by Mia Carter
There’s enough charge now to check my messages.
And, predictably, most of them are from my sisters.
Are you still alive? Miranda has sent me, at the start of a very long chain of messages about how she has friends in the field who specialize in international extraditions, very helpful.
Underneath all of this, from Eleni: Do you ever, like, chill out? For one minute? She’s fine. You’re fine, right?
I smile at this. The timestamp is only about twenty minutes ago. Two in the afternoon, Portland-time.
Yes, I’m alive, I text the group chat.
Almost instantaneously, Miranda’s icon pops up next to a request for a video call.
I roll my eyes and accept the call. Miranda’s pixelated face appears, and then clears up, in the app. From the looks of it, she’s in her office. And she’s glaring at me through the internet.
“Chloe, what is going on?”
“Well, I had a lovely dinner tonight,” I begin, being willfully obtuse in a way that I know has provoked at least a dozen of Miranda’s gray hairs, as is my sisterly duty. “I walked around the city, I—”
“This isn’t like you,” she says. “You’re not the kind of person to just pick up and go places like this. This guy, I don’t care how famous he is, you need to—”
“Maybe I am that type of person,” I counter. “Because here I am. Maybe I do all sorts of interesting things and just keep it to myself. I could have pierced nipples and fifteen tattoos of SpongeBob SquarePants, and you’d never know. And anyway, why does it matter to you?”
“It matters because we want you to be safe, and smart,” she says.
Ouch. “Did Mom and Dad deputize you for this, or is this all you?”
“What do you—”
Eleni’s screen switches to life, the background moving wildly as if she’s holding the phone in her hands and walking. Finally, she stills, and it comes up to her face as well. The three of us are definitely similar enough to be related, but while Miranda is all contained features and smooth, shiny deep-brown hair, Eleni is—and always has been—a little softer, a little wilder. And it’s unfair that she, the youngest of us, is the tallest, but only by an inch.
“Oh, hey Chloe,” she says with a smile. “This connection is really good. Do you have a sunburn?”
I touch my cheek with my empty hand, looking down at my own image in the smallest window on-screen. “I think it should mostly fade by morning.”
“It’s really making your freckles—”
“Will you two stop talking about freckles?” Miranda exclaims.
Both Eleni and I stop and look at our cameras, connected—across time and place and wifi—with the sisterly bond, that silent pact of annoyance. Because here’s the thing about a group of three: it’s always going to be two versus one, and the permutation is constantly shifting. Miranda happens to agree with my parents right now, that I’m not “making the most of my gifts” or “taking things seriously” or “living up to their unrealistic expectations for having three, high-performing children they can brag about.” (I might be paraphrasing that last one, a bit.) Eleni, who has gained their favor for the moment due to a recent promotion, is therefore no longer the one under the microscope. She has the luxury of choosing a side, and it seems like she remembers me being gracious enough to share my precious robot hamster with her as a child.
I may get freckles with sun exposure, but Miranda gets red-faced with sister exposure.
“Seriously, it’s fine,” I say. “I don’t know what else you want me to say, other than it’s fine. I’m not in danger, he’s not going to hurt me, we’re not eloping to Gretna Green and bringing shame upon the whole family and gossip to Netherfield.”
Miranda rolls her eyes, but I can see the quirk of a smile on her mouth. “But he did take you out to dinner.”
“He’s really hot,” Eleni says, as if this is brand-new information.
“Hotness does not equal trustworthiness,” Miranda counters.
“Yeah,” I add, “remember Brad?”
Brad, Miranda’s awful, vapid, middle-school boyfriend.
She shudders. “I’d rather not.”
“Sooooo,” Eleni says, coyly. “What’s he like?”
“He’s nice,” I say, clearly hedging.
It’s like ringing a bell, and now the two of them are paired up against me. Good thing I learned how to take it as well as dish it out.
I hope I did, anyway.
