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I give her my accountant’s number. There won’t be any issues.
“Sorry,” she says embarrassingly. “It’s just a lot of money…”
It’s chump change.
“It’s nothing.”
“To the kids it’s something,” she tells me, but she’s mostly wrong. Kids don’t care about that. Not yet. They do, however, care if they have food.
“Do you send thank you notes or whatever they call them these days…?”
She places me on hold so she can ask.
When she comes back on the line, I give her my home address. Not the apartment where I reside. That isn’t home. Home is where the heart is. And my heart isn’t there.
“Address it to Emily Parker please.”
“No problem,” she agrees before thanking me for the umpteenth time. I end the call and hit the button that will connect me with line two. Now that I’ve done my good deed for the day, I can get on with the rest of it.
Destroying people’s lives.
Even though I meant to head out early, I’m forced to sit through three meetings and two conference calls before I can call it a day. This is why I prefer the lab. After I leave the office, there’s a part of me that wants to pop in, just to check on things, but I’m exhausted from the day, not to mention last night, and so I make the firm decision to stay in. No apps, no random women, just me and enough space to think.
Back in my apartment, I pick up the few items the cleaning lady couldn’t place, which doesn’t take long because I don’t have many belongings. This isn’t an accident. I purchased this apartment for her. It’s exactly the type of place she would like. Concrete countertops, exposed beams, new but made to look old. And the view—the view is really something.
She hasn’t seen it yet, obviously. But it’s just a matter of time. I wanted to wait to decorate; she was always really good at that. Still is, according to Instalook.
After I’ve finished making sure everything is in its place, I return to my laptop on my small dining room table and open my email. I manage to kill an hour refreshing my browser and surfing the net.
My stomach growls and then seizes, and I remember I haven’t eaten. I skipped lunch, and breakfast was hours ago.
It’s farcical. What kind of person forgets to eat? Perhaps I should set a reminder for this too. Who cares, really? All the order in the world won’t save you from something terrible happening—from those you love disappearing, from the wrong gene turning on, from your body turning against you. I see that enough in my work.
I text my assistant. Maybe she wants to grab dinner.
When she texts back right away, I’m relieved.
Less so when I read the response. She’s committed to something else. I shouldn’t be surprised. But that doesn’t stop me. She doesn’t ask if I want to tag along the way she might’ve once. I suppose I screwed that up too.
It’s fine. I’ll go down to the restaurant and grab dinner. Eventually. There’s no way I’m setting foot down there at this hour. It’s too early still. The dating crowd—and worse, families—occupy the place, and a reminder is the last thing I need.
A quick search online offers several takeout options, but nothing as appealing as what they serve downstairs. An hour is all I have to kill. I’ll manage. Patience is my forte.
I walk out onto the patio. Sit there for a bit before giving up and pacing the apartment. I clean my gun. I rifle through the fridge. Finally, when I can’t help myself anymore, when I’ve run out of things to distract me, I do what an addict inevitably does, I give in.
I pull up Instalook. I know I shouldn’t. This doesn’t mean I can help myself. I type her name. The words alone are like a knife to the heart, and I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet. I know I should quit while I’m ahead. Walk away, I tell myself. Do anything else. Take a cold shower. Leave the apartment, scrub the already-clean shower. But I can’t. Not until I’m satisfied. Not until it hurts.
I press the return key. It never leads anywhere good, and yet there’s a driving force propelling me forward anyway. Instantly, like salve to a burn, I feel relief when the screen loads and Emily’s smiling face is staring back at me. I click on her profile picture to enlarge it. I remember the day it was taken. If only you could get days like that back.
I check the time. See you soon, I almost write it in the comments. But that would be stupid. Sleep deprivation is surely to blame. I could say a million things. I could ask her why I’ve been banished to the past. I could tell her I miss her.
Sometimes you just want someone else to know.
Before I do something reckless, I click over to my mother-in-law’s profile. She’s not as tech savvy as my wife. She isn’t as good at blocking me. What I find, hits me like a knee to the groin. It’s there nonetheless, both expected and unexpected, and once I’ve seen it there’s no going back.
My fingers have a mind of their own and before I can stop myself, I click on her face, her tiny face. She’s beautiful, like her mother. She’s changed a little since last week. I’m probably the only one who noticed. It’s hard to get that kind of perspective when you’re so close to the subject.
The caption below her smile reads: Look who learned to swim.
