Chapter One. Daniel
Maya Brooks invented her fiancé on a Tuesday at 6:14 p.m., while holding a carton of eggs. It was not planned.
She had plans for most things. At the small publishing house where she managed production schedules, people sent her manuscripts called FINAL_v7 and expected her to know which one was actually final. Her calendar separated work appointments from personal appointments by colour; her notes app contained the birthdays of people she liked enough to remember. Every three months, a reminder appeared that said CALL DENTIST, and every three months she dismissed it without calling the dentist.
Inventing a man had never appeared on any list. Her mother was responsible. Not entirely. Maya was thirty-two and therefore legally capable of hanging up a phone. She knew this. She simply had not developed the skill.
“Maya, are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“What did I just say?”
“Something about Kevin.”
There was a pause. Her mother had a particular kind of pause. It did not indicate silence. It indicated administrative disappointment.
“Kevin is a dentist.”
“I know.”
“He owns his practice.”
“You’ve mentioned it.”
“He has parking.”
This was new. Maya put the eggs into her basket.
“Mom, I don’t usually choose men based on parking.”
“You say that because you live in the city.”
“I say that because I’m not buying an apartment.”
“Marriage is more expensive than an apartment.”
A woman beside Maya reached for a carton of free-range eggs and looked at her. Maya moved away. Her mother continued.
“He’s coming to Sophie’s wedding.”
Of course he was. Kevin had been hovering at the edge of Maya’s life for four months without having technically entered it. She knew he was thirty-six, divorced, allergic to shellfish, owned two dental practices and had, according to Linda Brooks, “beautiful hands.” Maya did not know why her mother knew this.
She had decided not to ask.
“Why is Kevin coming to Sophie’s wedding?”
“His mother knows Aunt Rebecca.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It answers it perfectly.”
Maya put tomatoes into the basket. She disliked tomatoes. She took them out again. Her mother said, “I’ve seated him next to you.” There it was. Maya stopped between vegetables and dairy.
“No.”
“What?”
“No.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“That’s exactly the point.”
“You’ll be sitting with family.”
“Then why is Kevin there?”
“He’s practically family.”
“He’s a dentist you’ve been advertising since April.”
“Advertising makes him sound like a sofa.”
“You told me he has lumbar support.”
“I said he has good posture.”
A teenager pushing a trolley looked at Maya, then quickly looked away. Maya lowered her voice.
“Mom. Please don’t do this.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You seated a stranger next to me at my sister’s wedding.”
“He’s not a stranger. I know his mother.”
“That sentence is how documentaries start.”
“Maya.”
“No Kevin.”
Another pause. This one meant the appeal had moved to a higher court. Linda said, very calmly, “I just don’t want you to feel alone.” There were sentences that could be fought. That one was not among them. Maya closed her eyes.
“I don’t feel alone.”
“You work all the time.”
“I work normal hours.”
“You ate cereal for dinner last Thursday.”
Maya opened her eyes.
“How do you know that?”
“You sent me a picture.”
“Why did I send you a picture of my cereal?”
“You said the bowl looked like Grandpa.”
Maya remembered. It had. The crack near the rim had formed a remarkably accurate moustache.
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves you were home alone taking photographs of cereal.”
“That’s a hobby.”
“Maya.”
She knew what came next. Sophie had warned her. Their mother had recently entered a phase in which every normal detail of Maya’s existence became evidence in an ongoing investigation titled Why Are You Still Single? Maya went to restaurants alone because she was lonely. She travelled alone because she was lonely.
She owned a large bed because she was optimistic, which was somehow worse. The fact that she was quite happy had never been admitted into evidence.
“Mom, I’m fine.”
“I know you’re fine.”
“Good.”
“I just think—”
“I’m bringing someone.”
The words came out before Maya had approved them. She froze. Her mother froze. Somewhere in the supermarket, a child began screaming. It seemed appropriate.
