The Red Files

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The Red Files Page 33

by Lee Winter


  “Two ways. First you get reminded you’re a strong, kick-butt woman, too. And sure, okay, maybe some random bitch may have stomped on your bits when you were down, but you get up again, right?”

  “And the second way it helps?”

  “Alcohol cures all.”

  “Pretty sure that’s not true.”

  Max grinned. “It’s true tonight. Oh, hey, before we start, can I borrow your cell? I want to see if I’m winning my eBay auction. Original ABBA Arrival vinyl LP. My battery died and I can’t figure out where I stashed the charger.”

  “Should I mention you don’t actually have a record player?” Lauren asked as she pointed to the bag which held her phone. It was the same clutch she’d used the night she’d run from the ballroom. She’d gone near it just once since she’d been staying with Max—when she’d grabbed her car keys to pick up a few essentials from home and ask Josh to grab her mail for the week.

  Max gave her a sheepish grin and grabbed her phone. “I know. Thanks,” she said as she turned it on.

  It lit up and began to immediately vibrate with message after message notifying about missed calls, voicemails, and texts. “Whoa!” Max said, eyes bugging out, and tossed it to Lauren as though it was a live grenade.

  They both stared at it, impressed as it continued to twitch and spit out message alerts.

  “It seems Lady Ayers is not as indifferent to you as you think,” Max said.

  Lauren froze in surprise. She’d never named her.

  “I had my suspicions,” Max shrugged. “There’s just something about the way you two are around each other. But come on,” she pointed at the cell, “I can see a bunch of messages with her name on them. Tell ya what, I’m gonna pick up some milk for breakfast tomorrow from the all-night store down the street. Why don’t you work your way through the messages and, hell, I dunno, maybe call her?”

  Lauren said nothing, staring at her phone as her friend left. Once the door clicked shut and locked, she began to replay the voice messages.

  The first one was dated the night of Lauren’s meltdown.

  Saturday, June 22, 11:12 p.m. “Well? Where are you? Some people here have concerns for your welfare given your dramatic exit.”

  11:51 p.m. “Security says no bodies have been found, so I must presume yours is still breathing. Call me.”

  Sunday, June 23, 12:07a.m. “I know what you’re doing. Fine—I regret certain things said earlier. All right? Now call me.”

  12:34 a.m. “This is ridiculous, Lauren. Just text me if you don’t want to talk. That’s fine. Two letters. ‘OK’. Send me that.”

  1:47 a.m. “To clarify, I actually like your silly cap by the way. It’s you.”

  2:54 a.m. “Joshua is out god knows where with Tad. He’s no help. You… This is…this is not okay. Just let me know you’re alive.”

  4:21 a.m. “Well sleeping proved a waste of time. Did you know my home is much emptier without you in it? Why is that? I just noticed.”

  6:06 a.m. “It’ll be a beautiful sunrise. I know you’re not a morning person. Remember Topaz Lake? It took three coffees for you to not look asleep. But you’d enjoy this sunrise.”

  4:07 p.m. “Your father is concerned. He hasn’t heard from you, either. Contact one of us at least.”

  4:08 p.m. “Lauren? It’s Dad. I just had a weird call from your colleague, Kathleen Hairs. Laur, I have to ask, are you two, ah, you know? She seems more concerned than you would be over just a friend. Call us when you can. Love ya, girl.”

  7:04 p.m. “Sweetie? It’s Mari. What have you done to Ayers? She seems slightly insane. Three messages! I suspect you’re hiding out with Max, in which case, good. Put on your own oxygen mask before helping others with theirs. That’s good advice for airplanes and life. Lunch soon? Call me!”

  8:10 p.m. “I’ve finally gotten hold of Joshua. He tells me you came by to ask him to collect your mail and that you’re decompressing for a week and are fine. I’m delighted someone finally had the decency to tell me this. By the way he seems to think I’m a heel. Care to share how he formed that conclusion?”

  8:27 p.m. “Never mind. Joshua coughed up your insights on the matter for the price of a pair of scarlet cashmere socks. You think I would actually date Cynthia Redwell? After you and I… What do you take me for?”

