"It bothers me now."
"You'll get over it."
"We're not saving the world anymore," Thorpe said gently. "We're not keeping nukes from terrorists, or separating racists from their bank accounts. We're just showing off."
Billy shivered, and he thought for a moment that Thorpe had opened a window, which was impossible, because the windows in the bedroom were sealed. "This is all quite irrelevant. You're back; that's all that matters. I rescued you from your doldrums and self-doubts. Perhaps it's asking too much for you to be grateful, but-"
"I can always tell when you're scared, Billy-you use the word quite, trying to maintain your reserve. You told Warren we were 'quite all right.' Now you tell me it's 'all quite irrelevant.' "
"Thank you for bringing it to my attention. I'll have to watch that in the future."
"Did you tell the Engineer where I lived?"
"Why would I help the Engineer? Granted, I was curious to see how the contest between the two of you played out, but if he needed my help to find you… well, what value would he be then?" Billy flinched. It felt like Thorpe was right beside him, sitting on the bed. "Sink or swim, that's the only choice any of us have."
"Oh, it's a little more complicated than that." Thorpe's voice seemed to come from a distant point in the room.
"What made you go looking for Nell Cooper? What made you suspect she wasn't the one who called Betty B?"
"Afraid you might have slipped up, Billy? Worried about any other of your loose ends?"
"My interest is purely academic. So… what was it?"
"You changed your brand of toothpaste. A special toothpaste for sensitive teeth. Your gums are receding and you never told me."
Billy glanced toward his bathroom before he could stop himself.
"Nearly a full tube. I hope you don't feel like you have to throw it away now."
Billy didn't move a muscle. "No need for that."
"I'll see you around."
"What does that mean? Frank?" Billy flipped on the light beside his bed, but he was alone. Quite alone.
EPILOGUE
Claire spotted him sitting in the back of the amphitheater about ten minutes before the end of her Intro to Psychology class and temporarily lost her place. She had been teaching this course for three years, could probably recite the syllabus from memory, but she stumbled over a description of Jung's collective unconscious. Maybe there was hope for Thorpe.
The last ten minutes, Claire was on autopilot, looking over, around, and through him. Then she passed out a study guide and dismissed the class. She rearranged her papers on the lectern as the hundred or so students closed their notebooks, chairs scraping as they filed out.
Thorpe got up, started toward her in the now-empty auditorium, nervous. He had rehearsed this moment for the last month, knowing that he was going to see her again, certain of it, but now he was standing there before her, and he didn't know what to say. "Claire… I know what you must be thinking-"
She slapped him across the face. "What was I thinking?"
He could feel her fingerprints on his cheek.
"You could have said good-bye," said Claire, still fuming. "I didn't even know you had moved out until a Salvation Army van started loading up your furniture."
"I didn't want to say good-bye. I just wanted to get away."
Her eyes were hot. "Then what are you doing here?"
"I was wrong. I've been wrong about almost everything lately…"
"But showing up today is right? Now you've come to your senses?"
Thorpe nodded.
"Am I supposed to be grateful?"
Thorpe started to smile, but her expression changed his mind. "I just want you to give me a chance. Give us a chance."
"Now there's an us?"
Thorpe took her hand, but she pulled away. "I'm sorry."
"Great, that changes everything."
"At least let me thank you," said Thorpe. "You ran into a man the day I disappeared. He showed you a photo of me, and you pretended not to know who I was. That was a brave thing to do."
"It wasn't brave. I don't know who you are."
"Don't play games."
"Me?"
Thorpe heard Claire's laugh and realized how much he had missed the clean sound of it, the way it drew him in. He laughed along with her, laughed at himself and all the rules he set for himself, all the things he felt compelled to keep track of, and none of them were working anymore.
"Who are you, Frank? This is your big chance to tell me. I know you're not an insurance salesman. I know you're generous with your booze and miserly with the truth. I know you like rescuing damsels in distress-"
"I'm a guy who wants to stop what he's been doing. A guy who wants to change and doesn't know if he can." Thorpe took her hand again, and this time she let him. "I missed you. There hasn't been a day since I left…" He shook his head. "That night we sat on the steps, you told me that we couldn't wait for the perfect moment. That sometimes we just have to reach out for what's in front of us. I'm here, Claire. I'm here. "
Claire watched him, still on guard. He didn't blame her. "What happened to that horrible man who was looking for you? He acted like a bumbling accountant, but he had the eyes of a rapist. I called you as soon as I drove off. I remember being almost embarrassed that he had scared me, but I called you anyway."
"I never got the message. I had switched phones."
"What happened to him, Frank?"
Thorpe shook his head. "Don't worry, he won't be back."
Claire's eyes were large and fearless. "You took care of him, did you? That's the kind of person you are?"
"Yes."
"Just like that?"
"It wasn't that easy, Claire."
"No… I don't imagine it was. It's over now, though?"
"It's over."
"Good. I don't know what he did, but I'm glad he won't be back."
Thorpe put his arms around her, kissed her, and their bodies fit together easily, his hands resting against the small of her back as he buried his face in her hair. They stood there in the empty classroom, slow-dancing in the silence.
She turned her head. "What's your name?" she said softly. "Your real name."
He hesitated.
She waited, her face sad now. He wished she were angry; he could deal with that. She pushed him away, shoved papers into her briefcase, and headed up the steps, her pale green skirt swirling around her knees like a rising tide.
He watched her leave, and it was as if he was underwater again, back in the front seat of the Buick, the Engineer adrift beside him, dead fingers waving. Thorpe could see the lights on the dock shimmering above him as he tore at the headrest, the lights getting dimmer as he ran out of air, then dimmer still, his chest feeling like it was about to burst. "Thorpe," he croaked out as Claire reached the door. "My real name is Frank Thorpe."
She turned, looked back at him. "That's a good name."
He took the steps two at a time.