Hasty

by Julia Kent

  This one, at least, has my contacts. I was able to hand-type all the basics in a too-short window of toe-tapping impatience from some law enforcement officer who treated me like a criminal.

  Migrating everything over wasn’t allowed, though. Someone like me, who’s worked in the finance industry for years, relies on a wide circle of acquaintances. I had thousands of contacts in my phone. Have you ever tried to manually move an entire database over, one tap at a time?

  I had to prioritize.

  I was also naïve. Painfully unaware of how fast I was in free-fall.

  I assumed people would call me and I’d be able to capture their information. Do you know who, among my thousands of contacts, actually called me? Guess.

  That's right.

  One person.

  His name starts with an I. His whole world starts with an I.

  Self-centered Ian McCrory.

  Tap tap tap

  “Hastings, it’s Dad.”

  “Who else would it be?” I muttered to myself. “Come in!”

  He’s standing there with a mug of hot coffee. “Made it with almond milk. Here,” he says.

  “How’d you know I was up?”

  “Lucky guess. We got rid of that reporter.” He eyes me uncertainly. “Third time that's happened, but first time since you got home. It was nonstop back in San Francisco, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Bzzzzzzz

  My phone rings. We both ignore it.

  “I knew that you were being pursued by the media, but I didn’t realize it would be like this.”

  “The worst of it’s over, Dad. That guy’s just a bottom feeder.”

  “They all are, honey.”

  Ring

  We both look at my phone. I grab it. It’s Ian. I hit Decline on the screen.

  “Who’s that?”

  “No one.”

  Dad backs away. “When you’re ready, there’s more coffee downstairs. I think your mom’s making breakfast.”

  “I don’t want breakfast. No one has to do anything fancy. I’m still just—”

  “You’ve got jet lag, honey.”

  “I’m pretty sure I have life lag, Dad.”

  We share a smile. I’ve forgotten how good this feels. How good it feels to just talk to him. To wake up in the morning and have someone bring me a cup of coffee. To be asked about myself.

  How am I? The question is a recognition that I'm important. That I exist.

  That I matter.

  Most of my interactions in San Francisco are transactions, not an exchange of caring or compassion. We connect in order to use.

  Not to matter.

  Ring

  Dad’s hand is on the doorknob, ready to leave, when he looks at my phone and says, “Whoever’s calling is persistent.”

  “Just an old colleague.”

  “Is it a job offer? Because you know you don’t have to worry. You’re fine here, honey. We’re taking care of everything you need.”

  “Dad, stop.”

  “Okay. I just want you to know, you need to recover, and this isn’t about going out and making money—”

  “Dad.”

  Ring

  He backs out of the room without another word. The door makes a clicking sound that triggers shivering in me. I rotted in a jail cell just about a month ago.

  Suddenly, my childhood bedroom doesn’t look so bad.

  Ian’s going to keep calling me, but I’m done with him.

  Beep beep beep

  The garbage truck outside maneuvers itself yet again. I sit up in frustration. Might as well go downstairs.

  Cup of coffee in hand, I walk down to find Mom making eggs with fresh herbs. It looks like she’s assembling some kind of omelet, with shredded cheese and various fresh veggies. Watermelon chunks are in a bowl on the table, with feta and what I imagine is crushed mint on top.

  “Morning, honey! Before Dad and I go off to work, I thought we could start with a really nice breakfast.”

  “I don’t eat breakfast.”

  “Then you can just sit with us at the table and watch as we do.”

  Ring

  I put my phone in my pocket as I was leaving my bedroom. I ignore it now. In fact, I take it out of my pocket and turn it off completely, smacking it down on the counter a little too hard.

  “Did you ever find out who’s funding all of these lawyers and consultants?” Mom asks, eyes cutting over to Dad. It’s clear what they talked about last night.

  “No.” The lie slips out easily.