  8:31 p.m. “Um, Lauren, it’s Josh. I may have accidentally accepted a bribe and told your wife-to-be that you possibly think she’s a heel. She’s still trying to get out of me exactly where you are. It’s not my place to tell her, so I won’t. Tad tells me I’m a cruel bastard. Tad is now sleeping on the sofa.”

  Wednesday, June 26, 7:07 a.m. “Another day and where are you? Well? By the way Frank’s found a new girl for me to train on the fine art of party reporting. Her name is Candy Summers. Apparently her résumé lists her hobbies as fashion, tap dancing, and acting. I dislike her intensely already.”

  Thursday, June 27, 10:45 p.m. “Summers is hopeless. I wanted to pick her up by her unironic side ponytail and toss her into the Ritz-Carlton’s atrium. Mariella, who is equally unimpressed, informs me she’ll look the other way if I do so. I had no idea social events were this dreary without you around to torment and be tormented by.”

  Friday, June 28, 2:22 p.m. “My nephew has finally cracked. Tad tells me he has it on good authority that you’re living with that security guard from work. That human donut-mountain with the ABBA fetish. Well. I hope you two will be very happy together.”

  4.20 p.m. “That was unnecessary. I apologize. Look I’m leaving soon for DC. My contract’s up at the end of this weekend. I regret we couldn’t part on good terms. I am sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. Goodbye, Lauren. Be well.”

  * * *

  Lauren exited her voicemail. The last message—she could hear concern, regret, and something else. She stared at the ceiling. So it was Ayers’s last day under contract to the Sentinel?

  Lauren could just let things slide. And one day, years down the road, they’d maybe bump into each other at a media convention or awards night or something. And then what? Talk about weather and politics and that time they’d written a world-famous scoop together?

  Or she could go over to Ayers’s place. Demand to know what they meant to each other. Because her messages were not what you leave for someone you’re indifferent to.

  On the other hand, she could be opening herself up for more ridicule and heart stomping.

  She was still debating when the door unlocked and Max reappeared juggling some grocery bags. More than could possibly just hold milk. “They, ah, had a four-for-the-price-of-three special on the corn chips aisle,” she explained sheepishly, holding her bags up.

  As Lauren made up her mind, she watched Max squeeze her corn chip haul into her tiny kitchen cupboard.

  “I have to go,” she said, sitting up. “Really appreciate you letting me stay. You’re the best.”

  “Sure thing,” Max said, as she moved to put her milk in the fridge. “Glad you’re making up with her.”

  “No, we’re not. I don’t think—I mean, we were never together,” Lauren said with a frown.

  Max laughed. “Sure kiddo. Just keep saying it and maybe you’ll both believe it.”

  * * *

  Lauren was met at Ayers’s gate by a formidable security guard. He examined her suspiciously and then his shoulders relaxed, recognition lighting his eyes.

  “Ms. King, a pleasure to see you again,” he said.

  “I know I’m not expected but…”

  “You’re on the white list, ma’am, it’s fine.”

  “White list?”

  “Go right through. I’ll let Ms. Ayers know you’re here. Good evening, ma’am.”

  She gave him a nod and the door rolled open. She drove down the curling drive and she parked in her old spot beside the Saab.

  As she stepped out and locked up she felt someone watching her. Ayers was leaning against the door frame to her house, arms crossed, expression hooded.

&nbs
p; “Never do that again,” she said, straightening.

  “What?”

  “Disappear. I looked everywhere. Called everyone I could think of. I sounded like your damned stalker.” Her gaze burned into Lauren’s.

  “I’m surprised you’d even notice with Cynthia Redwell to keep you amused,” Lauren countered.

  “She was trying to headhunt me. My future is in television apparently.”

  “Oh.” Lauren said, taken aback. “It is?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Come in,” she said. “I’m not doing this standing in my garage.”

  She led Lauren to the now-familiar sofa where they’d written their story together. “Stay there. Don’t move. I’ll get us drinks.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Lauren muttered under her breath, taken aback. If anything, she was the only one here with a right to have an attitude after she’d been tossed aside like three-day-old leftovers. She watched as Ayers busied herself in the kitchen, locating a wine bottle, corkscrew, and glasses.

