“That,” she says, swallowing more alcohol. “I know you’re not a serial killer because you called your mom last night to let her know you were OK. You’re drinking because you miss your dad. You have friends who are worried about you because you ran away from some bizarre love triangle. And you’re not a guy who likes to talk about his feelings, so you were very mean to them when they wanted answers.” She lets out a long breath. “Serial killers are loners. And Dexter doesn’t count, he’s fake. So you’re not a serial killer, just a very attractive jerk who wants to be left alone so you can deal with your relationship issues in private.”
“Hmmm. Well, I guess you nailed it. Now it’s my turn.” She gives me a sideways glance that says bring it, so I don’t hold back. “You’re running from something, too. Maybe someone, but not the guy who gave you that ring. You love him, even if it is over, because you have it stamped on a dog tag. And maybe some people think a dog tag is just a cool piece of industrialized jewelry, but a woman who calls herself a Marine wife doesn’t. She takes that shit to heart. So you’re still in love with him, you might even want to see him again.” She looks up at this and I smile. “That right there just confirmed it. But you can use some attention right now, so you’re into the one-night stand while I’m around.”
She stares at her feet.
“How’d I do?”
“Close.”
“Which part did I get wrong?”
“You got enough right that I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” And then she gets up and smiles a very polite and very fake smile. “Thanks for the drink. I’m super tired, so I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then she walks away.
“Ashleigh.” I laugh out her name a little. “Come back here.” She shakes her head and treks up the stairs. “Ashleigh!”
But she’s serious. She never looks back or slows her retreat.
I hit her button and she is done.
Nice going, Ford. You’re a real f**king people person.
Chapter Fourteen
When I was a kid I knew I was a genius. No one had to tell me, and maybe that sounds… what? Egotistical? Conceited? Boastful? Arrogant? Prideful? And if I extrapolate out a little bit, it probably borders on selfish and indifferent as well. But it is what it is. I’m f**king smart. I’m way beyond f**king smart. I’m an intellectual anomaly.
And this did make me a little bit of a brat as a child. For one, I figured since I was so smart, I was a superhero and my superpower was mind-reading. Because that’s kinda what I thought my dad did. Before he knew the full extent of my intellect, he talked to me like any other kid. So when I asked him what he did for a living, he said he figured out what people are thinking. And to me that translated into mind-reading.
From that second on, because I was just as smart as my dad and I wanted to be like him, I decided my superpower was mind-reading.
My mind-reading faux pas with Ashleigh and her internal motivations for being where she is right now is something I do often. Most of the time I get the same result from my efforts, so I tend to ignore my superpower. But she started it. She dug into my mind, and she was cheating as far as I’m concerned. She heard my phone calls. Anyone could figure that stuff out from those telling phone calls. So she got what she asked for.
But let’s face it. I’m not your average guy. I’ve been to dozens of doctors over the years. More when I was small than when I got older, since I didn’t yet realize that admitting to what I could do and the issues I faced would lead to more doctors. But none of the doctors who examined me were very interested in helping me. No, they were only interested in understanding me. And they always asked the same question first. How did I learn Russian?
I have always said I didn’t know, it just came out. And that’s true, because I didn’t understand my photographic memory until I was a teen and I wanted to pass tests without studying. That’s when I realized that everything I’ve ever read and heard was imprinted on my brain. Almost catalogued in there like a library with a reference number that could bring it back to me if I ever needed it.
It’s like my brain is a museum and my consciousness is the curator of everything I’ve ever experienced. So if I were asked the Russian question again today, and I felt like telling the truth, I’d say, I heard Mikhail Gorbachev giving a speech on TV. I watched it for about ten minutes and that was it. I decided I’d like to speak Russian.
How? That would be their next question. They never got this far with me because I never admitted to learning Russian from the TV. If I had, I could tell them why it happened—that was the speech. But I wouldn’t be able to tell them how it happened. I don’t understand what I am, I just deal with it. And I do that by turning it off ninety-nine percent of the time. So most of my life is spent trying to be something I’m not.
The real me is filled with curiosity. I want to know everything. I want to understand everything. It pisses me off that there are things in this physical world that are unknowable. Just plain pisses me off.
So I have to turn me off. I have to be something else. I am forced to exist in a state of half-truths.
I try to not over-analyze things. I try to accept the things people say and not question them. I try not to assign motivations to actions and then make predictions.
But I’m not very good at being normal. For one, I typically just say what’s on my mind. Like all that stuff I said to Rook.