“He’s nice?” Eleni says, with a broadening, shark-like grin. “Nice?”
“He’s currently listed as one of the top innovators and most promising CEOs under the age of thirty—”
“And he had this whole photoshoot with, um, this men’s fitness magazine?” Eleni continues, right across Miranda. “Did you see that when you googled him? Apparently, he’s into rock climbing.”
Are they trying to get me to hit on him or report him to the feds? It’s like my sisters are playing the roles of buzzkill angel and distractible demon right now, and I’m the poor mortal caught in the middle.
“There was this shirtless pic—”
“Eleni, do you ever chill out?” Miranda echoes her own text back to her, sounding markedly less like the responsible, intimidating attorney that she is and much more like the beleaguered older sister trying to get us out of her room while she alphabetizes her lip smackers collection, again. “Like, ever?”
“I’m just saying!” Eleni laughs. “Is he really that tall?”
These two, I freaking swear.
I really, really wish that I could pretend that the blush on my cheeks is a result of the sunshine today, but when I look down at my image on the phone’s screen, it’s clear it’s something else entirely.
Rock climbing, I think. Ooh boy. Hands. Arms. Shoulders. Yeah, I could see it.
Mental note: google those pictures later. (For science.)
“No,” I say. “And it doesn’t matter what he looks like, because that isn’t what this is. I mean, can you imagine someone like that, and this?”
I swipe my free hand vaguely around my face. It’s better to head off criticism with the truth.
Both of my sisters blink at me.
“What’s wrong with this?” Miranda asks.
Oh, her confused act is too good.
“Ha ha ha,” I say, “very funny. It’s late here, I really need to get to sleep. I promise you, if I get killed or married I’ll send a text immediately, okay?”
“How will you—?”
“Night!” I say, and tap to end the call.
I switch it to mute and put the phone facedown on the bedside table, just to be sure that if she calls back, I won’t hear it.
I’m still not tired, but I should try to sleep. So, after brushing my teeth, brushing my vaguely damp hair, and turning off all of the lights, I slide into bed and close my eyes.
Sleep, of course, remains elusive. In the darkness, I frown, thought chasing errant thought like a bounding of startled rabbits through the forest.
What time is it back home?
What are my sisters really asking of me?
What is Logan thinking right now?
Had he felt it, too, that feeling during dinner? That pull? Or had it only been in my mind?
What would it be like to fall asleep in his arms?
I scoff quietly and roll to my side. The idea that a guy like him would—
He doesn’t.
It’s crazy.
The smiles over dinner? The ones that had warmed me down to my bones?
The thoughtful way he listens, asks questions, pretends like he wants to hear me talk?
Trust me to invent a romance out of whole cloth when there’s nothing more than politeness and gratitude.
And I feel like my brain’s been hijacked by a moody teenager, suffering the agony of her first crush.
My stupid brain, my keyed-up body—because I’m definitely having adult, not teenage thoughts—and I don’t dare acknowledge my heart
. No, I lie there, in the dark, and tell my inner emo teen to stop writing out his name with a heart for the dot over the I. I’ve got to keep it together and show him that I’m not…well, whatever it is I look like.
Pathetic.
Desperate.
Doughy Chloe.
I cringe and draw the blankets up a little higher on my chest. That damn dress, it had been too small for me. And he had seen, and he was just being nice, and—
Enough, I think. Enough.
Chapter Eight
Logan
My dreams that night are soft-focus and surreal, shifting and twisting away from me like smoke, and I don’t entirely remember them when I wake. I don’t usually, but there’s something about these dreams that feel like I should.
Dreams aren’t important, though. It’s reality that matters, especially today.
Today’s meeting is the make-or-break moment for WhiteLight, and for the next steps of my career. I double-check that my keys and drive are where they need to be—secure and in my laptop bag—and my crucial pitch deck is copied to my laptop as well. I’ve got all my bases covered. Everything but the in-person presentation, so hopefully my info will speak for itself.