  “Honey.” Mom leans forward, eyes filled with concern. She touches my hand. “Whoever is calling and texting you, if they’re a nuisance, you can block them. Or we can do something legal if we have to, to get them to stop.”

  “It’s not that, Mom.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s… this business colleague from back in San Francisco.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “His name, Mom.” I sigh. “His name is Ian McCrory.”

  Dad sits straight up in his chair. “Ian McCrory? The Ian McCrory?”

  “You’ve heard of him,” I say, my voice filled with sarcasm.

  “Of course, I’ve heard of Ian McCrory. Who hasn’t? Forbes, GQ… and his predictions on trade policy and how it affects insurance are just stellar. You know him?”

  “I beat him,” I tell them.

  Dad’s eyes light up with pride. “Beat him? In a deal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which deal?”

  “The Zhangwa deal.”

  “I'm confused. I read that McCrory just closed that deal last week.”

  “Yeah. After I closed it, the night I was arrested.”

  “Oh, honey!” Mom says, spearing a piece of watermelon and popping it into her mouth.

  “Tell us the whole story, hon,” Dad asks.

  “I spent the better part of six years putting together a sequence of events that led to a nine-figure deal with Chinese investors. Zhangwa is a Chinese telecom company, and they needed port access, and warehouse and office space, for some climate change products and services. I used hundreds of contacts. Working those led to a network of small deals that I put together to make the big deal happen. Zhangwa was shopping this around for that whole time, and no one else could pull it off. But I did!”

  “Aren't there regulatory issues that would stop a Chinese firm from–”

  I cut him off. “That's Ian McCrory's forte.”

  “Sounds like the two of you would be a killer combo if you ever worked together.”

  My eyes widen so much, it feels like my lids are clapping behind my back.

  “Er, sorry, hon. Go on,” Dad says, burying his nose in his coffee mug.

  “The night that the contracts were signed, we were sitting at Essentialz when the Feds came.”

  Dad nearly chokes on his mouthful of eggs. “He was there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sniping your deal?”

  “What? No. Just...” My voice trails off.

  I never thought to ask why Ian was there at the very same restaurant that night.

  “What does Ian McCrory have to do with this?”

  “He’s a scavenger.”

  “I don’t know if that’s the right word,” Dad replies. “The guy's a self-made billionaire.”

  “He’s a bottom feeder, just like that journalist on the lawn, Dad. He happened to be in the restaurant at the worst possible moment in my entire life. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. It feels like a setup. And then weeks later, he steals my contract.”

  “That’s not what the news says, honey. They said Zhangwa was ready to go with a Russian firm, and Ian was able to broker the deal and keep it in the US.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what the Financial Times says.” Dad’s hairline jumps back three inches as a thought occurs to him. “Is Ian McCrory the one bankrolling your defense?”

  I let out
another sigh. “Yes.”

  “Why?” Mom and Dad gasp together.

  Ring

  The house phone. Mom and Dad still have a landline.

  Mom jumps up from the table, goes over, and picks it up. “Hello, Monahan residence. This is Sharon speaking. Yes?” She immediately looks at me. “Oh. Yes.” Her voice drops. “Hastings, it’s for you. It’s Ian McCrory’s assistant on the line.”

  “Tell Ian McCrory’s assistant that Hastings Monahan is not currently available.”

  “Honey, I am not Hastings Monahan’s assistant.” Mom thrusts the receiver at me. “Take it,” she hisses.

  “Tell Mr. McCrory that I am not available,” I inform the person on the other end.

  “Too late. Caught you in a lie.” Ian’s deep, amused voice vibrates through the earpiece.

  “Why are you stalking me?”

  “If I were stalking you, Hastings, you would know it. This is me being friendly.”

  “Your idea of friendly is close to a surveillance state.”

  “All you have to do is answer the phone, or return my texts, and I'll back off immediately.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to know how you’re doing.”

  “I appreciate everything that you did for me, but please, Ian, back off.”

