by Natasha Boyd
"I could have a shrink," I answered indignantly, though God knew why. I was smirking as we bantered. Holy shit, were we . . . flirting?
"You don't," he answered smoothly. "Besides, now that I have your phone, I could probably find out more about you than anyone alive. Even your shrink."
My stomach dropped. "You wouldn't."
"Why? What are you hiding?"
I swallowed, my cheeks hot. I looked down at his phone. "I guess since I have yours, I could do the same."
"Good luck with that, I have a code. A security detail you probably should have had on yours too."
"Good thing I bypassed that code then, isn't it?"
"That's funny."
"And serious." I opened his phone and mulled his apps. "Ugh." I couldn't help the grunt of disgust. "You have a smorgasbord of dating apps. Figures."
"Lucky guess, Hippie Chick."
"Emmy," I corrected, but somehow I wasn't as annoyed as I’d expected. I pulled open a stock ticker app to prove to him I was looking at his phone. "Why are you watching Delta Industries? Own shares of them, do you? Whoa, quite a lot of shares by the looks of it."
"Mother fucker. You're serious."
I bobbed my head back at his tone. "You have a foul mouth."
"Who the hell are you? Is this a joke?" His voice was cold. Memories of his ice-chip eyes and growl like a biting arctic wind at the airport flooded back to me.
"Excuse me?" I was genuinely confused. "Listen, Dr. Jekyll, I'm not sure what crawled inside your bespoke suit and into your crack, but you have my phone too!"
"You've bypassed my security code. So either you're a hacker holding my phone hostage, and probably employed by my competitor in the midst of a multimillion-dollar deal, or you're lying. And you're not lying, are you?"
I swallowed. I guess I hadn't really thought the whole code breaking someone's phone thing through.
"Consider that phone burned," he said and the line went dead.
I stood for a few seconds then pulled the white handset from my ear. And stared at it like I expected it to apologize. Then I handed it back to Phillip. My blood pressure rose with my anger, but I had no direction for it. He hadn't even told me his name. As if it would help me somehow, I went to his email. If I was in trouble I may as well earn it.
A ton of emails from someone called Carson. Whatever. I wasn't going to read them. I just needed my nemesis' name.
Tmontgomery @ and some long ass, important sounding extension. I didn't even look to see what the T stood for. I selected and copied.
New email.
* * *
To: tmontgomery
From: tmontgomery
* * *
Mr. Montgomery,
* * *
You are a grade A prick. Now I am in your email (you asked for it). If you cancel your phone I will leak all of your financial information.
* * *
Regards,
Hippie Chick
* * *
I hit send. Then immediately felt the kind of remorse one feels after doing something really, really bad. Or really, really stupid. Immediately, I pulled up the text app and found the message he'd sent from my number.
* * *
Sorry about the email. Please, please, don't cancel your phone. I'm in New York. As it is I haven't even left the airport yet. I need to get a cab out to Far Rockaway and need access to a phone for safety reasons, and I can't afford a new one right now. I'll bring it back to you, I swear. I'll explain how I got into your phone as long as you don't cancel it.
* * *
Dots came up to show he was typing a response. Then they disappeared.
I held my breath, but nothing happened.
"Shit," I said.
"Are you quite done here?" I looked up to see Phillip again. "It's probably time you moved on," he said. "I think you're scaring people away."
I pouted at him. "Offense taken," I responded and hefted up my purse. "But thanks for the use of the phone."
He nodded and turned to a lady who was holding an armful of enormous Toblerone bars, wandering toward the information desk and looking really lost.
"She doesn't look scared," I told him.
"Bye." He widened his eyes and wiggled his fingers at me.
"Fine." I rolled my eyes, headed toward baggage claim to get my bag, then out to the taxi stand.
I clutched Suit Monkey's phone in my hand the whole time. It was warm and noisy outside, with cars honking to get the attention of their waiting passengers. The line for taxis moved fast. My cab driver was monosyllabic, and as I sat in the backseat, I decided to at least add my number into the phone as a contact. I started typing my name, but then if he texted or called me and my own name popped up it would be weird.
I decided on
First Name: Suit
Last Name: Monkey
Company: who has Emmy's phone held hostage
Address: Douchbag Industries
Save. For some reason that made me feel better.
Then I called ahead while I still had use of a phone that hadn't been disconnected.
4
Emmy
I should have flown into JFK, it would have been better than having to drive through Manhattan to get to my destination. Phone calls made, I unlocked the phone again and looked at the dating apps and couldn't help shaking my head. What world did we live in? I'd taken the leap a couple of years ago to dip my toe in the cesspool, and it was as murky and gross as I’d imagined. This guy didn't seem to mind though, if anything he had memberships to every type of dating site I'd heard of and some I hadn't. I wondered if he was on the site for married people wanting to have affairs too. That would tell me a lot about him.