I shower and dress with a slightly heightened level of care and attention.
The charcoal-gray suit. The tie—solid or striped? Clothing is practical, not an outlet for creativity or self-expression. Not for me, and especially not for a day like today.
If Chloe were here, though, which would she pick?
I shake that thought off and choose the solid one, throwing the other onto the bed.
It doesn’t matter. She isn’t here. A pitch meeting, wooing possible investors, that isn’t the place for beautiful, hand-painted signs or the way her eyes—
Turning back to the mirror, I catch sight of my deep-set frown, the furrows that worry has had engraved between my brows. Without another thought about colors or artwork or eyes, hers or mine or anyone’s, I loop the tie around my upturned collar and deftly knot it. Calm and steady. Focused.
This is what I’ve come here to do—not, unfortunately, take attractive women out to dinner—
The alert on my phone snaps me out of my strange thoughts. I grab it and take the call from Jonathan.
“There’s a slight problem with some missing data,” he says.
My stomach drops. I appreciate that my assistant doesn’t bullshit me or waste my time. But this obviously is not what I wanted to hear. Not today.
“What is it?”
“Something the phishing team was working on—it wasn’t even for a finished tool.” Jonathan sounds out of breath, like he’s walking. “A missing backup, by the looks of it. Or some files got overwritten with code from two versions ago. It’s really strange.”
“Who found it?”
“Matterson,” he says, as the sound of traffic behind him fades in and out, cars passing by. “He noticed some strange activity, couldn’t pull the current version back up, and the fork he had made was just gone.”
“Shit.”
“That’s what I said.” Jonathan sounds like he’s getting into his car. “Matterson’s new, but he’s not careless. And he doesn’t have the permissions to accidentally overwrite something like this. We can comb through the logs again, but—Logan, I think this is bigger than just carelessness. I think someone is doing this on purpose—but it doesn’t make sense.”
“How so?”
“Whoever is doing this, it’s like they’re leaving breadcrumbs. Tapping on the glass just enough to make us aware of it, but never enough to actually take anything.”
“Are you sure of that?” I counter. “If we apparently can’t keep our data secure, then how can we know what they are or aren’t taking? You’re saying someone is just peeking in our windows at night for, what, the fun of it?”
“I can’t even begin to guess.” It’s quieter on the other end of the line. “I don’t even know if this is external or internal. But we’ll keep combing through what we have.”
Internal, I think. The mole. If indeed there is one.
“Who else knows?”
“Right now?” Jonathan sighs. “You. And Matterson, of course. I told him to sit on it, but he’s helping me go through the logs.”
I take a deep, slow breath and nod. “Okay. All right. Keep me posted if you see anything. If someone moves the fucking creamer in the break room, I want to know.”
He signs off with an affirmative, and I end the call.
To say that this pattern is less than ideal would be an understatement. Nothing was taken—it could’ve just been a mistake—it could’ve been intentional, tapping on the glass—
My phone chimes again.
“Fuck!”
I fully expect to see Jonathan’s name on my screen again, but to my surprise, the text is from my ex-wife.
Melissa Bartlett: Arrived this morning, we just got around to sending out pictures. Meet Tamara Rachel Bartlett-Dwyer, 7 pounds 4 ounces, so much hair!
When the picture below this message loads, I have to admit my heart melts, just a little.
She’s beautiful, I text back. Can’t wait to hold her!
To most people, marrying young and divorcing after four unconsummated months might seem like a thing to grieve or be ashamed of, but to me, it’s something I’ve never been anything but happy about.
Melissa Bartlett and I had been neighbors growing up, high school friends, and she had confessed to me all the way back in middle school that she was very definitely attracted to women. She’d known it from the start, and had never had a doubt, but her family had been hostile and cruel to her. It hadn’t been safe for her. And the more the laws started to change to provide more protections for same-sex couples, the more they made their angry agenda known. Melissa had understood that if she wanted to stay in their good graces, she’d have to change something deeply fundamental to herself, which was impossible, or learn to hide it forever.
