Talia contemplates me a long time, like she’s seeing through everything I glossed over. All she says is “That sucks. I’m sorry.”
I’m not telling her this for pity.
“How long has it been?” she asks.
“Nine months.” Nine months. Two weeks. Four days. Like I haven’t counted every minute away from her.
Talia’s hand, cold from her bowl of frozen custard, lands on my wrist where it rests on the table. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.” Her face is sincere and sympathetic, and that means almost more than her words.
Not sure I deserve that. I look away. “Thanks.”
“I’ve gone through some rough stuff, too, and I know how much it sucks. Good for you for getting out of there.”
I look to my empty paper bowl and pull away from her grasp. If she knew how it finally ended, she wouldn’t say that. “Anyway,” I say, like I can lock all these feelings back in their little Pandora’s box and undo all the damage I’ve done to Kendra, to Talia, to me. “I’m not in a place to be thinking about . . . any of that, and I didn’t want to get your expectations up.”
“Oh. Thanks. But don’t worry about me. Sometimes you need to focus on you, on getting your head right first.”
Not sure how my letting-her-down-easy speech turned into Talia’s letting-me-down-easy speech. “Where does that leave us?” I ask.
“Friends, I hope?”
Holy. Crap. Are you kidding me? I just got friend-zoned. Again.
Maybe she’s right — and I could use a friend. “You do know me better than pretty much anyone in the country.”
Talia places her hand on her chest, like she’s so very touched, though her eyes are smiling. “I’m honored.”
“You should be. You’ve entered the ranks of the privileged few.” I’m joking, and I grin back, but Talia catches the truth in that statement. I’ve really only told a couple people this much of the truth. Even my mom isn’t one of them.
“Okay.” She looks at the table like she’s laying out a plan there. “I know you didn’t tell me this to solve your problem, but, Danny —” She meets my gaze. “You really are a great guy. You can’t stay off the market forever. It wouldn’t be fair.”
Fair to whom? But I don’t ask.
“Obviously I’m not a therapist, but . . . I’ve known a few.” She flashes half a smile, like I should understand just how self-deprecating she’s being, clearly a hint that she’s been to a therapist or “a few.”
“When you go through something like this, you keep analyzing what went wrong and why, but eventually, you’re running in circles.”
Like how I keep trying to start over and keep failing, back at square one?
“I don’t want to see you get trapped in that,” Talia finishes. “You’ve got to break out.”
There’s a way out? Yes, please. Seriously. “Okay. How?”
“One thing: take up something creative.”
“Oh, man, I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with all my old Bob Ross tapes.”
She laughs. “Doesn’t have to be like that.”
I snap my fingers like I’m disappointed. “There goes my happy little tree.”
“And his happy little neighbor.” She rolls her eyes good-naturedly.
I’m starting to love her eyes.
No, wait, no — I reset myself into a platonic mindset. As much as I can.
Talia leans back in her chair, relaxing into her therapist role. “Painting isn’t the only option. How about music?”
“Does playing the radio count?”
“Nope.”
I set aside my empty bowl and mirror her relaxed posture, ready for Talia to regale me with options. “Writing?”
“Nah.”
“Dancing?”
I shake my head. “I don’t dance.”
“I won’t ask you.” She glances up like she’s flipping through the files of her mind. “Making ceramic kittens?”
I almost jump to sit up straight. “Yes!”
She raises an eyebrow, a silent really?
And I drop the enthusiastic act, slumping back in my chair. “No.”
“Okay. . . . Cooking?”
Can’t dismiss that one right away. “I like eating.”
“Hey, me too! It’s perfect.”
This solution seems too easy. I’m supposed to cope by tossing a chicken in the Crock-Pot? “How will cooking help?”
“A couple ways — keeps your mind occupied so you don’t dwell on it, gives you a new direction to move forward, and you’re making something. Isn’t it basically doctrine that we need to create?”
“Don’t remember hearing that.”
“Definitely heard that. It feeds your soul.” She isn't kidding.