  “Why didn’t you take the job?” she asked, unsettled by the deepening silence.

  “And drown in the mediocrity of cable news? Not to mention the use-by date on women in television. No thanks.”

  “So why spend two weeks with her hanging off you if you weren’t taking the job?”

  “I was humoring her. We go back a long way, and she has a vast DC contact list. She’s also not an enemy you’d ever want. Even my formidable reputation is not as ruthless as hers. Although the choice words I left her with that night—about where she could stick her insults about you and her job offer—will probably come back to haunt me.”

  “You actually defended me?” Lauren could hardly believe it.

  “Yes. Well. It turns out I have a soft spot for real America after all. Who knew?”

  “You mocked me, too,” Lauren accused. “I couldn’t care less about what she said. But you…after everything we’ve been through together…that stung.”

  “I know,” Ayers said tightly, pouring their glasses of wine. “I didn’t mean for it to come out that way, but I’m well aware how it sounded. I saw the look on your face…” She looked down and fiddled with the cork screw. “Cynthia had been making certain loaded comments for days. About how you kept watching me, and I you. The observations were a little too close to the bone. I may have said what I did in…panic. And then I’m well aware I said nothing when I should have.”

  “Panic,” Lauren repeated sourly. “Well congratulations on putting those rumors to rest. You were thoroughly convincing as someone who thinks I’m a backward hick worth laughing at.”

  Ayers brought the wine over, lips thinning. She sat beside her. “I’m well aware. It’s a skill.”

  Lauren glared at her in outrage.

  “I’m not proud of it,” she sighed. “You’re a better woman than I am. All I do is cut people to the quick, find their weakest spots without even thinking. Sometimes without caring.”

  “So which was it? With me? You didn’t think or you didn’t care?”

  “Lauren…” Ayers shook her head. “You already know the answer. The moment the words were out, I wanted to take them back. I went to find you almost immediately. Where were you?”

  “Getting drunk at a Star Trek marathon,” Lauren muttered. She sipped on the wine and relaxed slightly as she felt her palate do a jig of delight in recognition. It was her favorite label of all the bottles they’d tried from Ayers’s cellar. So—she’d remembered.

  “I’m so sorry,” Ayers said after a few moments.

  “Hilarious.”

  “No, I mean it. I’m truly sorry.” Ayers moved closer.

  Lauren met her steady gaze. “I don’t get this. What are we?”

  Ayers took a deep sip of wine. “Ask me an easy one.”

  “That was the easy one. Way I see it, we had a chance of being together, but you made sure that was shut down by reverting to Caustic Queen mode. And then you went out of your way to ensure I wouldn’t follow you to Washington by convincing them to give me Daley’s job. But suddenly I find you do give a shit to the tune of two-dozen voicemails. So color me confused.”

  Ayers seemed taken aback. “Lauren, I put you up for Daley’s job because you’re the best person. They asked me who I’d pick, and you were an excellent choice. I also wanted you to have options and not be undervalued again once I was gone. But this is the first I’m hearing that you wanted to go with me to DC!”

  “Well you didn’t give me a chance to tell you!” Lauren slammed her glass on the coffee table. “You were so busy throwing me out the door, I couldn’t even tell you how I felt.”

  “How you felt?” Ayers stared at her. “We’d only had one night together. You couldn’t possibly have felt anything!”

  “There you go again!” Lauren snapped in frustration.

  “What?”

  “Deciding how my life should be. Which job I should get. How I should feel about what happened between us. This has been going on for a lot longer than one night. I think we should name it.” Lauren tilted her head. “World won’t end.”

  Ayers pursed her lips. “If you knew my family, you’d think it would.”

  “They’re not here. It’s just you and me. What is this? Was it really only me engaged in foreplay all these months we’ve been working together in LA?”

  Ayers looked at her distastefully. “Crude description.”

  “But accurate?” Lauren asked hopefully.

  “No. Not even close.”

  “Oh,” Lauren said. Her face fell, and she felt foolish all over again.

