Hidden Bodies – Caroline Kepnes

I buy violets for Amy. Not roses. Roses are for people who did something wrong. I have done everything right this time around. I’m a good boyfriend. I chose well. Amy Adam lives in the moment, not in the computer. “Violets are the state flower of Rhode Island,” I tell the guy wrapping up my flowers. His careless, dirty hands graze the petals, my petals. New Fucking York. “Is that so?” He chuckles. “You learn something new every day.” I pay cash and carry my violets outside to East Seventh Street. It’s hot for May and I smell the flowers. Rhode Island.

I’ve been to Rhode Island. I went to Little Compton last winter. I was lovesick, petrified that my girlfriend—R.I.P. Guinevere Beck —was in jeopardy because of her emotionally unstable friend—R.I.P. Peach Salinger. Someone honks at me and I apologize.

I know when something is my fault, and when you walk into a blinking crosswalk, it’s your fault. Just like it was my fault last winter. I go over the mistake in my head a dozen times a day. How I was hiding in a closet upstairs at the Salinger house. How I had to pee but couldn’t leave. So I pissed in a mug—a ceramic mug—and I put the mug down on the hardwood floor of the closet. I ran when I had the chance, and there is no way around it: I forgot the mug. I’m a changed man because of that day. You can’t go back and alter the past, but you can go forward, become a person who remembers. Now, I’m committed to the details.

For example, I recall with total precision the moment that Amy Kendall Adam returned to Mooney Rare and Used, to my life. I see her smile, her untamed hair (blond), and her résumé (lies). That was five months ago and she claimed she was looking for a job but you and I both know she was looking for me. I hired her, and she showed up on time for her first day with a spiral notebook and a list of rare books that she wanted to see. She had a glass container of superfruits and she told me they help you live forever. I told her that nobody gets to live forever and she laughed. She had a nice laugh, easy. She also had latex gloves. I picked one up. “What are these?” “So I don’t hurt the books,” she explained.

“I want you up front,” I countered. “This is just a basic job, mostly stocking shelves, manning the register.” “Okay,” she said. “But did you know that there are copies of Alice in Wonderland that are worth over a million dollars?” I laughed. “I hate to break your heart, but we don’t have Alice downstairs.” “Downstairs?” she asked. “Is that where you keep the special books?” I wanted to place my hand on the small of her back and lead her down to the cage, where the special books are preserved, boxed, saved. I wanted to strip her down and lock us inside and have her. But I was patient. I gave her a W-9 and a pen.

“You know, I could help you go yard-sale-ing for old books,” she said. “You never know what you’re going to find at yard sales.” I smiled. “Only if you promise not to call it yard-sale-ing.” Amy smiled. The way she saw it, if she was going to work here, she was going to make a dent. She wanted us to travel uptown to estate sales and hunt library clearances and jam our hands into empty boxes on the street. She wanted to work together and this is how you get to know someone so well, so fast. You descend into musty vacated rooms together and you rush outside together to gulp the fresh air and laugh and agree that the only thing to do now is get a drink. We became a team.

An old woman pushing a walker looks up at me. I smile. She points at the violets. “You’re a good boy.” I am. I thank her and keep walking. Amy and I started dating a few months ago while we were on the Upper East Side in a dead man’s parlor. She tugged on the lapel of the navy blazer she had bought for me—five bucks—at a tag sale. She pleaded with me to drop seven hundred on a signed, wrinkled edition of The Easter Parade. “Amy,” I whispered.

“Yates isn’t big right now and I don’t see a resurgence on the horizon.” “But I love him,” she begged. “This book means everything to me.” This is women; they are emotional. You can’t do business like this but you also can’t look at Amy with her big blue eyes and her long blond hair out of a Guns N’ Roses song and say no to her. “What can I do to change your mind?” she wheedled. An hour later, I was the owner of an overpriced Easter Parade and Amy was sucking my dick in a Starbucks bathroom in Midtown and this was more romantic than it sounds because we liked each other. This was not a blowjob; this was fellatio, my friends. She stood and I pulled her boyfriend jeans to the floor and I stopped short. I knew she didn’t like to shave; her legs were often bristly and she’s all about water conservation.

