Hasty

by Julia Kent

  Funny, that.

  I am persona non grata. Even when I recreated my phone contacts, they were useless. The only person from my old life who calls me is Ian, and—

  Ring

  I look at my phone. Speak of the devil.

  A very hot devil.

  Ignoring the phone, I boot up the desktop computer that my father moved into my bedroom shortly after I arrived. You can do a lot on a smartphone and a tablet, but you can’t do all of your work from them.

  My laptop is still seized.

  The mouse, a corded one, is unfamiliar in my hand. I’m so used to trackpads. This is a PC and I use a Mac, so nothing feels quite right, even though I know all the components are there.

  It’s a metaphor for my life.

  I find my way to one of the major jobs sites, a deep curl of rage starting in my belly. This isn’t my life, right? Burke turned me into a pariah. I’ve done nothing wrong. The charges against me are a formality. In exchange for my freedom, I’ve given investigators every piece of information I can.

  I guess it wasn’t enough, because they also took a chunk of my soul.

  That, and almost all my worldly possessions. And then they informed me that Burke was allegedly hiding out in a country that does not have an extradition agreement with the United States. Nobody is sure which one.

  It is also a country where he is, allegedly, legally married to a woman.

  A woman who is not me.

  What is she like?

  Stupid question, I know, but it burns the edges of my ragged dignity when I can't sleep at night. Is she clueless? Does Burke control what she sees in the media? Keep her secluded from the truth?

  Or is she in on the con, a full partner, his slithering mind working in concert with his feminine equal?

  And what am I to her?

  That's the point where I usually punch my pillow and go for a three a.m. run.

  The search bar for the jobs site sits there, empty, taunting me.

  What are you gonna put in there, Hastings? it asks, almost pulsating as I listen to my heart beating slowly.

  Venture capital partner, I type in the search bar.

  VP of business development.

  As I go through each search term, I see that every single one of these jobs is below my pay grade, below my experience grade, below–beneath–me.

  I have to try, though. I can’t live at Mom and Dad’s house forever.

  I can't stand living off them.

  After much sorting and sifting, I find five positions that don’t make me clench my teeth so hard that I chip a tooth. It takes me nearly two and a half hours to sort through and find these five, because so many of the jobs that I am qualified for are in the divisions of people who won’t return my calls.

  They’re contacts in my phone who never answer.

  Why waste more energy on them?

  I craft cover letters for each of the five, upload, and send.

  This is what I’m reduced to. From a six-figure-a-year (soon to be seven) VC firm associate to someone who applies for jobs with the word director in the title.

  But you know what? Directors get salaries. Benefits. Staff. They work on a team, and they have purpose.

  So director, here I come.

  A shower gives me some new perspective. As I head downstairs to grab a cup of coffee before going out for a run, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

  My pulse leaps. Already? Someone’s read my resume and already they want an interview?

  No. It’s just Ian.

  I have some questions.

  That’s it? That’s all he wrote? I have some questions?

  That’s almost as bad as Burke’s I’m sorry.

  What is it with these men who think I'll jump to answer their cryptic texts? Why haven’t I blocked him?

  Not Burke, Ian.

  I’m supposed to keep all lines of communication one hundred percent open when it comes to Burke, so that I can get some information out of him if he ever weasels his way back into my life.

  Ian, on the other hand, I can block at will. So why haven’t I?

  So do I, I type back quickly. How much did my legal defense cost?

  Three dots appear. One dinner with me.

  I power my phone off.

  Great. What does he want? Sex, in exchange for what he did for me? Is that his price? I knew it would be high, but...

  Heat rushes to my face at the thought.

  It’s not from anger.

  And my face isn't the only place where heat pools.

  Forget the coffee. I grab my full bottle of water and burst out the front door.

  When I run, I’m not Hastings Monahan.

  When I run, I’m not Burke’s not-wife.

  When I run, I am not Ian’s project.

  I’m not Mom and Dad’s pity face, not the sister of the blushing bride who’s getting everything she ever dreamed of.

  I’m just two legs, two arms, a head, and a torso, moving forward in space.

  My ponytail thumps against the back of my neck, a steady presence, a second heartbeat. I know when I get home and turn on my phone, there will be more from Ian.

  Do I want more from him?

  No. What I want is less. Of everything.

  Five miles disappear into a flow state, a numbness that isn’t about performance. Running used to be performative for me. I chose the best paths, the right clothes, the good form, using Pilates and personal trainers to help me perfect my body in motion.

  Isn’t that the goal, to perfect ourselves? To reach ever-higher levels of functioning? There must be a peak somewhere. I wouldn’t know where it is, but I kept raising the bar, over and over again as I achieved more and more. It felt good. It felt right.

  Until… well, until stupid Burke.

  Until stupid me.

  I go for twelve miles. By the time I make it home, there’s a note taped to the coffee maker.

  Ian called again, Dad’s careful handwriting spells out.

  I turn on my phone to find the expected text message:

  I’m in Boston is all it says.

  Good for you, I reply.

  It is good, he types back immediately. This Bruins game is crazy. Too bad you’re missing it.

  I don’t like hockey.

