Poked

by Naomi Niles

  “Maybe,” I said slowly, a note of uncertainty in my voice. “As long as the firing squad doesn’t attack when she gets there.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Kelli

  I hadn’t accounted for morning traffic, and by the time I finally made it to work at around 11:00am, I was about an hour late. There was a horrible tightness in my stomach as I ran through the parking lot and waited for the guard to enter the security code that would let me into the building. Strange how quickly a morning could pivot from joy to fear and frustration.

  As I descended the stairs into the dank basement that smelled oddly of oysters, I braced myself for Evan’s reprimand: the last time I had been this late to work, a year or two before, there had been a long talk in his office during which he scolded me for sending personal emails during work hours and taking overly long lunch breaks—all the things that had been upsetting him but that he had been willing to overlook until now.

  But when I came into the room this morning, I found Evan sitting in the corner desk under the drain pipe hunched over a sheet of paper. He was attempting to write with one of those cheap plastic pens you can buy in packs of ten at the Dollar Tree; the ink seemed to be running out, because he kept shaking it in frustration. He didn’t even seem to have noticed that I had come in.

  Dennis glanced up with a shrug as I sat down. He was eating a green apple as he scrolled through the Vox main page on his laptop.

  “Sad, isn’t it?” he said, motioning to Evan. “What this once noble and venerated institution has come to.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked.

  “I mean he’s just given up caring. Unless my watch is wrong, you were supposed to have been here about an hour ago. Shelley said she was going to run out for coffee and probably won’t be back for the rest of the day. You could dress up in a gorilla costume and wander around the office scratching yourself under the arms, and I don’t think it would phase him much.”

  “Is he just busy, or…?”

  “No, I think he’s just lost all hope that the Bugle is ever going to be respected or bring in a sustainable income. Now he’s just sitting around waiting for everyone to quit or for someone to buy us out.”

  It wasn’t a large office, and I was reasonably sure Evan could hear us, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. Instead, he rose from the desk and said, “Kelli, did you know about this? The Foundry is hosting a banquet on Saturday to honor returning SEALs. My old friend Mohammed will be there, and he’s invited me as his personal guest. He’s requested that you come and report on the event in a professional capacity.”

  There was a brief silence broken only by the sound of Dennis biting into his apple. “It’s kind of him to think of me, but—”

  “But what?” Evan peered hard at me from behind his glasses.

  I hesitated. It wasn’t like me to turn down an assignment, and I wouldn’t have done it without good reason. “Frankly,” I explained, “I don’t know if it would be safe for me to attend. I haven’t been very popular with that particular platoon since my piece ran. I haven’t been popular with the Armed Forces, period.”

  It was a sign of how distracted and careless Evan had been lately that he hadn’t considered this. “Right. Of course.” He looked disappointed. “Well, if you don’t want it, I’ll give it to Shelley when she gets back.”

  I sat back down with a feeling of relief, but also a sense that I had offended Evan by rejecting our friend’s invitation. It didn’t help that Dennis grimaced and made a slashing motion across his throat.

  “You know he’s about to start making staff cuts, right?” he said. “If I were you, I’d be careful.”

  “Thanks for being so reassuring, Dennis,” I replied.

  Dennis shrugged and returned to his apple.

  Because it was Monday, I was supposed to have an opinion piece up on the website by 3:00pm. I scrolled through Vox and Salon for a few minutes looking for inspiration, but found it hard to keep focus. At one point an ad opened up—I tried to close it but it wouldn’t close—and there was an explosion of noise that made Bryan jump out of his chair in alarm. Dennis, however, was unruffled; he just shook his head as if to say, “You’d best be careful…”

  I was almost relieved when my cell phone buzzed—at last, a distraction!—and doubly relieved to see that Zack was calling.

  I hesitated for a brief moment before deciding Evan wouldn’t care. “Hey, what’s up?” I asked, glaring at Dennis who was making a wagging motion with his hands.