But I did not expect a bush. She kissed me. “Welcome to the jungle.” This is why I smile as I walk and this is how you get happy. Amy and I, we are sexier than Bob Dylan and Suze Rotolo on the cover of The Freewheelin’ and we are smarter than Tom Cruise and Penélope Cruz in Vanilla Sky. We have a project: We are amassing copies of Portnoy’s Complaint. It’s one of our favorite books and we reread it together. She underlined her favorite parts with a Sharpie and I told her to use a more delicate pen. “I’m not delicate,” she said. “I hate delicate.

” Amy is a Sharpie; she’s passionate. She fucking loves Portnoy’s Complaint and I want to possess all the dark yellow copies ever made and keep them in the basement so that only Amy and I can touch them. I’m not supposed to overstock a title, but I like fucking Amy near our yellow wall of books. Philip Roth would approve. She laughed when I told her that and said we should write him a letter. She has an imagination, a heart. My phone rings. It’s Gleason Brothers Electricians about the humidifier but it can wait. I have an email from BuzzFeed about some list of cool indie bookstores and that can wait too. Everything can wait when you have love in your life.

When you can just walk down the street and picture the girl you love naked on a mound of yellow Complaints. I reach Mooney Books and the bell chimes as I open the door. Amy crosses her arms and glares at me and maybe she’s allergic to flowers. Maybe violets suck. “What’s wrong?” I ask, and I hope this isn’t it, the beginning of the end, when the girl becomes a cunt, when the new car smell evaporates. “Flowers?” she asks. “You know what I want more than flowers?” I shake my head. “Keys,” she says. “A guy was just here and I could have sold him the Yates but I couldn’t show it because I don’t have keys.” I toss the flowers on the counter.

“Slow down. Did you get a number?” “Joe,” she says, tapping her foot. “I love this business. And I know I’m being a dumb girl and I shouldn’t tell you how into this I am. But please. I want keys.” I don’t say anything. I need to memorize it all, lock it away for safekeeping, the low hum of the music—the Rolling Stones’ “Sweet Virginia,” one of my favorites—and the way the light is right now. I don’t lock the door. I don’t flip the OPEN sign over.

I walk to the other side of the counter and I take her in my arms and I dip her and I kiss her and she kisses me back. I’VE never given anyone a key. But this is what’s supposed to happen. Your life is supposed to expand. Your bed is supposed to have enough room for someone else and when that someone comes along, it’s your job to let her in. I seize my future. I pay extra to get ridiculous theme keys, pink and flowery. And when I place these pink metallic things in the palm of Amy’s hand, she kisses them. “I know this is huge,” she says. “Thank you, Joe.

I will guard these with my life.” That night, she comes over and we watch one of her stupid movies—Cocktail, nobody is perfect— and we have sex and order a pizza and my air-conditioning breaks. “Should we call someone?” she asks. “Fuck it,” I say. “It’s Memorial Day coming up.” I smile and pin her down and her unshaven legs scratch against mine and I’m used to it now. I like it. She licks her lips. “What are you up to, Joe?” “You go home and pack a bag,” I say. “And I’m gonna rent us a little red Corvette and we’re gonna get out of here.

” “You’re insane,” she says. “Where are we going in this little red Corvette?” I bite her neck. “You’ll see.” “You’re kidnapping me?” she asks. And if this is what she wants, then yes. “You have two hours. Go pack.” 2 SHE shaved; I knew she had it in her. And I did my part. I really did rent a red convertible.

We are those assholes and we’re cruising through the woodsy part of Rhode Island. We are your worst nightmare. We are happy. We don’t need you, any of you. We don’t give a fuck about you, what you think of us, what you did to us. I am the driver and Amy is the dream girl and this is our first vacation together. Finally. I have love. The top is down and we sing along to “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.” I picked this song because I’m taking it all back, all the beautiful things in the world that were corrupted by my tragically ill girlfriend Guinevere Beck.

(I see now that she suffered from borderline personality disorder. You can’t fix that.) Beck and her horrible friends ruined so much for me. I couldn’t go anywhere in New York without thinking of Beck. I thought I’d never listen to Elton John again because his music was playing when I killed Peach. Amy taps my shoulder and points at a hawk in the sky. I smile. She isn’t the kind of asshole who needs to lower the volume on the music and discuss the bird and read into it. God, she is good. But no matter how good it gets, it is always there, the truth: I forgot to take the mug.