  I end the call. It’s less satisfying than it would be under other circumstances.

  “Honey, that was a bit rude,” Mom says. Those words have come out of her mouth hundreds of times, maybe even thousands, over the years that I was raised by Sharon and Roy.

  “Maybe tone it down a little,” Dad says, as if on cue.

  “If a man were to speak that way to another man, you wouldn’t second-guess him. Who are you two, the tone police?”

  “You’re my daughter,” Mom says. “It’s hard to see you treat people this way.”

  “What way?”

  “The way you treat people.”

  “I don’t treat people in some poor way.”

  “You can get kind of nasty, Hasty.”

  “Don’t call me Hasty!”

  “Isn’t it funny? Those two words are spelled the same way. Nasty. Hasty. But they’re pronounced differently,” Mom muses, as if she’s decoding the English language single-handedly.

  “Did he do something to deserve all this scorn?” Dad asks, puffing up slightly, a protective aura coming into him.

  “He’s Ian McCrory, Dad. I’m sure he has plenty of sins in his past. No, he didn’t do anything directly to me that’s negative. He stole my nine-figure contract, but you explained that.”

  “Maybe that’s why he’s calling you. Maybe he wants help with it.”

  I scoff. “I am the last person on Earth Ian McCrory needs to help him with a big deal.”

  “Then why is he calling you?”

  “Why do big game animals play with their prey?”

  “You think his motives are that warped?” Mom asks, sitting down at the table and staring at me. “If he wanted to ruin your life or destroy you—”

  I let out a little huff. “What’s left to destroy, Mom? Besides, the investigators know exactly why my life is ruined. Burke.”

  Dad moves over to the television and flips to a news station. As if conjured by the mere mention of his name, my ex-but-not-ex-husband’s face appears on the screen. The caption underneath says:

  Burke Oonaj, largest financial fraud scandal in US history.

  Dad snaps the television off.

  “Can we talk about anything–anything–other than Burke, or Ian, or the fact that I can’t afford a manicure and my split ends are ridiculous and—”

  “I know!” Mom says, cooperating. “I have the perfect topic.”

  “Great!”

  “Let’s talk about Mallory and Will’s wedding.”

  My gut aches as I curl it in. “You know,” I say, standing, “I think this is a good time to go for a run.”

  “You still run?” Dad asks.

  “Of course. I try for twenty miles a week. Most of the time I fit it in around Pilates, but it works.”

  Pilates.

  All my personal training sessions are something from the past. Even a basic gym membership is out of my financial reach right now. I have workout clothes in the handful of suitcases I was allowed to bring.

  Running is free. All it costs are shoe soles.

  I walk away before Mom and Dad can say anything else, and thump up the stairs. It takes three searches through each of my bags to assemble all the layers I need for a winter run, plus running shoes. My hundreds of pairs of shoes are consolidated now to a pragmatic set of five, and by “consolidated,” I mean, the rest were seized.

  But these running shoes are fairly new. I pull them on. I go downstairs and realize I don’t have a Fitbit. I don’t have airpods. I don’t have–

  I don’t have anything, do I?

  Might as well run in silence.

  As my feet hit the sidewalk that leads out to the main road, I take deep breaths of the cold mid-February air. It’s at least another six weeks before spring rolls around, and when you live in New England, you never know when a late-winter snowstorm will dump two feet on you.

  I’ve been in Northern California for twelve years, so it hasn’t been a consideration.

  I look up at the sky. The clouds are gray, like sad, dirty cotton, a bank of them threatening something sinister. No flurries dot the air, though. As I start to run, my calf muscles screaming, either in pain or gratitude, I let the cold penetrate me.

  My body isn’t used to feeling. It hasn’t been allowed to express itself for a long time.

  The great thing about running is that you don’t have to express anything other than one foot in front of the other.