  “Hey pumpkin,” said Zack. “I don’t know if you heard about this banquet on Saturday—”

  “Yeah, I just got invited.”

  “By who?” he balked. “Not by one of my buddies, I hope.”

  “No, by your old boss. And my boss. But I turned it down. I have no desire to walk back into the lion’s den after the vicious response to my last post.”

  “Well, that’s too bad,” said Zack in a disappointed tone, “because I was calling to invite you myself. We’ve been encouraged to bring a friend; some of the guys are bringing their moms, and Chuck is bringing his wife, but I figured you might like to go with me.”

  It was an invitation I couldn’t bring myself to refuse. Somehow, I felt the health of our relationship in the future was resting on my decision. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.”

  “You sure? You still sound kind of uneasy.”

  “I just want you to promise me that you’ll keep anyone from trying to hurt me.”

  “They won’t hurt, you, babe,” he replied, though he didn’t sound so sure himself. “We’re going over there to be honored; the other guys probably won’t even notice you. Anyway, how would you like to meet me for dinner on Wednesday? We can talk about it then?”

  “I would love that.” I was almost certainly going to need a reprieve in the middle of my week.

  I could sense the conversation winding to a close and Zack wanting to get off the phone. I hesitated, wanting to keep him on the phone for a few minutes longer just to hear the sound of his voice.

  “Well, bye babe,” said Zack. “I’m about to head out for lunch.”

  “Bye. See you in a little bit.”

  I returned to my seat; I hadn’t eaten all morning, and it felt like a tent peg was driving its way into my skull. I wasn’t looking forward to having to explain to Evan that I was now going to be attending the banquet after all. And I knew Zack had been trying to make me feel better, but he wasn’t a good liar. Of course they were going to see me. Of course they were going to remember. We had spent a month living together in the jungle, and I had written an essay I would never be able to live down.

  That night, I made dinner for me and Renee—cold pasta salad with cucumbers, macaroni noodles, cherry tomatoes, bell peppers, and Kalamata olives, served with a light wine. I think we were both surprised at how much she enjoyed it.

  “You know, if I had known you could cook like that,” she said as she swirled her wine glass, “I’d have let you cook more often.”

  “Thanks for that. I need to start practicing anyway if I’m ever going to make dinner for Zack.”

  “Are you really getting serious? You’ve only been dating for, what, a day?”

  “I called him my boyfriend a couple nights ago, and he didn’t raise any objections,” I said. “I think that means we’re together, although who knows? He has a new nickname every time he calls me, and it’s become sort of a game to try and guess what he’s going to call me next.”

  “Sounds like you ought to just move in together,” said Renee.

  “Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.” I added in a quieter voice, “He invited me to his awards banquet on Saturday.”

  “He did what?!” Renee exclaimed.

  I shrugged and smiled, as if it was just some casual thing; as if I hadn’t been clamoring to tell her since the moment we got off the phone. “He called it a date, so I guess it’s a date. I guess that means we’re dating now. Him and me. Together.”

 
Chapter Twenty-Three

  Zack

  I spent the next couple days at home working on my book. After a quick run to Trader Joe’s on Monday night for drinks and snacks, I didn’t leave the house again until it was time to meet up with Kelli on Wednesday night. In the meantime, I sat at my desk eating yogurt and frozen pizza and struggling to outline my manuscript.

  I had thought this would be easier than it was, and after a few hours of panicked frustration, I began to wish I had confided in Kelli about my secret project. I remembered an argument I’d had with a friend back in high school who wrote novels as a hobby and wanted to be a professional novelist. “Anybody could sit down and write a book,” I had told him. “How hard could it be?”

  “If you think it’s so easy,” he said, irritated, “you ought to try it sometime.”

