Follow Me

by Kathleen Barber

  I laughed shortly. “At least you have one.”

  “Well, let’s do something about that. So things are kind of stalemating with Connor. Who cares? There are tons of other guys out there, guys who will actually appreciate you. Have you considered online dating?”

  She wants Connor for herself, a little voice hissed as an image of Connor pressing Audrey against the jukebox flashed through my mind. She’s trying to dissuade you from pursuing him so that she can have him.

  No, I reminded myself. I saw her push him away.

  Didn’t I? My champagne-muddled mind suddenly couldn’t remember.

  “I saw you and Connor,” I blurted.

  Audrey’s glossy mouth dropped open, and I derived a small amount of cold satisfaction from striking my effervescent friend speechless. I held her eyes, challenging her to defend herself.

  “I don’t know what you think you saw,” she finally said, “but I did not kiss him.”

  “But he tried to kiss you.”

  “Cat—”

  “Don’t,” I interrupted, a bubble of hysteria rising in my chest. “I know what happened. Connor fell in love with you, just like every man you’ve ever encountered.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  I laughed bitterly. Leave it to Audrey to not even notice the men piling up at her feet. “It’s not. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you should have told me. You’re supposed to be my friend. How could you not tell me?”

  “Because I wanted to protect you!” she exclaimed, flinging her arms in the air. “I know you like Connor, but he’s a moron who doesn’t realize what a catch you are.”

  I snorted. “Sure. I’m a real catch.”

  “You are. You’re—”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head firmly. “Once a freak, always a freak.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re not a freak.” She reached for my cup. “Maybe I should cut you off …”

  “You know I’m right,” I said, yanking the cup out of her reach, sloshing juice and wine on her bed. “You remember freshman year. And before that … Audrey, I haven’t always looked like this. I used to be shorter, chunkier. I had bad skin and a stutter. I couldn’t make eye contact without breaking into a full-body rash.”

  “So? That’s not who you are now. You’re beautiful and smart and confident—”

  “Tell that to Emily Snow.”

  “Who?” Audrey blinked.

  I caught my breath, suddenly sober. I hadn’t meant to mention Emily Snow. I’d made it all these years without once telling Audrey about that summer at camp, and I hoped to make it many more. I swallowed hard and shook my head. “Just some girl who used to torment me.”

  “Forget her,” Audrey said, putting her hands over mine. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized mine were shaking. “You’re a striking woman, a brilliant lawyer who owns her own gorgeous apartment in a vibrant city. What do you think that Emily Snow bitch is doing these days? Shilling some pyramid-scheme yoga pants out of her suburban tract home?”

  My stomach tightened. If only Emily Snow were doing that.

  “Listen to me, Cat,” she said, blue-green eyes shimmering earnestly as she squeezed my hands. “You have everything going for you. Everything. So one dumb guy doesn’t get it. Who cares about him?”

  I wanted to agree with her. I wanted to wash my hands of my unrequited obsession with Connor, to be free of the way he made me feel like I wasn’t good enough. God knows I had tried. But for some reason, I just couldn’t let go.

  I hung my head and whispered, “I care.”

  Audrey dropped my hands and sighed. “Fine. I ask you not to judge my choice in male companions, so I’m not going to judge yours.”

  “At least you can have Nick. You’re not—”

  “Stop that negative self-talk right now. You’re a babe, and you can have whomever you want, Connor included.” She paused and smiled slowly. “And I’ll prove it to you.”

  “How?”

  Her smile widened and her eyes sparkled. “I have an idea.”

  Against all reason, I felt a flicker of hope in my chest. Everything Audrey touched turned to gold. Why shouldn’t I?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  HIM

  The three days after I sent the RAT-laced email were excruciating. My entire being vibrated with anticipation; I couldn’t eat, couldn’t drink, couldn’t sleep. I could hardly bring myself to step away from my computer in case I somehow missed her, and so I called in sick to work. Even taking a shower was too much time away from my post, and I sat in my own filth. I sustained myself on my dwindling supply of animal crackers and berated myself for fouling this all up. Audrey wasn’t going to download the program. Of course she wasn’t. What person in their right mind would download a random file from a stranger? I was an idiot to think it would have been that easy, a lovesick idiot.

  My constant vigil overwhelmed me, and I must have fallen asleep, because I awoke with a start, my neck cricked and a half-chewed animal cracker stuck to the roof of my mouth. Blearily, I turned back to the computer.

  And there it was.

  On my RAT desktop, I could see the icon indicating I had access to her computer. I blinked once, twice, wondering whether I was still asleep, whether wanting something so much had made me delusional. Holding my breath, waiting for the icon to vanish before my eyes, I navigated my mouse to it and clicked. My stomach lurched as I did so; I was terrified that, if this was real, she would notice the green light suddenly appearing beside the eye of her laptop’s camera. I’d read all about how that light had spelled disaster for other “ratters.”

