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As he handed the check to Ted, his eyes flicked downward toward the title and caught my name there. “Wait. That’s not…” He trailed off and looked up at me, confused.
I looked back, widening my eyes in alarm. “Oh my god. I thought when you said…” I covered my face with my hands. “This is why I didn’t want to do this,” I moaned.
“Is there a problem?” Ted asked.
The silence was thick and heavy, and I savored it. “No problem,” Cory finally told him.
“I’ll take care of it,” I said, looking at Cory. “I’ll do it immediately. As soon as the new title is issued, I’ll transfer the ownership over to you. You won’t have to do a thing.”
Cory nodded, his expression stiff, and I wondered if I’d reached the outer boundary of what was possible.
***
At Cory’s car, I folded myself into his arms and said, “I can’t believe I misunderstood.” I pulled back and looked into his eyes. “I swear I’ll fix it.”
I saw something flash across his face—there and then gone again. Doubt? Suspicion? But he only said, “Why don’t you take it for a drive. I’ll see you at home.”
I waited for Cory to leave before unlocking the car and inserting the key into the ignition. The engine turned over easily, nearly silent compared to the rattle of the minivan. When I reached the corner, instead of turning right toward home, I was tempted to go left. To just keep driving. But I knew it wasn’t time yet.
I’d hoped Cory would brush the mistake off. Say No big deal, the car is yours. But he hadn’t. There were limits on his generosity, and if I was going to finish things off, I’d need to stay inside of them.
***
First thing Monday, I was set up at Cory’s desk, the DMV website pulled up on his computer, my laptop open to a scanned image of a blank car registration form. I was slowly building a duplicate, making sure the font matched, making sure the text landed in the right place on the line—not too high, not too low. In my mind, I was already formulating what I’d say to Cory this evening when he got home. I left work early to get to the DMV before they opened, and there were already fifty people in line! It took three hours, but it’s done. And then I would hand him the forms, with his name as the new registered owner and my signature on the bottom. Proof I’d done what I said I’d do. Six to eight weeks for the title to come in the mail, I’d tell him. I’d be long gone by the time he realized it was never going to arrive.
I was nudging his name slightly lower in the text box when Cory’s computer pinged with an incoming message. Curious, I toggled over to his inbox, but there weren’t any new messages.
I clicked on his icon in the upper right-hand corner and found a second linked account I’d never seen before—SurfGuyLA.
There were only three pages of messages, all of them from someone named StacyB01. I clicked through until I got to the very first email exchange, then scrolled down to the bottom to read Cory’s initial email.
Hi, Stacy, Mr. Dempsey here. I hope it’s okay that I reach out to you about what happened at school today. I didn’t want to write from my school account since I wanted to be able to speak freely. Despite what was said in today’s meeting with Dr. Michaelson, I will be personally monitoring the situation from here on out. Please feel free to email me on this account any time you need to talk. I’m here, and I’m always listening.
Stacy’s response had been effusive. Thank you so much, Mr. Dempsey. It means a lot to me, and I feel so lucky to have your support. Everyone always says that you’re the best principal we’ve ever had, and I agree.
The email in and of itself wasn’t alarming, other than the fact that Cory felt the need to move it off the school server. I closed the message and opened another one from a month later.
Congratulations on your truly remarkable performance in Sound of Music, Cory had written. I remembered the play; Cory had gone to every show, claiming the principal had to be there. I’d declined, not wanting to sit through off-key renditions of “My Favorite Things” and “Do-Re-Mi.” Cory hadn’t pushed, and now I understood why. If I could have, I would have brought you roses to commemorate it, but it would have looked odd for the principal to be bringing flowers to only one cast member, no matter how talented and beautiful she is.
Stacy’s reply arrived within minutes. Thank you, Mr. Dempsey, that means a lot coming from you. I could feel your eyes on me the whole time. Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m typing that to my principal. But to me you’re more than that. You’re a friend as well.
His response was time-stamped at two in the morning, and I imagined myself, asleep in the next room as Cory corresponded with a student in the middle of the night. I’m glad you feel as I do. True friends are hard to come by in life, and I definitely count you as one.
More recent emails turned up pictures. Selfies Cory had snapped at the beach, his hair glistening from the ocean, his chest bare. And Stacy, in a bikini, lounging by a pool somewhere. Perfection, Cory had written back.
I recognized her immediately. The girl from the north quad. The one who’d stood the closest, whose hand had rested possessively on his arm, whose eyes had glittered with jealousy.
If I was looking for a sign that it was time to finish up and go, this was it.
I printed several copies of the most incriminating messages, slipping them all into a large envelope that I shoved in my purse. Then I forced myself to get back to work finishing up the car registration.
I was just printing that out when the doorbell rang. I crept from the office into the living room, glancing out the window, hoping it was a solicitor I could ignore. But it was Nate. He pounded on the door. “I know you’re there, Meg. Open up.”
I swung the door open. “Cory’s at work.”
Nate stepped past me and into the living room. “I’m here to see you.”
My eyes followed him. “Make yourself at home,” I finally said.