That fucking mug haunts me. I understand that there are consequences. I am not unique; to be alive is to have a mug of urine out there. But I can’t forgive myself for screwing up, like some girl “forgetting” a cardigan after a one-night stand. The mug is an aberration. A flaw. Proof that I’m not perfect, even though I’m usually so precise, so thorough. I haven’t hatched a plan to retrieve it, but Amy makes me wish I had. I want the world clean for us, Lysol fresh. Now she offers me her scratched sunglasses.

“You’re driving,” she says. “You need them more than I do.” She is the anti-Beck; she cares about me. “Thanks, Ame.” She kisses my cheek and life is a fever dream and I wonder if I’m in a coma, if all this is a hallucination. Love fucks with your vision and I have no hate in my heart. Amy is taking all of it away, my healer, my Bactine beauty. In the past, I had a tendency to be intense; you might even call it obsessive. Beck was such a mess that in order to take care of her, I had to follow her home and hack into her e-mail and worry about her Facebook and her Twitter and her nonstop texting, all the contradictions, the lies. I chose poorly with her and suffered the consequences.

I learned my lesson. It works with Amy because I can’t stalk her online. Get this: She’s off the grid. No Facebook, no Twitter, no Instagram, not even an e-mail address. She uses burner phones and I have to program her new number into my phone every couple of weeks. She is the ultimate analog, my perfect match. When she first told me, I was flabbergasted and a little judgmental. Who the fuck is offline? Was she a pretentious nutcase? Was she lying? “What about paychecks?” I asked. “You have to have a bank account.” “I have this friend in Queens,” she answered.

“I write my checks over to her and she gives me cash. A lot of us use her. She’s the best.” “‘Us’?” “People offline,” she said. “I’m not alone here.” Cunts want to be snowflakes. They want you to tell them how nobody in this whole world compares to them. (Apologies to Prince.) All the little fame monsters on Instagram—look at me, I put jam on my toast!—and I found someone different. Amy doesn’t try to stand out.

I don’t sit alone and scroll through her status updates and home in on her misleading photographs of staged joy. When I’m with her, I’m with her, and when she leaves me, she goes where she said she was going. (Of course I’ve followed her and I occasionally look in her phone. I have to know that she isn’t lying.) “I think I smell salt air,” Amy says. “Not yet,” I tell her. “Couple more minutes.” She nods. She doesn’t fight about stupid shit. She’s no angry Beck.

That sick girl lied to the people with whom she was closest—me, Peach, her fucking fellow writers in school. She told me her father was dead. (He wasn’t.) She told me she hated Magnolia just because her friend Peach hated it. (She was lying. I read her e-mail.) Amy is a nice girl and nice girls lie to strangers to be polite, not to people they love. Even right now, she’s wearing a threadbare URI tank top. She didn’t go to URI; she didn’t go anywhere. But she always wears a college shirt.

She got a Brown shirt for me, just for this trip. “We can tell people that I’m a student and you’re my professor.” She giggled. “My married professor.” She digs up these shirts at various Goodwills all over the city. Her chest is always screaming Go Tigers! Arizona State! PITT. I tend to the stacks and eavesdrop as people who come into the shop try to connect with her—Did you go to Princeton? Did you go to UMass? Do you go to NYU?—and she always answers yes. She makes nice with the women and she lets the dudes think they have a shot. (They don’t.) She likes a conversation.

She likes a story, my little anthropologist, my listener. We are nearing the road that takes us to Little Compton and just when I think life can’t get any better, I see flashing lights. A cop is coming at us. Hard. His lights are on and his sirens are blaring and the music is gone. I brake and I try to keep my legs from shaking. “What the fuck?” Amy says. “You weren’t even speeding.” “I don’t think so,” I say, keeping my eyes on the rearview mirror as the cop opens his door. Amy turns to me.

“What did you do?” What did I do? I murdered my ex-girlfriend Guinevere Beck. I buried her body in upstate New York and then pinned it on her therapist, Dr. Nicky Angevine. Before that, I strangled her friend Peach Salinger. I killed her less than five fucking miles from here, on a beach by her family’s house, and made it look like a suicide. I also did away with a drug-addled soda jerk named Benji Keyes. His cremated body is in his storage unit, but his family thinks he died on a bender. Oh, also. The first girl I ever loved, Candace. I put her out to sea.