Who was T Montgomery? I went back to his email.
The senders were repeats—some guy named Trent, about five from someone named "Mac" MacMillen, more from Carson, all interspersed with emails from a person named Dorothy. I opened one from Dorothy this morning that was marked as already read:
* * *
Reception after the funeral address is 17 Laurens Street, Charleston. I've already informed the car service. Home of Alston Family (presume friends of your late grandfather). They've also requested your presence at the reading of the will after the reception. Address of law office attached. Good luck today.
* * *
I didn't know this man, even his name yet, but all of a sudden his gruff demeanor and snappy attitude seemed different in the context of him attending the funeral of a family member.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I opened the text box again.
* * *
You never told me your name
* * *
The response came immediately.
* * *
Suit Monkey: I'm surprised you haven't ferreted it out of my phone.
* * *
I wanted you to tell me. And by the way I'm not a hacker.
* * *
Suit Monkey: I know.
* * *
You know? I'm kind of offended you don't think I'm capable of being a hacker. You have to admit bypassing your code was pretty awesome.
* * *
Suit Monkey: Honey, you have zero security on your phone. Interesting photos btw. I don't think you fit the profile.
* * *
I'm not sure there is a hacker profile. And STOP GOING THROUGH MY PHOTOS. Or I'll go through yours.
* * *
Suit Monkey: Fine. Are you a hacker?
* * *
No. So anyway—your name?
* * *
Suit Monkey: It's not a good time. I'm about to walk into a church.
* * *
That makes it the perfect time!
* * *
Suit Monkey: Um. There is so much wrong with that statement. But I'll bite. How so?
* * *
I'm assuming since you are going to a church in the middle of the week in the middle of the day, that you aren't there for any of life's happy occasions.
> * * *
Suit Monkey: Astute.
* * *
Family member? Friend? Or both?
* * *
Suit Monkey: Family member.
* * *
Not both. Interesting.
* * *
So do you hate your name? Is that why you won't tell me? Is it weird?
* * *
Suit Monkey: Weirder than the fact you are texting me when you know I'm heading into a funeral? Thanks for the condolences, by the way.
* * *
Suit Monkey: And no, I don't hate my name.
* * *
:: drums fingers :: Do you want me to go through your emails?
* * *
There was a long pause.
* * *
Suit Monkey: Trystan Montgomery. And like that would stop you.
* * *
Trystan.
* * *
Suit Monkey: Yes.
* * *
Wow.
* * *
Suit Monkey: Wow?
* * *
That's my favorite name.
* * *
Another long pause.
* * *
Suit Monkey: So you're not a hacker but . . . are you a hooker?
* * *
ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?
* * *
There was no response. I looked out the window as we crossed the bridge into the city, the driver weaving in and out of traffic and lurching to a stop periodically when he misjudged the distance between cars. I was starting to get motion sickness.
I looked down at the phone in my hand and wondered how many times David was blowing up my phone that was probably in Trystan's pocket. Trystan. It fit. Somehow. And spoke to me in a strange punch to the chest. Sighing, I opened the screen on Trystan's phone again.
* * *
By the way, the wake is at 17 Laurens Street, your driver has the details. And Dorothy says you are also requested to attend the reading of the will. If you decide not to accept any inheritance money due to your pride or whatever, feel free to put it in my name: Emmaline Angelique Dubois. Social Security number XXX-XX-XXXX (now you can get your background checkers on me).
* * *
Suit Monkey: Definitely not a hacker. Maybe we should have a session on online safety. Never send personal information via insecure channels. French? You don't sound French.
* * *
Stop texting me. You're at a funeral. It's rude.
* * *
Suit Monkey: Luckily the only person who I'd be worried about disrespecting is dead.
Suit Monkey: Who's David?
5
Trystan
Even though I'm in the air-conditioned back seat, sweat is beading at my temple. I have to get myself under control. I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes closed. The car stops, engine running, outside Grace Cathedral. I want to be pissed at Emmy or whoever she is for breaking into my phone, but I'm reluctantly impressed. More pressing though is the reality of where I am.
"All right?" my driver asks, staring at me through the reflection of the rearview mirror.
I blow out a breath. "Yeah. Are you okay with waiting?"
"Your dime. Your time." She shrugs.
I look out the tinted windows at the parked cars and the people milling around the entrance. I don't recognize anyone. Not surprising as I haven't had anything to do with this family since I was a child. Not by choice back then. But by choice now.