I was kind of hoping to dismiss the arguments and get out of this setup, but . . . honestly, all those outcomes sound pretty good to me.
The overhead lights suddenly dim. I check to see if someone accidentally hit the switch. Nope — the crowd from earlier has dissipated, and we’re alone in the shop with the servers. They’re trying to close. We both stand and toss our empty bowls, shuffling toward the exit. The air outside is already chillier than August should be.
“Danny?” Talia’s tentative question instantly draws me a step too close to her. “I’m not looking to get married either. But if you need help eating all the gourmet meals you’re going to churn out . . .”
“I know who to call.” Because that wouldn’t be awkward. Hi, girl that I think is cute and cool enough to ask out despite my issues, want to come over for a platonic meal alone at my place?
Oh — but we wouldn’t be alone. Campbell’s moving in.
Hm. Not less awkward.
Speaking of awkward, we’ve reached the “doorstep” portion of our first platonic friend-zone date. I almost wish her work would interrupt again to save us from having to figure this out.
“Well,” she says. That’s it.
“I had fun,” I say, like that surprises me. Because it does.
“Me too. And I had ice cream, so that pretty much covers it.” She sighs, grinning. Then she turns serious. “You know, if you ever need to talk, you can call me for that, too.”
I start to work up a joke, but the offer’s so sincere, I can’t tease her about it. “Thanks.”
Cue the awkward.
Within a second, Talia holds out her arms, waiting for a hug. I guess that settles that question. I pull her in for a short squeeze. Believe me, I know how to hug a friend-who’s-a-girl. Done it plenty.
“Now you know all my secrets,” I say. “Except about that gambling habit.”
She shoots me a lip purse that says is that so?
Why does she have to be pretty and funny and just a friend? Oh, right — because I’m a basket case.
I can do this. I can. “Talk to you later?” I ask.
She holds my gaze an extra millisecond before she nods. “Definitely.”
Then I let her walk away. Shooting down my chance with her forever.
You know, par for the course for my second dates.
The next Wednesday, it’s still too soon for my knee to have “healed,” so I’m once again outside Vasily’s barbershop — and I’m still not totally over that conversation with Danny. Always hard to shift out of you’re-cute-and-funny-and-awesome-and-I-wouldn’t-exactly-object-to-kissing-you mode.
Stupid, I know, but . . . I’m not ready to lose that one little connection I had. I thought we had. Reason #109 —
Come on. Time to stop tormenting myself. It was never going anywhere, and I knew that. I should be relieved to duck that relationship RPG — and I am. Mostly. At least I kept him from cutting all ties and salvaged a friendship.
Which is exactly what I’m supposed to want. No matter how much I actually want more.
“The Latvian.” Elliott’s voice comes over comms from his position across the street. I get a photograph of Vasily’s latest happy customer with my phone and fire it off to our facial
recognition servers to verify the identity, though we know it’s him. The guy’s in here every three weeks, clockwork. The text comes back within a couple seconds: Juris Ozols.
Vasily’s computer calendar had today highlighted in red. Hope it wasn’t for these afterhours appointments with his important clients — and here comes another one. “That the American heading in?” I murmur.
Elliott blows out a breath between his lips. “Looks like it.”
“Again?” He was just here over the weekend. I snap the photo and send it to be sure. Yep. Carson Metzgar, foreign service officer. Unwitting spy? Willing? We can’t tell from here — until Elliott records their appointment.
Metzgar waits at the barbershop’s front desk. Vasily comes to meet him, but they don’t start back to his cutting station. They chat for a minute. Then Metzgar hands over a small red piece of paper and leaves.
“What was that about?” I ask Elliott.
“Rescheduled next week’s appointment.”
“And the paper?” I crane my neck, as if I could see anything from here.
“Explains why, I guess.”
Or it’s passing off information, or a signal. If we had more people in our surveillance team, we might send someone after Metzgar, but we barely have enough manpower to cover our two big objectives: get that paper and keep an eye on Vasily.