Nobody knows I did any of these things so it’s like that ifa-tree-falls-in-the-woods question. “I have no idea,” I say, and this is a fucking nightmare. Amy rummages around the glove box for the rental’s registration, takes it out, and then slams it shut. Officer Thomas Jenks doesn’t take off his sunglasses. He has round shoulders and his uniform is slightly too large. “License and registration,” he says. His eyes burrow into on my chest, the word BROWN. “You heading back to school?” “Just going to Little Compton,” I say. And then I cover. “Eventually.

Taking my time.” He doesn’t acknowledge my passive-aggressive defense. I was not fucking speeding and I am not a Brown asshole and this is why I don’t wear college shirts. He studies my New York driver’s license. A century passes, and then another. Amy coughs. “Officer, what did we do wrong?” Officer Jenks looks at her, then at me. “You didn’t signal when you turned.” Are you kidding me, motherfucker? “Ah,” I say. “I’m sorry.

” Jenks says he needs “a few minutes” and he plods back to his car, breaking into a jog and he shouldn’t be jogging. He also shouldn’t need “a few minutes.” As he opens the door to his cruiser and slips inside, I think of my prior offenses, my secret activities, and my throat closes up. “Joe, relax,” Amy says, putting her hand on my leg. “It’s just a minor traffic violation.” But Amy doesn’t know that I killed four people. I am sweating and I’ve heard about things like this. A guy gets pulled over for a minor infraction and somehow, through the sadistic magic of computers and system, the guy is pinned for all kinds of other shit. I could shoot myself. Amy turns the radio back on.

Five songs play and twenty minutes tick by and Officer Thomas Jenks is still in his automobile, holding my personal information. If he’s issuing me a simple ticket for failing to signal, if that’s all there is to this, then why is he on the phone? Why does he keep pushing buttons on the computer? Does my freedom end at the beginning of the season when my iPhone shows sun and the sky above is swollen with rain? Because I do know a cop in this state. His name is Officer Nico and he thinks my name is Spencer. What if he saw my picture in the computer? What if he recognized me and called Jenks and said, I know that guy. And what if— “Joe,” Amy says, and I almost forgot she was here. “You look like you’re having a panic attack. It’s not bad. It’s not even a speeding ticket.” “I know,” I say. “I just hate cops.

” She strokes my leg. “I know.” She reaches into the cooler and takes out a peach. A peach. Of course it kills me that we are moving backward. She is eating a peach and I am obsessing about Peach Salinger and my mug of piss. That mug. I try to believe that it’s gone. I picture a maid swiping it, disgusted, scouring it clean, dousing it with bleach. I picture a golden retriever—people with summer homes, they love their great big dogs —and he’s sniffing around, pawing at the mug, and he knocks it over and his master calls and he runs and my urine seeps into the floorboards and I am safe.

I picture a Salinger child playing hide-andseek. The mug gets knocked over. I’m safe. I see a Salinger cousin, cunty, texting, absentmindedly throwing shoes into the closet, losing her shit when a full mug soaks her precious Manolos, her Tory Burch sandals. She trashes the shoes. I am safe. I hear the door slam. Jenks is on foot. He might ask me to step out of the car. He might lie to me.

He might try to trick me. He might ask Amy to step out of the car. He wears cologne, poor guy, and he hands me my license and the rental registration. “Sorry about the holdup,” he says. “You know, they give us these computers and half the time they’re jammed up.” “Technology,” I sigh. Free. Free! “It’s the end of us all, right?” “All the more reason I’d like you to use that blinker,” he quips. I smile. “I’m truly sorry, Officer.

” Jenks asks us if we live right in the city and I tell him it’s quieter in Brooklyn and everything is going to be okay. I am blessed. I smell Jenks’s hopeful body spray. I see his small life, it’s all in his eyes, unlived, dreams he didn’t chase, dreams he won’t chase, not because he’s a pussy, because he simply doesn’t see his dreams in detail, the kind of details that drive a person to pack their shit, to move. He became a cop because of the simplicity of the uniform; you don’t have to think about what to wear every day. “You have fun,” he says. “Be safe.” I pull back onto the road and I’m relieved that my day, my life, doesn’t end here. I have one hand on the wheel and I maneuver the other under Amy’s cutoffs. I see our turn up ahead, the one that leads to Little Compton.

