This has happened before, once or twice. A woman will regret hiring me, and because I go radio silent between payment reminders—to prevent situations like this—they panic. One time, when I was first getting started and therefore less skilled at vetting clients, a congressman’s ex-wife had an existential crisis on a girls’ trip and rerouted her return flight to his house. She hadn’t told him that I was an industry plant, but still. It had been a close, shitty call.
This?
Feels worse.
“Have you talked to her?” I whisper.
“She called when she landed, but no.”
“Did she say what she wants?”
“She said she wanted coffee. With the both of us.” Mei clicks her pen shut. “What’s going on?”
I feel that pen-click in my bones. “I have no clue. Here—I’ll go.”
Yes, kind and generous me. Definitely not staving off this disasterfor another five seconds. Mei nods curtly, and then I’m up, trying to get my stories straight in my head during the short walk to Imogen. Imogen hired me. Mei doesn’t know that. Imogen referred me. Mei does know this. I’m dating Bernard. Neither of them know that, technically, though Imogen would have a hunch.
“Imogen?”
Her long blonde ponytail swishes as she turns. “Cat. Hi!”
It’s Ariana Grande, circa 2018. I’m so fucked. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh.” Her nose scrunches. Clearly, she hadn’t expected me to be irritated with her. “I had… tickets.”
“To the race?”
She nods, sex-kitten ponytail bouncing. “Is that okay?”
“And you calledMei?”
“Well, we used to always get coffee before—”
“Imogen.” I school my frustration as best I can. “This is really, really bad.”
My honesty must take her by surprise, as well. Her blue eyes go glassy in a snap, her chin wobbling. “I know. I’m so sorry. He—he called me.”
He. Bernard. Without so much as a glance behind me, I gesture toward the door. For a second, Imogen waffles, as if she actually flew from New York to Japan during ballet season to buy a cherry blossom latte. Then she goes, and I follow her to the sidewalk, leading us to a more secluded alley between buildings.
When there isn’t any chance Mei might sneak up on us, I inhale for five calming seconds. “First, this isn’t okay. This is not part of our arrangement, and this puts me and you at risk.” I don’t add that I’ll need to reconsider staying on to finish the job. She’s already almost crying, her nose going splotchy. That can be a conversationfor later. Also, that our agreement had been for her to pay me in full if she was the one to ruin the job. That can be later, too. “Second, what did he say?”
“He asked for the ring back. And I didn’t know what to do, because I know he’s seeing you now. I mean, I think he is, he hasn’t posted anything online, so I wasn’tsure. But he said that he didn’t trust the mail and since I had tickets already, I could just come here and…” She stops to catch her breath. “And give it back to him in person. I’m sorry. I thought I should, and then on the plane I was just so—I don’t miss him.”
“Okay.”
“But… I’m so angry.”
Her tears spill over. Instantly, I’m pulling a tissue packet out of my bag, on hand for moments just like this. “Yeah?” I say softly.
“I designed the ring,” she whispers. “I picked out the stone, and the look, everything. It isn’t even like it’s his grandmother’s diamond or something. It’s from Canada.”
This fucking guy. Like he needs to pawn it to afford rent. “Imogen, I’m so sorry. He did that to hurt you.”
“I know. I know! And I’m still here.”
Getting hurt. I wish she would’ve messaged me, though I don’t know what I would’ve said. Normal Cat would’ve asked for her to ignore it and let me handle things. So then she would’ve been in the city, with this ring, still feeling the pain Bernard knew just how to cause. Because itissomething to watch a man walk away and know that there are twenty spots on the Formula 1 grid and one of those athletes thinks about you. Wants you. They can drive two hundred miles per hour, with the whole world watching, and you get them. Their mind. Their body. This excitement, inaccessible to billions.
I’d been sad to miss three races and a man I’ve kissed three-ishtimes. Imogen was excommunicated from this world through no fault of her own.