  What do you like? he writes back.

  Being left alone.

  You wouldn’t answer my texts if that were true, Hastings.

  Endorphins pump through me, the good kind that running elicits. It's why I push myself so hard, now. Before, in my old life, I did it to relieve stress, to stay slim and toned, to wear the right outfit and run with the right people.

  None of that matters here. Now running is an escape.

  Ian keeps chasing me, though. Why? And why does the fact that he won't let up thrill me?

  That's the part I hate. The thrill. The zing of arousal that shoots through me every time that jerkface–who isn't a jerk–does this. He's pursuing me and I don't understand it, but I do like it.

  More than I want to admit.

  The fight inside me feels like layers of muscles in my abs are in a tug-of-war. Ian McCrory represents everything I fought to achieve in my old life. Self-made billionaire. Liked by everyone. Admired by even more.

  Respected for his hardcore negotiating skills.

  And droolingly handsome.

  He was my nemesis. My enemy. The guy who sniped deals, and who I sniped from. We were adversaries, but he flipped the script, didn't he? Coming to my rescue. Aiding me in a time of need.

  I don't want to need him.

  And I especially don't need to want him.

  I stare at the phone. Just as my finger goes to the Power button to turn it off again, three dots appear.

  One dinner. Indulge me?

  I go into my contacts, and I block him.

  He just proved me right.

  Taking help from people means you're obligated.

  And no matter how sweet the currency he's dangling, I don't like owing him.
>
  I don't like owing anyone.

  Burke turned my entire life into one big debt.

  But my body isn't available as collateral.

  And neither is my heart.

  5

  It’s been two weeks since I applied for those five jobs. Since that first day, I’ve applied for a grand total of twenty-seven positions. Do you know how many interviews I’ve had?

  Zero.

  Do you know how many rejections I’ve received?

  Twenty-seven. Most of them in ten minutes.

  Mallory insists that the bridesmaids gather today at Beanerino, the “fancy” coffee shop that Perky’s part of. We’re planning the bachelorette party.

  Please, kill me now.

  “Here, honey,” Mom calls out as she walks toward me, holding her purse, rummaging through her wallet. She thrusts two twenties at me.

  “What’s this?” I ask, recoiling from the cash, looking around to make sure no one saw that. The only person who would see it here at home is Dad, but even that's too much for my battered ego to handle.

  “So you can go out with the girls. You know, get your coffee at Beanerino, have lunch, plan the bachelorette party....” Her voice trails off as she looks at my hand by my side, the lines between her eyes deepening in confusion.

  “You’re handing me cash.”

  “Do you want us to add you to our bank account so that you can have a debit card?”

  “You’re giving me money so I can go out to lunch.”

  “Well…” Mom reddens. “I thought it would be the nice thing to do. I didn’t want you, uh, you know. Stranded.”

  “Stranded?”

  “I wanted to help you save face. I’m sure Mallory could pick up the check for you. Or maybe even Perky.”

  “Perky?”

  “Well, she is rich. Her parents won all that money in the lottery, all those years ago.”

  “I don’t need other people to—” I cut myself off.

  Oh, my God.

  I do need other people to pay for me, to support me, to help me.

  To pity me.

  I don’t need that last one, but it comes right along with needing help.

  I have been reduced to a teenager who has to be handed fun money before going out.

  Scratch that.

  I have been reduced to the equivalent of a fifteen-year-old, who can’t legally have a job yet, who has to be handed money in order to go out.

  Something makes my stomach hurt. If I were a different person, I would call it shame.

  “Um, thanks,” I say, loathing myself as I reach forward and take the cash, stuffing it in my back pocket as fast as possible, as if hiding it from sight makes this more palatable. “I’ll pay you back.”

  Pity eyes meet mine. “Of course you will, honey.”

  I decide to run to Beanerino. Decide is a bit much, given that I don’t have a car. I either have to beg Mom or Dad to use theirs, or call an Uber. Given that I’m at a point where my mother is handing me forty dollars so that I can go have fun with my sister and her friends as we plan her wedding to a guy whose net worth is surely seven–or even eight–figures, I’m going to hide my poverty under the guise of going for a run.

  Anderhill has not changed much since I left twelve years ago. Better coffee shops, upgraded traffic lights, and a few new developments, but other than that, it’s the same town that I was born and raised in.

  Beanerino is an old fast food restaurant turned into a coffee shop and wine bar. I pause before I go in, wiping sweat off my brow, taking a moment to compose myself. Hanging out with Mallory is one thing.

  Perky and Fiona are quite another.

  As I step inside the coffee shop, the scent of finely roasted beans making me flash back to one of the premier shops in the Bay Area, Mallory calls out my name.

  “Hastings!” She’s always so damn cheery.

  And yet, I smile.

  “Did she just smile at you?” Perky asks now.

  “Yes, why?” I overhear Mallory answer as I stand at the counter.

  “Maybe it was just gas,” Fiona says.

  Tension forms in my neck. My sister might be perpetually friendly, but her friends are jackals in human form. They’re protective of her. I get it.

  When we were little, so was I.