The phone on the seat next to me buzzes. I expect it be yet another call or voicemail from “David.” Boyfriend? Jealous husband? Hacker contact? Who am I kidding? Emmy is no more a hacker than I'm the prodigal son. I don't know what possessed me to suddenly accuse her. I guess I felt uncomfortable with our instant and surprising intimacy, and her admission she'd broken into my phone gave me a perfect out that I grabbed with both hands. I look at the phone, stalling for time before I have to get out and walk into that church. She's in New York. In my city. And I'm in hers.
As soon as most of the people congregating outside have moved into the church, I do my top button back up, pull my tie back to my neck, and step out of the vehicle.
* * *
On my way toward the entrance of Grace Cathedral, I see my cousin Beau. At least I think it's Beau.
"Trystan?"
"Yeah, Beau. Wow. Look at you." He's grown up and thinned out. I can't help smiling at his warm brown eyes that remind me of happier times in my distant childhood.
"Me? What about you?" His eyes rake over my suit, the Patek Filipe on my wrist and down to my Gucci loafers. "Something tells me this is your normal dress code, and you're not just dressed up of the funeral. Unlike me. I'm normally in shorts and Dockers." He tugs at his collar. "I'm dying in this suit."
It's a little ill-fitting, but I don't comment on it. "You're looking good though."
"Yeah, no longer the chubby kid. Damn, I'm glad you're here. I was hoping you'd come."
"I didn't want to."
"Probably not, but I've been following your successes, and I was hoping you'd come down and rub their faces in it."
I bob my head back, surprised.
"What? You think I didn't think they were fucking psycho for throwing you guys out?"
I swallow and grab the back of my neck. "No, I just, uh, didn't think you knew. We were kids."
"Well, I didn't for years, I just thought you and your mom moved. I was bummed.”
"We did move."
"I mean, moved by choice. But then, well, I overheard some shit growing up. If it's any consolation, they fought about it until the end. And I'm sorry about your mother."
Scowling, I let the words roll over me, unsure how they make me feel.
"Come on," says Beau, oblivious to my discomfort. "Let's get you inside. I have to help carry the coffin. Just waiting on the hearse to arrive." He grimaces.
"I can see myself in. I'm not sitting up front with her."
Beau hesitates. "You sure?"
I nod once. Decisively. "Let's catch up after the service."
The phone in my pocket buzzes again once more. I pull it out.
Emmy: I'm sorry for your loss.
I quickly type out That makes one of us, then I delete it and write a simple Thank you. Just then the hearse pulls up.
I tense, watching, sizing up the suited men who come to help bear the coffin. In a parallel life perhaps I'd be one of the six.
With Beau is his father, my uncle; he's smaller than I remember. In my memories he's large and mean. Now he looks older, flaccid and unkempt. Weak.
I blow out a breath and hurry toward the entrance, watching as they and four other men ease the coffin of glossy dark wood out of the hearse and heft it up to their shoulders.
Some last stragglers scurry inside to get their seats. I follow them in.
* * *
Standing in the dim, cool church at the back, I feel none of the expected emotions. Not that I know what I should be feeling. My eyes glide down each row, noting coiffed hair and black hats, until I get to the front. The stiff neck and shoulders of the Montgomery matriarch holds her head high. Her gray hair is tied tight in an elegant chignon. I presume the small hat she wears hangs a tasteful veil over her eyes.
I do feel a spark of something then. The prick of a little boy's fear rushing back at me through the years as if I hadn't grown up the last two decades. The dread of being a disappointment. The shame of it. The utterly helpless feeling of how I couldn't change to be what they wanted so they could love me. But with all these emotions, anger emerges too. Anger at how one woman could so utterly destroy lives she didn't feel worthy of fitting into to her social order. And hatred. With every fiber of my being, I hate Isabel Montgomery.
Maybe I really should consider a shrink.
I don't know what makes me do it. But I pull the phone out of my pocket.
* * *
Talk to me, I type. I need a distraction. Is Trystan really your favorite name?
&nb
sp; * * *
I slink into a pew at the back, nodding to an elderly couple I don't recognize. She hands me a hymnal. "Thanks," I whisper, and she nods, facing forward again. As soon as I look down at the phone, though, I feel her staring daggers at the side of my face. I look up and stare right back at her until she drops her eyes and looks forward. Her husband glances at me, and I nod, looking away.
* * *
Emmy: It really is. Tristan was a knight of Author's roundtable. But mostly, it reminds me of a movie I adore. Stardust. Have you seen it?
* * *
Me: I don't watch a lot of movies. Don't have a whole lot of time.
* * *
Emmy: Well, if you ever find yourself at a loose end with two hours free, I highly recommend it. There's comedy, romance, murder, family feuds, gay pirates, and witchcraft.