voice—said that “we” were not in. Clare hung up. No way would she leave “us” a message. Roberta was on a date, of all things. And she couldn’t call Matthew or Jessica or anyone from class because she needed someone she could be real with.

The smallest tear fell down her cheek as she realized that only left herself. She lit a cigarette and sat smoking in the warm yellow light that came in from the street.