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I can’t dwell on that now. Everything is coming together. I have to get up, pull myself together, and make plans, given this new information. Pain radiates through my body, which doesn’t help with the rest of it. The bruises may be beginning to fade, but the pain lingers. All wrongs can be righted.
My mother has left a bottle of aspirin on my nightstand. I consider it for a second, but only a second. I hate taking drugs for anything I know my body can do on its own, because what they don’t tell you is the reliance on any substance chemically lessens the chance your body will ever do naturally what it’s meant to do. Fortunately, for me, and for the pharmaceutical industry, everyone has their weaknesses.
On that note, I pull up Emily’s feed. She hasn’t posted since yesterday, and even then it was only scenery, unfortunately. She likes to post inspirational quotes, as if people can’t find the meaning in their life on their own, as though if some random person says just the right thing, it might change everything—suddenly they’ll be motivated to get off an app and actually do something with their life. This…this charlatan, whoever she is, is nothing like the Emily I knew. Further proof that she’s unhappy with her decision: she’s drowning, and instead of trying to save herself, she’s trying to save the whole internet.
She’s projecting because she’s too prideful to say she made a mistake, so she cries out with desperation disguised as inspiration. She’s not speaking to her followers. She’s speaking to herself. She wants someone to see her, to save her. Help her. I can be that person.
All it takes is seventeen minutes to do a quick analysis of her most recent posts, and I get the full picture. She’s desperate—she’s grasping, and she’s most often active in the morning. I refresh the page, just in case. I don’t want to miss anything. Everything is a clue, a map to how to win her back.
When there’s still nothing, not after checking my email, not after refreshing the page seven times, I head for the shower. That’s where I get my best ideas. Christmas is coming, and I refuse to spend Christmas without my family. No matter what it takes.
But I can’t worry too much over the future. Not yet. I have to be on today. A major contract is on the line, and it’s one I prefer not to lose. If that were to happen, my plan would require some major reworking, and I’ve already let enough slip through my fingers. I’m not letting this go too.
I’m grabbing coffee when the idea comes out of nowhere. In fact, I’m mid-pour, my cup just about full, when an intern from downstairs corners me in the break room, toggling the idea loose in my mind.
“Hey,” she half-giggles as she tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear.
I think her name is Claire or maybe it’s Courtney…I can’t recall, and anyway I’m too focused on my idea to care about being polite, so I simply nod. I do, however, make sure to speed up my coffee-making process. I’ll take it black if I have to. It’s not her fault. I hate redheads.
Claire or Courtney clears her throat. “I said, hey.”
Fine, I’ll bite. “Hay is for horses,” I say, because I don’t know what kind of business the prostitute is running, but apparently not a very good one. She didn’t leave any contact information, and if I leave things up to fate, I may never have sex again.
Her face falls. She recovers with her words. “What about jackasses?”
I move toward the exit, but not for the reason she thinks. I’m not actually insulted. I’ve been called worse. Claire or Courtney is the kind of woman who needs a bit of the chase. The overbearing type—the wannabe caretaker, the micromanager—the kind who leaves things in your apartment after the second date and wants to lock you down by the third.
She shifts, boxing me in, which is irritating because she should be able to tell I’m avoiding her without me having to spell it out. “I—I was wondering…I had the Jensen report sent over, and I’m having trouble making sense of the data. Do you think you could take a look at it with me? Another set of eyes might help…”
“It’s not conclusive?”
“That’s the thing.” She shakes her head. “I can’t tell.”
“I’m sure Rogers or Chapman would be happy to have a look.”
Her eyes shift. “I’m asking you.”
I shove my hands in my pockets. “I’ve got a full plate.”
“I could bring it over to your place after work, if you want.”
“I have plans,” I say. “At the lab.” I want to be clear. You never know, she’s the kind liable to show up whenever, wherever.
“I hear you’re working on something new,” she mentions, her voice hopeful.
I sip my too-hot coffee, burning my lip.
“What is it?”
“Nothing yet,” I reply, blowing at the coffee. “Just something I’m toying with. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
“Elliot…you don’t have to avoid me.”
“It’s not personal.”
“Fine.” She looks like she might cry. I don’t understand. We only slept together once, and she didn’t even seem that into it. “But you don’t have to be such a jerk.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, even though I’m not. Her emotions are a reflection of the way she sees the world. I refuse to let her pin them on me. I don’t understand why women always want what they can’t have.