“What?”
The cheese offered no assistance.
“I said I’m bringing someone.”
She could still fix this. She could say a friend. She could say a colleague. She could say she had misspoken because she was distracted by dairy products. Instead, her mother said, very softly:
“A man?”
Maya hated that question. Not because of its implications. Because of how delighted Linda sounded.
“Yes.”
The scream in aisle five intensified.
“What man?”
“A man I’m seeing.”
The lie had now acquired organs. Linda gasped. Actually gasped. Maya looked around to make sure no one she knew was nearby. She knew no one in this supermarket. That did not help.
“You’re seeing someone?”
“It’s recent.”
“How recent?”
Too recent.
“He’s private.”
“What does that mean?”
“He values privacy.”
“What’s his name?”
This was the moment. Later, Maya would look back on this exact question and identify it as the final available exit. She could have said she did not want to discuss him. She could have laughed. She could have admitted that she had invented a relationship because Kevin the Dentist had become psychologically exhausting.
Instead, she looked toward the supermarket entrance. A delivery driver was walking through the automatic doors carrying three cardboard boxes. His jacket had a rectangular badge clipped to it.
DANIEL.
Maya said, “Daniel.” The driver kept walking. Her mother inhaled.
“Daniel.”
“Yes.”
“What does he do?”
Maya stared at Daniel the delivery driver as he disappeared behind Customer Service.
“No.”
“What?”
“We’re not doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“The interview.”
“I asked one question.”
“You asked his name, occupation is already question two, and in thirty seconds you’ll want his blood type.”
“I do not care about his blood type.”
“You asked Kevin’s mother.”
“He was donating blood.”
“That makes it worse.”
Linda ignored this.
“So what does Daniel do?”
“Finance.”
Why finance? Maya did not know. Perhaps because it was broad. Perhaps because no one had ever asked a follow-up question about finance and received an interesting answer. Her mother said, “Banking?” Oh no.
“Not exactly.”
“Investments?”
“Something like that.”
“What company?”
“Mom.”
“I’m making conversation.”
“You are collecting evidence.”
“Does Sophie know?”
“No.”
“Why doesn’t Sophie know?”
Because Sophie was a functioning adult who could detect a lie from six miles away.
“It hasn’t come up.”
“You talk every day.”
“We talk about other things.”
“You’re her maid of honor.”
“I’m aware.”
“You didn’t tell your sister you’re seeing someone?”
Maya put yogurt into her basket. She did not need yogurt. At this stage, yogurt felt safer than answering.
“It’s new.”
“How new?”
There it was again.
“New enough that I didn’t want everyone making a big deal about it.”
Her mother became silent. Maya immediately understood her mistake.
“Mom.”
“I’m not making a big deal.”
“You’re making a big deal quietly.”
“I’m standing in the kitchen.”
“That has never stopped you.”
“I won’t say anything.”
Maya stopped walking. This was perhaps the least credible statement Linda Brooks had made since claiming she could assemble an IKEA cabinet “by intuition.”
“Mom.”
“I mean it.”
“Do not tell Sophie.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not tell Aunt Rebecca.”
“I barely speak to Rebecca.”
“You spoke to her for forty-three minutes yesterday.”
“She called me.”
“Do not tell Grandma.”
“I’m not going to tell Grandma.”
“Do not change the seating plan.”
A beat.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“You were about to change the seating plan.”
“I was thinking.”
“Don’t.”
“Fine.”
“Daniel may not even come.”
Silence. This was worse.
“Why?”
“He’s busy.”
“On Saturday?”
“Finance happens on Saturdays.”
Maya wanted to put her head inside the refrigerated display case.
“You just said he was coming.”
“I said I’m bringing someone.”
“That generally means the person comes.”
“He’s trying.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he has work.”
“Can’t he take a day off?”
“Apparently the global economy is fragile.”