Vasily tosses Metzgar’s paper in the trash by the reception desk and heads to the back. I catch a glimpse of him sweeping. Closing up for the night.
The cleaning crew doesn’t come until midnight, so we’ve got hours before we have to get in and get that paper. In the meantime, we’ll be on Vasily.
“Fifty bucks says he’s going home,” Elliott says. “Just because we’re here to watch him.”
That would be our luck.
I have the better view of Vasily’s car, so when he locks up, I’m on alert. He walks straight to his blue Hyundai, and I merge into traffic a couple cars behind him.
So glad I’ve got backup tonight. Pursuing someone by yourself, all their stops and starts and turns, is a lot harder than they make it appear in movies. But with Elliott here, we can tag team, moving up and falling back — making it harder for Vasily to spot us. Also much easier to pick up the slack if Vasily alters course suddenly.
Vasily doesn’t make it super easy, with stops by the dry cleaner, the library and an ATM, but we manage to neither look too suspicious nor lose him. These mundane errands are exactly what I do everywhere I go (which is more than a CIA officer needs to, but, yeah, it’s me). You watch for the surveillance team that might be behind you and bore them until they decide you don’t have anything after all.
Won’t work on us tonight. Vasily’s path takes us toward Little Italy. Man, I wish I’d had time for dinner before this. But as soon as we emerge from the underpass decorated with neighborhood-themed murals, Vasily takes a left.
My stomach jumps. I’m too close to do the same without seeming suspect. I relay the route back to Elliott over comms. “Can you get him?”
“Yep.”
I round the block and circle back to follow them within a couple minutes. The street looks like a one-way extension into a parking lot. I slow down, cruising by whatever’s in here. Just before the end of the brick building, a maroon awning proclaims Ottawa St. Anthony Italia Soccer Club and their banquet facilities. “Thought we were tailing FEATHERSTONE, not shopping for reception venues,” I rib Elliott.
“Two birds, one stone. Don’t girls like multitasking?” he jokes back. “He’s parking.”
Several signs next to the last set of doors on the building advertise other uses of the club: off-track betting (so we can gamble on how long Elliott’s marriage will last?), club offices with a bar, motor sports club. I put on my oversized sunglasses before I turn into the real parking lot past the building. Vasily walks by my car and heads through those doors.
“He’s got a lot of options in there, HAMMER.”
“I’m hurrying.”
Any of those places might be a good meeting spot with a handler. Not the safest method, but if they’re only signaling, it can work. Of course, Vasily could be part of any of these clubs, especially if he’s targeting another club member. Either way, we want him out of our sight as little time as possible.
Elliott strolls by me, wearing a medium brown, medium shaggy wig and horn-rimmed glasses.
“Hipsters today, are we?” I ask. One negative to that cover for him: his complete inability to grow a beard, or even a two o’clock shadow. “You need more facial hair. Guess I should’ve warned you last winter.”
Strangely, he has no response. “Hurry up,” he murmurs. “Checking the bar first.”
“Little early to be hitting the bottle, isn’t it?” I whip into a parking spot in the far corner of the walled lot and dig through my disguises. Normally, a real spy would never wear something crazy that would draw undue attention, but for this cover, a pink or green wig might work. Don’t carry those on me. I settle for light brown one that really, really needs brushing, tie a bandana around it “vintage” style and adjust my bangs. An old flannel shirt makes my “hipster” uniform. (Or is this grunge? No, I’m doing this ironically.) The final thing I need: glasses of my own. I don’t have fake ones here, but I pop the lenses out of a smaller pair of sunglasses. Bam.
“What’s taking so long?” Elliott asks. “He’s in the OTB, waiting to make a bet.”
I hurry through the doors. No idea what to expect. Possibly walking into a setup. My heart constricts, but I head downstairs to the off-track betting lounge.
Okay, “lounge” is a stretch. I’ve passed through casinos here and in Vegas, so I was expecting something more glitzy. Instead, we’ve got a wall of TVs, a couple rows of tables and chairs, and a lot of sad, desperate people. Which I guess is what you get when you strip away the glamour of a regular casino.