  “Hey there,” says the barista, turning to me. He’s got broad shoulders, thick arms, and eyes the color of my favorite whisky. “What can I get for you?”

  “Double shot of espresso.”

  “That’s it? Just straight up double shot?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Get whatever you want, Hastings,” Perky calls out. “It’s all on me.”

  The four other people in the shop turn and look at me.

  “I’m fine,” I say, holding up a twenty.

  She shrugs. I grab a sparkling water and pound it on the counter.

  “You know Perky?” the barista says.

  “Yeah. She’s my sister’s best friend.”

  “Sister? I didn’t know Fiona had a sister.”

  “I’m not Fiona’s sister.”

  “Wait. Mallory’s sister? You–you’re Mallory’s sister? Why have I never met you before?”

  “Because until last week I didn’t live here. I lived in San Francisco.”

  “So you must be Hastings.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hastings Monahan.” Lightbulbs turn on in his eyes. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “All of it good, too,” I say with a smile. “Right?”

  “No,” he says seriously, either unable to read my social cues or so earnest, he might as well be Mallory's twin brother. “No. Not all of it good. I’m really sorry about what happened to you.”

  Oh, great. From whisky eyes to pity eyes.

  “Uh… thanks. I’m fine.”

  He slides the twenty back to me over the counter. “I’ll just put it on Perky’s tab.” He leans in. “I heard Burke Oonaj cleaned you out.”

  “Okay,” I choke out, grabbing the double shot and the water, and slinking off to sit with my sister and her friends.

  “What did you tell him about me?” I hiss as I slide into the booth next to Perky.

  “What?” she asks, eyes a little too wide, a little too innocent.

  “He said he’d heard a lot about me, none of it good.”

  “Raul? Pfft. He’s a little…” She takes her finger and twists it around her ear. Perky doesn't realize he's right behind her, holding a wine glass, drying it with a white bar towel.

  “You told me that Mallory’s sister was the biggest bitch you had ever met in your entire life, and that in all of bitchdom, she was at the top. That her name should be Hastings McBitcherson Monahan. You said that you—”

  Perky cuts him off. “Thank you for being my own personal embarrassment curator, Raul.”

  “It would take a much bigger expert to manage that role, Perky.”

  The front door opens and a group of eight teenagers walks in, all lining up as Raul makes his escape back to the counter.

  I look at her.

  With flat eyes, she says, “Bitch? Bitchdom? McBitcherson? Do you deny it?” She's trying to provoke me.

  I just smile. “No. Proud of it, actually.”

  She gives me a lopsided grin.

  “Birds of a feather,” Fiona says, sipping delicately from her macchiato.

  “I’d better be careful what I say to you,” I mutter. “You’ll pin me to the floor with a victory roar.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Fiona replies.

  “Besides, I am nothing like Perky. First of all, my fashion taste is far above hers.” I eye her. “Although good job dressing today, Perky. You've upgraded from clothing donation bin in Las Vegas to lost-and-found box in a Unitarian Universalist social hall.”

  “Hey!”

  “And second of all – ”

  “This is not how I thought we would plan my bachelorette party,” Mallory interjects. “Can you all stop? Stop competing to
be the biggest bitch in bitchdom, and let’s decide which piano bar we’re going to.”

  “Piano bar!” Perky and I gasp in unison.

  “Eww! That’s so...” Descriptors defy me.

  “So what?”

  “So... 2000s.”

  “Don’t even,” Perky jokes. “What’s your next idea, Mal? Karaoke?”

  Perky and I snicker as Fiona turns to Mallory and says, “I think that’s a great idea!”

  “The only way to do a bachelorette party,” I say sarcastically, because it's the last thing I'd choose, “is to go to Vegas for the best spa you can possibly afford.”

  “Given that we’re the ones throwing the bachelorette party,” Perky says, pointing to me and Fiona, “along with Raye, of course, and Will's sister, Veronica, anything is doable.”

  Perky has a trust fund, I know, from when her parents won the lottery. Is she planning to bankroll all this?

  “It’s my treat,” she declares, as if reading my mind.

  “Perky, you can’t!” Fiona gasps.

  “Of course I can! I have plenty of money!”

  I put my hand on her arm. “We do have to be careful.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of Parker.”

  “Parker’s not invited to the bachelorette party.”

  “No, but you’re with a congressman now. You have to comport yourself with some class.”

  Fiona and Mallory fold in half laughing, human origami with edges made of giggles.

  “I do?” Perky says.

  “Of course you do.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do. You’re planning to marry him, right?”

  I look at her finger. No engagement ring.

  “Eventually.”

  “Then what you do is going to be covered by the press.”

  “Only when I’m in Texas and with him.”

  “If word gets out that Parker Campbell is a groomsman in a wedding in Boston, among people who matter, the press will cover it.”

  “'People who matter,'” Fiona repeats, using finger quotes. “What does that mean, Hasty?”

  “Hastings.”

  “Fine. Hastings.”

  “You know what it means.”

  And then it hits me.

  I’m no longer a person who matters.

  Burke used to be the ultimate person who mattered.

  Now he matters, but in an FBI-Most-Wanted kind of way.