She made green tea instead and settled down in the window seat. The sun hung low over the bay. What did Susanna see from her apartment? Was her ankle better? Contraceptive pills, Jesus. And, oh, the smell of her skin.
She was losing her mind.
She didn't know who she hated more: Richard for making the proposal, or herself for accepting it. Or Susanna. Susanna had done it for money.
Or maybe… But what about those contraceptive pills?
And what if Susanna did feel… whatever it was? Did that make it real? It was all an experiment, all engineered. Fake.
But it didn't feel fake. She wanted to cradle Susanna, kiss her ankle better, protect her from the world. The Richards of the world.
She picked up the phone, remembered for the tenth time she had neither address nor phone number. She called information, who told her there was no listing under Susanna Herrera in the Atlanta Metro area. She found herself unsurprised, though surprised at how little it mattered.
She got the number for the Golden Key instead.
A man called Pergoletti answered. "Cookie? She's gone. They always go." The music thumped. Cody's insides vibrated in sympathy, remembering.
"-don't have a number. Hey, you interested in a job?"
Cody put the phone down carefully. Sipped her tea. Picked up the phone again, and called Richard.
It was open mic night at Coffee to the People. Richard was in the back room on a sofa, as far from the music as possible. Two cups on the table. One still full.
"You knew I'd call."
"I did."
"Did you program that, too?"
"I didn't program anything. I primed you-and only about the sex." He patted the sofa. "Sit down before you fall down."
She sat. Blinked. "Give me her phone number."
"I can't. She gave me a fake. I called her at the club, but she hung up on me." He seemed put out.
"What does she know?"
"I talked fast. I don't know how much she heard. But I told her she wouldn't get the rest of the money until we'd done follow up."
The singer in the other room sang of love and broken hearts. It was terrible, but it made Cody want to cry anyway.
"How long does it last?"
"Love? I don't know. I avoid it where possible."
"What am I going to do?"
Richard lifted his laptop bag. "I planned for this eventuality." He took out a small white cardboard box. He opened it, shook something onto his hand. A grey plastic inhaler.
"What is it?"
"A vasopressin analogue, formulated to block oxytocin receptors in the nucleus accumbens. That is, the antidote."
They both looked at it.
"It works in voles," he said. "Female voles."
Voles. "You said it tasted bad."
"I've used it. Just in case. I prefer my sex without complications. And I've had a lot of sex and never once fallen in love." He arched his eyebrows. "So, hey, it must work."
The elephant whistle hypothesis. Hey, Bob, what's that whistle? Well, Fred, it keeps elephants away. Don't be an asshole, Bob, there aren't any elephants around here. Well, Fred, that's because of my whistle.
"Cody." He did his best to look sincere. "I'm so very sorry. I never thought it would work. Not like this. But I do think the antidote might work." His face went back to normal. He hefted the inhaler. "Though before I give it to you, I have a favor to ask."
She stared at him. "On what planet do I owe you anything?"
"For science, then. A follow-up scan, and then another after you take the antidote."
"Maybe I won't take it. Give me the number."
"Love is a form of insanity, you know."
"The number."
In the other room, the bad singing went on and on.
"Oh, all right. For old time's sake." He extracted a folder from his bag, and a piece of paper from the folder. He slid it across the table towards her, put the inhaler on top of it.
She nudged the inhaler aside, picked up the paper. Handwritten. Susanna's writing.
"Love's just biochemical craziness," he said, "designed to make us take a leap in the dark, to trust complete strangers. It's not rational."
Cody said nothing.
"She screwed us."
"She screwed you," Cody said. "Maybe she fell in love with me." But she took the inhaler.
Cody sat in the window seat with the phone and the form Susanna had filled in. Every now and again she punched in a different combination of the numbers Susanna had written and got the Cannot be completed as dialed voice. Every now and again she touched the form with the tip of her middle finger; she could feel the indentation made by Susanna's strong strokes. Strong strokes, strong hands, strong mouth.
She didn't think about the grey inhaler in its white box, which she had put in the fridge-to stay viable a long time, just in case.
After a while she stopped dialing and simply waited.
When her phone lit up at 11:46 she knew who it was-even before she saw the 404 area code on the screen.
"Do you feel it?" Susanna said.
"Yes," and Cody did. Whatever it was, wherever it came from, it was there, as indelible as ink. She wanted to say, I don't know if this is real, I don't know if it's good. She wanted to ask, Had you ever had sex with anyone for money before me? and, Does it matter? She wanted to know, Have you ever loved anyone before? and, How can you know?
She wanted to say, Will it hurt?
Walking through the crowds at the airport, Cody searched for the familiar face, felt her heart thump every time she thought she saw her. Panic, or love? She didn't know. She didn't know anything except that her throat ached.
Someone jostled her with his bag, and when she looked up, there was the back of that head, that smooth brown hair, so familiar, after just one night, and all her blood vessels seemed to expand at once, every cell leapt forward.
She didn't move. This was it, the last moment. This was where she could just let the crowd carry her past, carry her away, out into the night. Walk away. Go home. Use the inhaler in the fridge.
That was the sensible thing. But the Cody who had hung from the ninth-story balcony, the Cody who had risked the Atlanta contract without a second thought, that Cody thought, Fuck it, and stepped forward. Will it hurt? You could never know.
Sleight of Hand by Peter S. Beagle
She had no idea where she was going. When she needed to sleep she stopped at the first motel; when the Buick's gas gauge dropped into the red zone she filled the tank, and sometimes bought a sandwich or orange juice at the attached convenience store. Now and then during one of these stops she spoke with someone who was neither a desk clerk nor a gas-station attendant, but she forgot all such conversations within minutes, as she forgot everything but the words of the young policeman who had come to her door on a pleasant Wednesday afternoon, weeks and worlds ago. Nothing had moved in her since that point except the memory of his shakily sympathetic voice, telling her that her husband and daughter were dead: ashes in a smoking, twisted, unrecognizable ruin, because, six blocks from their home, a drowsy adolescent had mistaken his accelerator for his brake pedal.
There had been a funeral-she was present, but not there-and more police, and some lawyer; and Alan's sister managing it all, as always, and for once she was truly grateful to the interfering bitch. But that was all far away too, both the gratitude and the old detestation, made nothing by the momentary droop of a boy's eyelids. The nothing got her snugly through the days after the funeral, dealing with each of the endless phone calls, sitting down to answer every condolence card and e-mail, informing Social Security and CREF of Alan's death, going with three of his graduate students to clean out his office, and attending the memorial on campus, which was very tasteful and genuinely moving, or so the nothing was told. She was glad to hear it.