  By the time I come back two hours later, bladder full and body parched, there’s an Audi SUV in the driveway. Must be Will’s car.

  Sure enough, when I go in, Will and Mallory are at the dining table. It's eleven a.m., so I'm guessing they're breaking for lunch with Mom, but then again, Will works for himself, Mal works for him, and Mom and Dad own their own insurance agency.

  Their time is theirs to rearrange.

  So is mine, but for very different reasons now.

  I chug sixteen ounces of filtered water, missing my fortified, electrolyte-balanced water from home–er, my old life. Five weeks ago, a run like that would be capped off with a macronutrient-optimized protein shake, a salt-scrub shower, and ten minutes of breathing technique designed to pump oxygen into every tissue in my body.

  Instead of that, I'm drinking filtered tap water and eyeing a jar of peanut butter and a nice Honeycrisp apple in a bowl on the counter.

  “Hey!” Mallory calls out to me with a wave, Will on his phone. They're seated next to each other with a series of battle plans spread out in front of them. Tiny taster bottles of wine, little candies in twenty-seven different foil colors, and ribbons galore are laid out like a vision board.

  This is Mallory’s thing.

  She loves the way objects can be arranged in space to evoke emotion.

  And she's good at it.

  I’ve made fun of her for years. Not for what she does, but for her lack of ambition. Who takes natural talent and doesn’t use it?

  Then again, what would I know about natural talent? I don’t have any. Everything I do has to come from great effort. Everything I do has to come from outperforming everyone else.

  I don’t understand my own sister. Never have.

  But as I watch Will, Mallory, Mom, and Dad, all around the dining table, talking animatedly about wedding details, it hits me.

  Maybe I’m the one nobody understands.

  4

  I hate to admit this, and don’t ever tell Mallory I said it, but…

  She’s right.

  But only about Taco Cubed.

  Ever since that dinky little Mexican place opened up, just as I was leaving the East Coast, Mallory has raved about how good it is. I resisted.

  First of all, the
name is stupid. Who names a restaurant TacoTacoTaco?

  Second, there’s no way that Mexican food can be better in Anderhill, Massachusetts, than it is in California.

  Third... the guy running the counter is hot.

  Wait. Where did that come from?

  Mom and Mallory insisted that we have lunch here. Mom’s picking up the tab. A few months ago, I would have come, pulled out a platinum Amex, and paid for everything. Why?

  It made me feel good to have that kind of money. It made me feel good to know that I had accomplished something. Also, there’s a certain kind of control that you have when you’re the one picking up the check.

  I’m sure a therapist would have a field day with me, but I can’t afford one now.

  “Mallory!” says the heavily tatted-up dude at the counter. “The blushing bride.”

  “Pedro, stop!” Mallory says.

  He has a teardrop along the side of one eye, every bit of the backs of his hands covered in ink. Thick biceps threaten to split a cut-off flannel shirt cuffed at the ends, right over the largest bulge of his arms. He smells like fresh lime and a heady, masculine cologne.

  The guy is totally not my type.

  Our eyes meet.

  “And who is this?” he asks, one eyebrow going up, expression morphing instantly into lust. Think I’m exaggerating? His eyes go straight to my left hand.

  I took the wedding ring off long ago. Burke had my engagement ring for reappraisal when he ran off, and it looks like the feds confiscated it. No remnant of my marriage is on my finger right now.

  I am a free woman.

  And yet...

  I could sleep with this guy. I could go to his apartment with him when his shift is done and screw his brains out, then head back home, climb into my twin bed next to my Lisa Frank posters, and…

  And what?

  I wouldn’t be breaking any wedding vows, would I? Because it turns out I was never married in the first place. All these years I’ve been with Burke, I’ve held myself to an ethical standard based on a vow that didn’t exist.

  A husband who didn't exist.

  Possibility hangs in the air between us as Pedro stares me down.

  “You must be Mallory’s sister,” he says. “What kind of meat do you like?”