I’d been her friend, then her protector, then her husband. It had all been such an easy choice, marrying her. Because of my own family situation, I hadn’t really ever considered that I might get married for real. And she was my friend, and she was in danger.
Turns out, two people getting married to hide a fact like that from homophobic family isn’t a great way to build a marriage—or maintain a friendship. She’d worn a white dress to our courthouse marriage when we’d both been twenty-one, and the single kiss we’d shared for her family’s cameras had been… Well, it had been a kiss, I suppose, but neither of us had ever, ever wanted more. It had been like kissing a sister.
It hadn’t taken more than a few months for the reality of that lie to eat away at her. There were hurts that even my friendship couldn’t heal, and we both knew it.
And, thankfully, with the support of an amazing community and a strength she’d found somewhere deep inside of her, Melissa had come out, and we’d divorced, a decision that had led to the most amicable divorce paperwork filing the clerk had ever seen. We’d hugged afterward. She’d cried. I had, too.
In time, she’d traded her sham marriage for a real one. She and her wife had welcomed their first child a few years ago. Now, here was their second one. I’m so happy for her—for them both.
For the four of them, I correct myself.
Nobody knows about my divorce or our relationship. I don’t bring it up in interviews or drag her name into the limelight. We may not be best friends anymore—time has a way of shifting and changing, making us grow up and old and apart all in one fleeting moment—but I want nothing but happiness for her. A good life.
I scroll back up to the pic and smile a little.
The baby is, as babies go, pretty damn cute, in the unbaked-loaf-of-bread sort of way that most newborns are. It has a head of dark hair and the unfocused, little-old-man look of a baby who’s deeply perplexed by the concept of a cell phone.
Thank you! Melissa’s text arrives with the usual soft little alert noise. I can’t believe she’s
here. I’m so in love! My heart is so full.
You’re amazing, I text back with a smile. Love you so much.
Then I see what the time is.
Enough waiting. I face myself in the mirror once more, adjust my collar and tie, and pull on my suit jacket. I have to get through this morning—survive, somehow, as night falls back home on my new little problem—before the big meeting at three.
No newborns, or wistful memories, or thoughts of beautiful eyes, can stop me from getting what I want—what I’ve worked so hard to earn.
Josh Eze finds me as we head into the first session of the morning, and his buoyant, easygoing personality and insightful observations are almost enough to make me stop worrying about the call from Jonathan that morning.
I check my phone after the first session, waiting to refuel with some coffee at the stand inside the conference center, and feel an immeasurable amount of relief when I see that Jonathan has sent me several messages.
Found it, he says, at the top of the stack of them. Looks like the culprit is some data corruption in our versioning setup. Nothing to indicate external breach.
“Thank fucking God,” I mutter.
No breach. No damage done—except, perhaps, to the nascent ulcer just waiting in my gut from all of this.
“Hey, you okay?” Josh asks me, coming back around with his own cup of something hot, which isn’t likely to be coffee because I know he hates the stuff. “You look like someone just kicked your dog, man.”
I use the excuse of setting my own cup down on the counter so I can take off the plastic lid and augment it to distract myself from the rush of conflicting emotions. Milk pours in, my hand around the little pitcher—I’ve been trying for years to prefer the taste of black coffee, but I need this little sweet distraction, if only for today.
“Work,” I mutter. What else can I say?
Josh shakes his head, leaning back against a nearby lime-green wall, bringing his own cup up to sip and wince. “You never did take my advice.”
I look up at him, bemused. “Your advice?”
“Yeah,” he says, with that broadening grin, which tells me he’s only half teasing me. “I read a profile about you and your company. WhiteLight, rated one of the best places to work in Portland. Proud of you for that. But I wonder, does the very important CEO of WhiteLight take advantage of any of those employee perks? Like, say, take an actual, real vacation?”