  At the time I couldn’t understand what he was so upset about, or why he bristled when I said writers must be lazy because they just sat around all day typing whatever came into their heads. Now I almost wanted to call him up and apologize. Turns out there was a lot more to it than just sitting down and spitting out words onto a computer screen. I tried that, but after a few pages of incoherent rambling, I realized I needed to sit down and plan this thing out before I started writing. It probably wouldn’t hurt to run by Barnes & Noble and see if they had any books on writing books for dummies. I didn’t think Kelli would mind if we went by there after dinner on Wednesday.

  “I thought this was supposed to be a vacation,” I muttered to myself as I downed the last of my Red Bull and glared at my screen with red eyes. “How do professional writers do this day in and day out without wanting to throw themselves out of a window?”

  I picked up Kelli at her apartment on Wednesday at around 6:00pm. She was putting her earrings in when I tapped at the door and smelled strongly of perfume and apple-scented lotion.

  “Come in!” she said eagerly, ushering me into the living room. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  There was a dude standing in the kitchen, and I figured it was either her brother she had never told me about or we were about to have a fight. But then I saw a woman just a couple years younger than Kelli, and with Kelli’s eyes, standing at the stove heating up vegetables in a skillet.

  “You must be Kelli’s sister,” I said. “I want to say… Debbie?”

  “Renee,” said Renee. “And this is my boyfriend, Max. Max, Zack was also in the Navy.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where were you stationed?” asked Max, looking impressed and coming over to shake my hand. He had a firm grip.

  “Recently, the Congo and Libya. Before that, we spent about a year in Liberia battling the leaders of a sex trafficking ring.”

  “I fought in Afghanistan,” said Max. “Shipped out right after 9/11. My parents wanted me to go into music, but after watching the towers fall that morning in gym class, there was no way I wasn’t going overseas.”

  “I hear that,” I said. “To be honest with you, I thought we’d have bin Laden in the bag by Christmas. Sometimes I can’t believe we’re still over there.”

  “I thought we’d be leaving once we caught the bastard,” said Max. “I didn’t plan on getting involved in some other country’s civil war.”

  We’d gotten so absorbed in our own conversation that I had almost forgotten the real reason I had come over. But just then, Kelli emerged from a back bedroom with her hair pinned up, looking like the deposed princess of a small European monarchy who had found a second career in acting. “You ready to go?” she asked.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.” I took her by the shoulders and waved bye to Max and Renee. “Good meeting y’all.”

  “See ya around,” said Max.

  We went out to dinner at Café Luxembourg on the Upper West Side, one of those bistro-looking places with a very old world, Parisian aesthetic. At one end of the room, a man was playing the violin while a couple of college undergrads wearing broad, black hats and vintage military jackets snapped selfies with their wine glasses. I ordered a Luxemburger with a side of frites (“I don’t know why they can’t just call ‘em fries,” I muttered) while Kelli ordered leeks vinaigrette, a quinoa salad, and roasted button mushrooms. (“I’m trying to eat healthier, okay?” she explained when she saw my bewildered expression). It seemed like the sort of place where her sister and Max might go on an anniversary, but I felt out of place, and I suspected Kelli did, too.

  “So,” said Kelli, shrugging her shoulders awkwardly. “What’ve you been up to for the last couple days?”

  There was no good way to answer this question: if I told her I was working on a book, that would raise all sorts of questions, and if I lied and said I hadn’t been doing much of anything, I would sound lazy. “Just running some errands,” I said finally. “It’s nice to stay inside and not have to go anywhere.”

  “Isn’t it?” said Kelli. “Or at least, not having to go into an office. I’ve been trying to talk my boss into letting me work remotely. It would be nice to write my columns without having to leave my apartment, although knowing me, I would start to go crazy after an hour and end up heading out to a coffee shop.”

  One of the great things about Kelli was that I didn’t have to struggle too hard to make conversation. I could say one thing and then sit back and listen to her talk about it for five or ten minutes. “I don’t understand this whole Parisian vibe,” I said, motioning to the exposed brick walls and the older couple behind us sharing an amuse-bouche. “If you want to visit Paris that badly, just go to Paris.”

