Page 68 of Jonesing for a Spy

“Yeah, tell me that tomorrow when you have bruised knuckles.”

I wrap an arm around his waist quickly. “You’re my favorite oldest brother, you know that?”

Strider

National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation is a classic, but it just hits different when I watch it by myself. And I don’t mean as background noise while doing something else. Bailing on the sofa, warm popcorn next to me, it’s… blah.

It’s more like I’m blah. But I’m not bummed or sad or anything. I simply know, for the first time in a long time, that I’m not where I want to be or doing what I want to. The thought irks me.

Enough already. I set the popcorn aside, grab my laptop and book The Hermitage Hotel in Nashville for Saturday, checking out Sunday. I book a flight for myself and begin on Mirren’s reservation only to realize I don’t know what I need to book her ticket.

Need your date of birth and any TSA number you might have.

Mirren

That escalated quickly.

Despite her response, she sends both over.

Probably shouldn’t just pass out that info to a stranger over the phone, you know. I could be opening a credit card in your name or something.

I flip back to the app, book an early flight from Mobile to Nashville for my girl and smile like the cat who ate the cream.

One, are you? And two, you’ll be sadly disappointed.

I’d never be disappointed in you. Your flight’s early Saturday morning. Ticket coming through. I’ll be waiting for you.

Bossy.

You like me bossy.

Yes, I do.

Flights and hotel booked, I hesitate before doing what I should’ve done months ago. I research Price O’Neill.

Don’t get me wrong, HR checked his references, but why does Dad feel something was off? And why didn’t my gut do the same thing? I’m usually a great judge of character. Have I been checked out longer than I even know?

Everything’s here. His LinkedIn profile mirrors exactly what his resume did. His social media profiles have a history of age-appropriate photos going back a long way. Nothing sends up any red flags.

The local police blotter shows his name, mugshot, yesterday’s date, and charges—aggravated assault and felony battery.

Aggravated assault and felony battery.

I reach for my throat before I can stop myself.

Apparently, they dropped the attempted murder language Bryan discussed earlier with me, but I don’t think felony battery is a win for either of us.

Enough.

It’s time to live the life I want. Studying O’Neill’s mugshot won’t undo yesterday. It won’t undo theft or unethical practices. It won’t fix our HR mistakes or my oversight. I can do better in the future, but I won’t spend time in the rearview while I’m trying to move forward.

I reheat a plate of leftovers from yesterday’s potluck, avoiding all the things that I ate to be polite. I have a glass of wine and a great meal I didn’t have to cook or clean standing at my kitchen counter.

This is not at all the Thanksgiving I expected, but it’s hard to complain, nonetheless. I’m alive. My body isn’t attacking my blood. My family is good. And, I have a gorgeous woman I’m making a go with.

What could go wrong?

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