Page 5 of My Killer Blind Date

Do I give her the honest debrief? I hesitate. George is in the final stretch of stressful prep for her big wedding – the first wedding, at least, since she’ll have a second celebration in India with Arjun’s family next year – and I don’t want to dump on her. She’d be crushed if she knew that she sent me blindly into the clutches of an asshole.

‘It went!’ Girl talk. I can do this. ‘He was very, ehm …’ I pause to pull a sweatshirt out of the laundry hamper. I give it a sniff. Clean enough. ‘Handsome?’

‘O … K …’

‘He talked about his, uh … friends. He had lots of stories about how awesome he is at his job, like, wow …!’ God, it’s tricky to keep this positive without outright lying. ‘And his hair! Did I mention his hair? Really nicely coiffed. Like—’

‘Coiffed? So you hated him and totally didn’t get laid.’

‘Well … “hate” is such a strong word—’

‘But no orgasm.’

‘Uh, definitely not.’

‘Margot. What aren’t you telling me?’

I sigh and sink on to the side of my bed, pressing fingers to my temples. ‘Yeah, it wasn’t great.’

‘How bad? Be honest.’

‘Well—’ I pause to yank my shirt off and pull on the sweatshirt. ‘He asked to be put in the “naughty corner” and tried to grab my knee and when I ended the date he cursed me out.’

George sucks in her breath sharply. ‘He did not!’

‘It’s OK.’

‘It’s one hundred per cent not OK—’ Her voice muffles slightly as she shouts, ‘Arjun! Your friend was a dick to Margot!’ Her voice comes back, urgent and breathy. ‘I am so going to make this up to you. I am going to find someone actually lovely, because you are so wonderful, and especially after everything that’s happened, you deserve—’

‘No!’ I bark, then quickly laugh to soften my tone. ‘That’s OK! You don’t owe me anything. Please.’

George sighs. ‘OK. Well … what are you doing the rest of the night?’

What I always do. But I don’t really share that. With anyone.

‘Oh, you know. I’ll scrounge up something to eat. Chill. See what’s new on Netflix. The usual.’

‘Well … just know that Arjun is in serious trouble with me for suggesting this guy. No sex for a month. Did you hear that, Arjun? No sex for a month! But seriously – let’s hang out soon. I was kidding, Arjun! Of course I’m not going on a sex strike, babe, I love you too much – Hey, you remember that the final fitting for the bridesmaid dresses is tomorrow, right?’

‘Right! Yes!’ That, I did have meticulously entered into my calendar. And though trying on a dress the color of pea soup doesn’t thrill my soul, making George happy does, so I’ll be there with a big smile on my face, no matter what.

*

After George and I hang up, I proceed with my rituals: frozen single-serve mushroom and spinach lasagna into the microwave, off with the jeans and on with the PJ pants, hair into a top knot and finally, the crowning glory: my favorite fuzzy Christmas socks.

The microwave beeps and I pull out my dinner. I’ve never been much of a cook, and Zoe wasn’t either, so at least this slightly more veggie-forward processed food cooked in its neat plastic tray is an improvement over our old diet of greasy pizza and boxed macaroni. At least one hopes.

My two-bedroom apartment is small and, honestly, messy. I used to be the clean roommate, but ever since Zoe disappeared, things have changed.

Lasagna tray in one hand, I go to her bedroom – this is also part of the routine – open the door and look at the empty space. I don’t cry or rage or do anything dramatic. That’s not me. I just look, absorbing the way she left things six months ago, right before leaving for her date. Extra hold hairspray on its side on her desk. Makeup products littered on her bookshelf. Comforter spilling off the bed, stack of paperbacks on the nightstand and above that, her happy corkboard crowded with Polaroids of the two of us and strung with Mardi Gras beads. It’s like the nice version of a crime-scene board, the beads swooping from moment to moment, connecting them into one chaotic ensemble of past happiness.

I turn on the lights and walk over to the pictures. Setting my lasagna on the nightstand, I pluck one Polaroid off to take a closer look. Our faces are blown out by the flash, the background inky dark, with only the vaguest hints of faces behind us. We’re at some bar or another, and you can just feel how late it is. Our arms are around each other. She looks drunk, but happy as hell. I look relaxed, almost high, even though I know I wasn’t.

The last time I saw her, she smelled like Dove deodorant and Coco Mademoiselle perfume. She was meeting someone from the apps. I didn’t ask his name. I didn’t ask to see his picture. I was too distracted by our fight. And then, she never came back.

A stabbing sensation in my chest makes my breath catch, but I stand still, and it passes. There was an investigation, of course, after I filed a missing person report, but nothing came of it. There’s a serial killer out there, I reminded Detective Barnett, the lead CPD investigator assigned to Zoe’s case. Two women in the previous year had disappeared from the North Side of Chicago, their bodies reappearing months later on a beach north of the city, each missing a foot. The coroner report revealed they were each kept in captivity for weeks before being murdered. Then, the bodies each spent months in a freezer before being dumped on the beach. I can’t say how many times I’ve gone to sleep wondering where their feet are. Pickled in a jar? Hung up like wind chimes?

I filed an additional police report when I went to clear out Zoe’s art studio and found it had been ransacked, everything of value stolen. Detective Barnett chalked it up to the ‘bad neighborhood,’ and while there wasn’t an obvious connection between the theft and her disappearance, it felt doubly cruel to lose her art, the thing she cherished most in this world.