“Finally.” Elliott joins me at the entrance. “Come here often?”
I give him a fake glare. “I played the ponies before it was cool.” (Just so we’re clear: I didn’t, and it isn’t.) “Who’re you betting on?”
“IndieHorse. You probably haven’t heard of him.”
We manage not to laugh at ourselves and rein in the self-mocking humor. We stake out the corner, taking turns watching Vasily and the rest of the crowd. He knows a few people here, and between the races they joke about results and bad luck.
Are the bets the signals? Just coming here? Is he here for someone in particular? He hangs out with the same four or five guys, but he’s not focusing on any one of them.
After an hour, he’s placed a couple bets, but Vasily’s getting quieter. Maybe he’s losing. Or maybe something big is coming up. Like the signal or the message. He keeps checking the schedule in front of him, the TV, the schedule, the betting desk, his wallet. Everything else seems to pause and fade.
Then he stands. My heartbeat takes off like they just fired the starting pistol. I make eye contact with Elliott. This is it.
Elliott gets in line behind Vasily, and I watch the races and the friends. None of them seem to care Vasily’s betting.
I glance over as Vasily reaches the old-school desk. He hands his money to the clerk — and that’s definitely his biggest bet yet. He gets his little paper and heads back to his friends. But now they’re all quiet.
Elliott joins me at the table again, and we monitor the TV screens (and Vasily). “Trifecta: Constance’s Luck in first, then Hamfisted and Wishfish,” Elliott says softly. Are these horses? “Practically guaranteed to lose with any bet that specific.”
Dropping all that cash on a sure-fire loss? Gotta be a signal. The race starts, and Vasily and his friends cheer for . . . whoever to place first, second and third, exactly as he predicted. The tension tightening my back muscles has nothing to do with the race outcome.
By the final lap, Vasily’s quiet again, fingering his bet receipt, which I’m guessing is about to become worthless. Elliott and I scan the floor for anyone paying attention
to Vasily, but everyone else is glued to the race.
The winners cross the finish line, and Vasily doesn’t move from his table. No winnings to collect. He hasn’t won all night.
What was Danny saying about a gambling habit? I believe him when he says he doesn’t have one — but someone else might. Someone else who owes a big enough debt to warrant an enforcer.
Vasily’s friends drift away. After a few minutes, he hauls himself to his feet and shuffles for the stairs. I wasn’t betting, but the drop in the room’s energy leaves me cold. If this is a way to signal his handler, that’s harsh. The defeat in his posture isn’t fake.
Elliott and I let him go. It’s possible this was part of an extended SDR — and if so, he went above and beyond to sell it — but spending this long in one place is likelier to get you caught.
“Was this a waste of time?” I ask Elliott.
He gives an I-don’t-know headshake. “Let Langley figure it out.”
I doubt they’ll give us the insight we can’t get on the ground, but I take Elliott’s answer.
Vasily’s handler doesn’t seem to be here, but he has to be communicating somehow. And we will figure out how.
Mom didn’t gloat too much when I told her I wouldn’t be seeing Talia again, even when we avoided one another at church the next day. Since obviously I didn’t need Mom’s help packing my apartment, she flew home Monday. With Campbell moving in last night, tonight’s my first opportunity to try Talia’s cooking scheme.
Guess I’m ready to try almost anything to move forward with my life, wacky as it might sound.
It’s not like I’ve never cooked before. I survived this long, and nobody can eat takeout every night. I even earned the Cooking merit badge for my Eagle Scout — though that mostly involved cataloguing the food pyramid and the many ways you can kill someone with poor sanitation.
Hopefully that’s not an issue tonight. I fill a pot with water, but the nerves building in my chest feel more like I’m gearing up for a performance the whole world is watching.
Spy Another Day Prequel Box Set: Spy Noon, Mr. Nice Spy, and Spy by Night in one volume (Spy Another Day Prequels clean romantic suspense trilogy) Page 29