I don’t want the police anywhere in my future and I accept that I fucked up, that I left one loose end, and I will never, ever do that again. This time, when I turn, I use my fucking blinker. 3 WE stop at Del’s Lemonade and sit at a picnic table, toasting with lemon slushie cups. Amy shrugs. “It’s fine,” she says. “But honestly, this isn’t that good, you know?” I love her contrarian way. “People think everything is better when they’re on vacation.” “Yelp Nation,” she says. “Miserable people want to call it a one-star slushie and insecure people want everyone to be jealous of them and be all, ‘best slushie everrrr.’” Sometimes I wish she could have met Beck.

“Wow,” I say. “You just described my ex to a T.” She smacks her lips. “Which one?” It’s vacation, so I let loose. I tell her a little about Beck even though you’re not supposed to talk about your old girlfriend with the new one. “So she was an Ivy League chick?” she asks. “Was she snobby?” “Sometimes,” I say. “But mostly she was sad.” “You know, most of the people who go to those schools, they are psycho because they spend their whole childhoods trying to get into those schools. They can’t live in the moment.

” I will fuck her on this table right here, right now. “You are so right,” I say. “Did you ever date anyone like that?” She shakes her head. “You can show me yours, but I don’t want to show you mine.” She is the only woman left who knows the value of mystery. She tosses her slushie into a trash bin and we lie back on the table, watching the branches above us sway. “Talk,” she says. “Tell me.” I start at the beginning, in the shop, Beck without her bra—Amy says that’s attention seeking—and Beck buying her Paula Fox—Amy says that was to impress me—and this is where Amy is so beautiful and unusual. She doesn’t interrupt me to tell her own story or slip into a jealous rant.

She listens to me and she is a sponge. It’s cathartic for me to describe Beck’s viciousness, and this is why you need to get in a car and go sometimes. I don’t think we could have had this conversation in New York. I feel so aware with Amy, and she just gets it when I tell her about Beck Tweeting from Bemelmans Bar, the way she had to look up solipsistic in the dictionary. When I tell her that Beck referred to Little Compton as LC, she kicks the air. She gets it. All of it. I am known. She turns her head. “You guys came here together?” Her voice is higher, suspicious.

“No,” I say. And technically I’m not lying. I followed Beck here. There’s a difference. I tell her about the way Beck cheated on me with her shrink. “How terrible,” Amy says. “How did you find out?” I held her prisoner and broke into her apartment and found the evidence on a MacBook Air. “I just had a feeling,” I lie, because it’s also sort of true. “So I asked her and she told me and then that was it. We broke up.

” She strokes my leg. I tell her to Google Nicholas Angevine and she does and she scans the headlines and she looks at me, horrified. “He killed her?” “Yep,” I say. And it’s impressive. I framed him for the murder so effectively that I don’t even exist in the Wikipedia page about the crime. “He murdered her and he buried her near his family’s second home upstate.” She shudders. “Do you miss her?” “No,” I say. “I feel sorry for her, of course. But it wasn’t good between us, you know? And when you came along, I mean, it sounds sick, but that was like, well, then I really didn’t miss her anymore.