  “Stop it,” Ayers said. “Stop this kicked puppy thing you do whenever you think I don’t like you that way. Listen to me. I don’t share my privacy, my home, and certainly not my shower with anyone. But with my departure coming up, I was well aware nothing could come of us continuing things, so to hold out hopes for more would only end in tears. It was the best course of action. It was necessary. A clean break.”

  “You keep saying that. But what makes you so damned sure I’d cry over you?” Lauren asked indignantly.

  “For god’s sake Lauren.” Ayers exhaled heavily. “Must you drag it out of me? Are you really this obtuse?”

  Lauren stared at her in confusion. Ayers’s shoulders were slumped, and her gaze suddenly flashed up to Lauren’s. Her eyes were wet. Lauren sucked in a shocked breath.

  “Don’t you see?” Ayes said, voice cracking. “I wasn’t talking about your tears.”

  There was a long silence. All Lauren could hear was the ticking of the chrome clock on the far wall.

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. Oh.” Ayers fiddled with the ring on her right hand, an embarrassed redness dusting her cheeks. “Now do you understand?”

  Lauren’s mind was in disarray.

  “You knew you’d miss me?” she asked uncertainly.

  “More than is sensible,” Ayers said. Her eyes softened. “Or logical. And I thought if I could just shut it down, distance myself from you, I’d stop feeling before it could hurt too much.” She looked up. “I was wrong. Pretending is worse—much worse. Trust you to be a pain in my neck regardless.”

  “Did you just insult me?” Lauren asked lightly, but her mind was spinning.

  “I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t.” Ayers smiled. “You’d suspect me of being an imposter if I told you that when you walk in a room, I can never take my eyes off you. That whenever you stand up to me, I feel alive. You challenge me. You blew into my world when I was at my lowest, all brash and daring and honest, and in spite of myself, I wanted that. Wanted you.”

  Lauren breathed out slowly, turning over the words in her mind.

  “I know it’s crazy,” Ayers said, her voice filled with irritation. “We’re polar opposites in many ways. And my contract is up now. Tomorrow marks my first day of freedom, and I’ve never been more relieved to be done with a place. And yet…” Her gaze drifted back to Lauren’s.

  “And yet there’ll be no more of me challenging you.�
�� Lauren guessed.

  “Something like that.”

  “What if I told you the Washington Post had offered me a junior reporter job. Starts in two months. Catherine—it’s in DC. And I looked it up. It’s in the same building as the Sentinel’s DC bureau. So if you took back your old job, and I know you’ve been offered it, we’d be working in the same damned place.”

  Ayers stopped, surprise flitting across her face. Her mouth opened momentarily then snapped shut.

  “Yeah.” Lauren grinned. “And just so you know, I’d have taken it regardless of whether there was an us. But now we can give it a shot. If you want to, that is.”

  “Hell,” Ayers turned away, uncertainty lining her features.

  “Catherine?”

  “You know all those times you just don’t dare to dream? You tell yourself it’ll only end badly. Why hurt yourself for no reason? And after a while you teach yourself to not dream at all?”

  Lauren shook her head. “No, I always dream. The bigger, the better. Otherwise I’d still be writing about Pork Princesses and butter cows. It’s not too late, you know. To dream. To want. If you want me?”

  She swallowed and had never been more terrified of an answer in her life.

  “There it is again,” Ayers said, shaking her head incredulously. “You just ask earth-shattering questions like that. You’re fearless.”

  “If you don’t ask, you never get anything. Certainly not your dreams.”

  Ayers sighed. “Do you have any idea how frightening it is to care for someone who dreams? They infect you with their optimism. And soon you start to dream together. You begin to dare to hope.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “There’s only one thing more painful than a dream being crushed. That’s a dreamer being crushed. When you met me, Lauren, I was destroyed. Can you even remotely understand what that feels like? To have every hope and ambition ripped from you while the people you thought you mattered to just skulked away and pretended not to see you dying on the inside. Even my friends,” she said, her voice strangled, “friends for years, looked away. You were right—of course they weren’t real friends. I tried to pretend it didn’t matter, that it’s just politics, but in the end, I think that hurt even more than Stephanie’s betrayal. Can you imagine what that felt like?”

 

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