  Perhaps I had spoken more rudely than I intended, because Kelli looked hurt. “Do you not like it here?” she asked in a sad voice.

  “It’s not that I don’t like it, I just think it should look more like New York.”

  “Well, that’s what I’ve always loved about New York,” she replied. “The way it can integrate and adapt itself to just about any culture in the world. It’s like the Epcot Center of cities.”

  “You just compared my city to the most boring part of Disney World,” I pointed out.

  “Oh, that was always my favorite,” said Kelli. “Much better than the Magic Kingdom in my opinion.”

  I threw her an incredulous look, as if to say, “What is wrong with you?”

  After dinner, we bought gelato at a local gelateria and I asked if she wanted to visit Barnes & Noble. Kelli spent some time browsing the true crime section while I disappeared and returned a few minutes later carrying a plastic bag containing a couple of how-to guides on writing a memoir.

  “What’d you get?” she asked in a whisper, like a librarian talking to a small child.

  I felt hot shame creeping up my neck as I pulled the books out of the book. She read the covers, then turned to look at me with a quizzical expression. “Are you writing a book?” she asked.

  I mumbled something about wanting to know how professionals like herself did it, but I could see she wasn’t fooled. She smirked proudly as she grabbed a Tana French novel off the shelf and headed toward checkout. I wondered vaguely as we headed out into the warmth of a late July night whether her love of mysteries was the real reason she had felt compelled to go out with me. I sometimes wished I could see the world through her eyes just for a day, just to know what it was she found so fascinating about me.

  Not wanting to be late for work again, she asked me to drive her back to her apartment.

  “We never did talk about the dinner on Saturday,” I said as we made our way through Manhattan traffic. “I guess I was enjoying my ‘frites’ so much I completely forgot about it.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” said Kelli. “I feel like everyone in that room is going to hate me, but I’ll go if you want me to. You’re probably the only person in the world who could get me to go in there after the things I wrote.”

  “What you wrote wasn’t even that bad.” I pulled into a parking space and stopped the car. “And nobody in my platoon really thought it was. Most of the hate you got was from ignorant folks who sit at h
ome watching the news because they don’t have jobs and they’ve got nothing better to do.”

  “Well, hopefully none of those people will be there,” said Kelli with a grim smile. “If they knew I was coming, they would be lined up around the block in protest.”

  “Haven’t people moved on by now? It’s been almost a year since that piece went to press.”

  “Yeah, but every time there’s a new scandal involving a SEAL, Fox News distracts viewers by bringing it back up, getting them mad at the media, which in this case means getting them mad at me. Honestly, they don’t pay me enough for this.”

  “Nobody pays you what you’re worth, babe.” I leaned over and kissed her, once, on the mouth. She looked slightly reassured as she said good night and climbed out of the car.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Kelli

  I awoke the next morning to a faint, wheezy sound coming from somewhere nearby. It was the sort of hacking sound a tomcat might make as it coughs up a piece of food that went down the wrong way. I got up and looked around the room, thinking maybe a mouse had gotten trapped behind the desk or under the bed. It took me a moment to realize the noise was coming from the living room.

  I threw on my robe and came out of my room. I found Renee sitting on the couch, crying.

  “Renee?” I came around the couch and sat down beside her at the other end. “Renee, what’s wrong?”

  Renee sniffled unhappily and looked up in annoyance, as if mad that I had interrupted. “It’s Max,” she said, wiping the snot off her face with the sleeve of her shirt. “He’s having second thoughts about getting married, and I think he might be thinking about breaking up with me.”

  “No way.” I reached over to take her hand. “How did this come up?”

  “I guess I’ve known it was coming for a while now,” said Renee. “I’ve seen how he looks at other girls when we’re out shopping or eating dinner. You know how you hear women say, their partner has a special way of looking at them that’s only for them?” I nodded. “Well, Max and I have never had that. Sometimes I catch him looking around, and I can almost see him wondering if he would be happier with somebody else.”