” She bumps her knee into mine. “That’s sweet.” She promises me she won’t cheat on me with a shrink. She is wary of physicians and psychiatrists, “people who thrive on other people’s pain.” God, I love her brain, all pink and mushy and suspicious. I kiss her. “I’ll be right back,” she says and she leaves her purse with me and crosses the parking lot to the restroom. She walks for me and she turns back and winks, same way she does in the shop. When she disappears into the restroom I take her phone out of her purse. I’m never afraid of what I’m going to find when I look through her phone. I just want to know everything. It’s like that guy in that old Julia Roberts movie who loves to watch her try on hats and dance around to “Brown Eyed Girl.” Nothing in Beck’s phone ever made me smile, but rummaging through Amy’s always reaffirms the way I feel about her. The first item in her Google search history is Henderson sucks. She is reading recaps of his talk show [email protected]#k Narcissism, the one we hate-watch a couple of times a week, where he sits on the couch and the guests sit at the desk. The hook is that he’s sitting on the couch because he’s a narcissist who only wants to talk about himself, but every interview obviously devolves into talk about whatever shitty movies the guest host is promoting. She says Henderson’s success is proof that our culture is edging toward a cannibalistic apocalypse. “What are you doing?” I startle and nearly drop Amy’s phone. I look up guiltily as her shadow falls over me. She’s standing, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Fuck. I swallow. I am caught. “Amy,” I say, clenching her phone. “I know what this looks like but this isn’t that.” She holds out her hand. “Gimme my phone.” “Amy,” I plead. “I’m sorry.” She looks away. I give her the phone and I want her to sit with me but she crosses her arms again. Her eyes are wet. “And I was literally just thinking how happy I am with you.” “I’m sorry,” I say again. “Why are you snooping around?” she demands. “Why are you ruining this?” “It’s not like that,” I tell her, reaching out. “No,” she says, waving me off. “I get it. You don’t trust me. And why should you? I’m the one who showed up with a stolen fucking credit card the first day I met you. Of course you don’t trust me.” “But I do trust you,” I say, and how strange the truth sounds. “I’m looking in your phone because I’m fucking crazy about you and when you go in the bathroom I miss you.” I get onto my knees and grovel. “Amy, I swear. I have never been so crazy about anyone and I know this is crazy. But I love you. Even when you’re in the bathroom, I just want more.” At first there is nothing. She is blank. And then she sighs and scruffs my hair. “Get up.” We settled back on the bench as a family emerges from a minivan, loud, sandy. Five minutes ago, we would have been cracking jokes about them. Now we are somber. I nod toward them. “You and I didn’t grow up like that and we’re a little messed up because of it,” I say. “It’s hard for people like us to trust each other, but I do trust you.” She watches the mother squirt lotion onto the kids. “Okay,” she says. “That’s fair. About the shitty childhoods and the trust.” I hold her hand as we watch the father try to reason with his unreasonable four-year-old son, telling him he can’t have another slushie because he won’t have any room for hot dogs at the barbecue. The kid shrieks. He doesn’t want a hot dog—he wants a slushie. The mother comes around and squats and hugs the child and says please tell Mommy what you want. The child screams slushie and the father says the mother is spoiling the child and the mother says it’s important to communicate with kids and respect their own desires. It’s like watching TV and when they disappear back into the minivan, the show is over. Amy puts her head on my shoulder. “I like you.” “You’re not pissed at me?” “No,” she says. “I’m the same way. Sometimes I can’t believe how alike we are.” I stiffen. “You’ve looked in my phone?” CandaceBenjiPeachBeckMugofUrine. She laughs. “No,” she says. “But if you would ever leave your phone, I totally would. I’m not very good at trusting people either.” I nod. “Look. I don’t wanna be that guy. But we can get better.” She squeezes my hand. “I might fuck up.” Being together is the best feeling in the world, better than sex, better than a red convertible or that first I love you. “Yeah?” I ask. “Yeah,” she says, and mimicking is a sign of love. This was a good idea, this trip. We get more slushies for the road and get back into the ’Vette. There’s been an atomic meltdown and we’re the only two people left on Earth and this is why people shouldn’t commit suicide, because maybe, someday, you might get to sit in the shade with someone who is refreshingly dif erent! I make her laugh so hard that she has slushie spilling out of the corners of her mouth. And then we drive away and find a quiet spot and I eat her out and when I finish I have her spilling out of the corner of my mouth. Your vacation is not the best vacation ever. Mine is. I earned it. She caught me sneaking around in her phone and still she spread her legs. When we get to the hotel, she gasps. “Wow.” And when we walk into the room and onto the terrace, I don’t gasp. I knew we were close, but I didn’t realize I’d be able to see it so clearly—the Salinger cottage, twinkling, lit by fireworks, full of people. People who may or may not have seen my mug. Amy nods toward the house. “Do you know those people?” “One of them,” I tell her. “They’re the Salingers.” I tell Amy about Peach’s dysfunctional friendship with Beck and her inevitable suicide. Amy wraps her arms around me and if this were a cartoon, I could stretch my rubber arm all the way across the beach, into that house, up those rickety stairs, into that bedroom, reclaim my mug of urine, and then, then I would have it all.


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