Someone laughed behind Maya. She turned. The delivery driver was there again, now pushing an empty trolley toward the entrance. Daniel. He was maybe twenty-five, with dark hair and a fluorescent jacket. He gave her a polite nod. Maya turned away so quickly she nearly walked into a pyramid of apples. Her mother said, “Put him on.”
“What?”
“Daniel. Let me say hello.”
“He’s not here.”
“You said you’re bringing him.”
“To the wedding. Not the supermarket.”
“You’re at the supermarket?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, Mom. Daniel does not accompany me to buy yogurt.”
“Kevin likes Greek yogurt.”
“Goodbye.”
“Wait.”
“No.”
“What hotel is Daniel staying at?”
Maya did not answer.
“Maya?”
“I have frozen food.”
“You don’t.”
“How do you know?”
“You said you were buying yogurt.”
“Yogurt can freeze.”
“Not voluntarily.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too. Send me a photo.”
The call ended. Maya remained in the dairy aisle. A man reached around her for butter.
“Sorry.”
She moved. Then her phone vibrated.
MOM:
What does Daniel eat?
Another message.
MOM:
Any allergies?
And another.
MOM:
I promise I’m not making a big deal.
Maya placed her phone face down in the basket. It landed on the eggs. She picked it up again. She had thirty-six hours before she drove to the wedding hotel. Thirty-six hours was enough time for any reasonable adult to undo one stupid sentence. She would call her mother from home. She would say Daniel had to cancel. Work emergency.
Family emergency. Food poisoning. She would not kill him. A death would require follow-up. Food poisoning was good. Temporary. Private. Unphotogenic. By the time she reached the checkout, Maya had already improved the story. Daniel had an important Friday meeting in Frankfurt.
He would try to fly back Saturday morning. There was a possibility he might miss the ceremony. Unfortunate, but believable. She hated how believable it was becoming. The cashier scanned the eggs.
“Bag?”
“Yes, please.”
Her phone vibrated again. This time it was Sophie. Maya hesitated before opening it.
SOPHIE:
WHO THE HELL IS DANIEL
Maya closed her eyes. Behind her, someone cleared his throat. The delivery driver. Daniel. He was buying a bottle of water and a packet of crisps. Maya looked at his badge. At her phone. Then back at the badge. He noticed.
“Everything okay?”
Maya considered the question.
“No.”
He nodded once.
“Fair enough.”
The cashier handed Maya her receipt. She took it. Her phone vibrated again.
SOPHIE:
Mom says he works in finance???
Another.
SOPHIE:
Mom says you’re SERIOUS.
Another.
SOPHIE:
MAYA
Maya typed while walking toward the doors. It’s not serious. Three dots appeared immediately.
SOPHIE:
She moved Kevin.
What?
SOPHIE:
From table 6.
Maya stared at the message.
SOPHIE:
Daniel is now sitting between you and Grandma.
Maya slowly turned toward the supermarket. The real Daniel was still at the checkout. For one completely irrational second, she considered going back and asking if he was free on Saturday. Sanity returned.
Barely. She typed: Tell Mom to put Kevin back. Sophie replied: Can’t. Why? Three dots. Then: She gave Daniel a place card. Maya stood outside the supermarket with a bag of groceries in one hand. Rain had started. Her eggs were somewhere at the bottom. She looked up at the gray sky. Thirty-six hours.
She could fix this. Of course she could. She was an adult. A competent one. Behind her, the automatic doors opened. The delivery driver walked past.
“Good luck,” he said.
“With what?”
He shrugged.
“Whatever the hell Daniel did.”
Then he pulled up his hood and walked away. Maya watched him go. Her phone vibrated one more time.
MOM:
How does he spell his surname?
Maya stared at the screen. She had not thought that far. Not remotely. She typed: I’ll ask him. She stood in the rain for several seconds, holding a bag of yogurt she had never wanted, and understood that Daniel had just become significantly harder to kill.
