The Passenger by Lisa Lutz

She’s not you. Don’t be offended by that. I couldn’t be with anyone who reminded me of you because I’m already reminded of you more than I can manage.
    Here’s all that matters: She’s sweet and kind and I feel like I can trust her. And she seems to be able to live with the fact that I’m a bit of a shell. When she sees my mind wandering, she doesn’t ask me what I’m thinking. I’ve found that’s the single most important trait I could ask for in a woman.
    There, I told you.
    I’m starting to wonder about continuing this thing we have. Isn’t it time we played the cards we were dealt?
    Yours,
    R
    April 29, 2010
    To: Ryan
    From: Jo
    Fuck. Well, congratulations. I’ve just celebrated with five shots of bourbon. Whenever I need to drink myself into oblivion, I’m always kinda grateful that I married a barkeep.
    Your wife sounds perfect. So, Carnac the Magnificent, here are some very basic questions of mine that you failed to answer. What is the name of your betrothed? And, do you love her? But I have so many more questions than that. What gives you the right to get married, to try to be happy, after what you’ve done? Shouldn’t there be a penance of some kind? Three people died that day, not two. My only consolation, the thing that eases my envy—that word seems so small for what this is. The only thing that gives me comfort is knowing that you’re not you. That She, whatever her name is, will never know you like I did, the old you, the you that was kind and sweet and had a bigger heart than anyone I ever knew. I used to think you were better than everyone. Now I could pick a dozen souls out on the street that surely surpass you in integrity.
    Yes, I’m being cruel. But every day you don’t tell the truth, you are being even crueler.
    Jo
    June 20, 2010
    To: Jo
    From: Ryan
    I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I did what I had to, but I’m still sorry. I will be sorry every day for the rest of my days. I gave up living for six years because of you. It’s a long life. Don’t we all deserve just a bit of comfort? To answer your question, yes, I love her. It’s a different kind of love. If she broke my heart, I’d stay the same. Do you know what I mean? Not like the last time.
    R
    July 2, 2010
    To: Ryan
    From: Jo
    I didn’t break your heart. You broke mine. Now twice.
    Good luck with your life. I wish you the best. I really do. I think maybe I’ll leave you alone for a while. You’re right, it is a long life and this is not how I want to live it.
    Good-bye.
    Jo

Debra Maze

Chapter 8
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    I T was only as I sailed out of Austin in that gas-guzzling American classic that more doubts and questions compounded in my brain. Looking at my reflection in the rearview mirror, I still wondered whether a new life was possible. Could I really pull off being Ms. Debra Maze? Or was this just some long con that Blue had figured from the moment she laid eyes on my foolish soul at May’s Well?
    The Cadillac handled like a boat on the calm seas. After a few hours of sailing away from that sorry mess of Tanya Dubois and Amelia Keen, my memory of other failed attempts to start anew faded just enough for my sense of hope to come back to life. I gazed at myself once again and tried to believe it was possible. I was going to be whoever the hell I wanted to be.
    Before I departed, when my brain was still a jumbled mess of suspicion and fear, Blue gave me the lowdown on acquiring a teaching position with her credentials.
    â€œBy the way,” she said all casually, “if you get a job, they’re going to want your fingerprints.”
    â€œI can’t be fingerprinted, Blue. You know that,” I said.
    â€œBut my prints are still clean,” she said, sliding an official-looking card out of an envelope.
    Black fingerprints, swirls in various forms, dotted the cards.
    â€œI’ve done some preliminary