  But Audrey gave no indication she noticed it. She wasn’t even looking at the screen. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, her exquisite body clad in form-fitting exercise clothing. She held a plastic cup in one hand, while the other was digging around in a tub of animal crackers. My face tingled, and I swallowed the lump of saliva-soaked cookie in my mouth. She’s eating animal crackers at this very moment, too. It was a sign. It had to be.

  I reached out to touch my screen, tracing a finger along that gorgeous hair that I loved so much, imagining that I was actually twining my fingers through the locks, inhaling the scent of her coconut shampoo. I was so captivated by Audrey’s shimmering aura that I barely glanced at the other woman in the frame. When I finally noticed her, I paused and frowned. What a strange pair these two were. One fire-haired sprite, one awkward dormouse.

  And then Audrey looked up and directly at me, her brilliant, jewel-colored eyes staring right through the screen and into the farthest reaches of my aching heart. It swelled within my chest, constricting my lungs, my throat, choking me. I gagged painfully, but oh, what a way to go, asphyxiated by love.

  She frowned, and every cell in my body froze. She knew. She knew I was there, staring through the virtual peephole.

  “Hmm,” she murmured, looking at the screen. “That’s weird.”

  No, no, no. How could I have been so stupid? So goddamn greedy? I’d ruined everything already. If only—

  But then, instead of slamming her computer shut or running a spyware program, she took a sip of her drink and shrugged. Turning her face away from the screen, she said, “I really need a new computer. This old thing can’t even open a simple file anymore.”

  I exhaled, sagging with relief. My clumsy attempt had been, against all odds, successful. I was in.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  AUDREY

  Three champagne-heavy mimosas deep, I hadn’t been able to take Cat’s plaintive sobbing any longer and had come up with the idea to put both Cat and Connor on the list for the museum’s exclusive preview for The Life and Death of Rosalind Rose. I thought it was inspired. Cat seemed doubtful, but I had finally convinced her that the problem wasn’t that she was some sort of hideous, unlovable troll, as she seemed to believe. Rather, the problem was that Connor had only ever known Cat as a classmate, colleague, and trivia buddy. For him to consider her a potential romantic partn
er, he needed to see her through a different lens. The preview was the perfect location for that: a little glamorous, a lot out of their comfort zone, and with a built-in topic of conversation.

  On the night of the event, as museum members and donors began arriving, I worried I hadn’t properly counseled Cat on what to wear. I wouldn’t put it past her to come straight from work in her usual ink-stained suit and unflattering pumps with their ground-down heels, which would totally defeat the purpose of removing her from her normal environs. I was about to text her some last-minute ideas when she entered the room. I relaxed. She’d traded her frumpy work wear for a pair of slim, cream-colored pants that showed off her long legs and a cadet-blue tunic that matched her eyes. Her hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, and her lips were painted a subtle rosy hue. Even her fingernails, usually a shade of pale pink so boring I wanted to die, were a punchier rose. She was standing erect, her neck elongated as she looked around the room.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” I greeted her. “You look stunning.”

  “Really?” she asked anxiously. “Thanks. You don’t think this is a little much?”

  “Not at all. It’s exactly the right amount of much for a first date.”

  “This isn’t a date,” Cat said quickly, flushing.

  “Sure it isn’t. Speaking of, where is Connor?”

  “He got stuck on a call, but he’s on his way.” Her mouth trembled slightly, and she started to raise her hand to her mouth. “That’s what he said, at least. I went home to change.”

  “Then we’ll see him soon. Listen, I wish I could stay and chat, but I promised my boss I would be on social media all night, so I have to get back to work. You’ll be all right until Connor gets here?”

  Cat nodded the affirmative even as her expression said otherwise.

  “You’ll be fine,” I assured her. “Have a drink. Meet some new people. Have fun!”

  * * *

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, I could only hope Cat was having fun because I decidedly was not. Midway through a Live chat with the Director of Exhibitions, my phone had flashed a low-power warning. My stomach sank—I had plugged in my phone that afternoon; had the cord been bad? I wrapped the Live up as quickly as I could, and then rushed out of the gallery toward the office space.

  Don’t be such a fucking amateur, Audrey, I thought angrily as I dug through my desk drawers in search of an external battery. I sorted through various ephemera—pens, paper clips, loose bobby pins, a mostly empty package of Orbit—my panic growing with each moment.

  I know there’s a battery in here, I thought, and sent up a quick prayer to whichever body might be listening. Please, please let it be here.

  I exhaled a sigh of relief as my fingers closed around it. Thank you. As I attached the battery to my phone, I heard someone enter the room behind me. My skin prickled, and I had the sudden thought that the creep whom Lawrence always jokingly called the president of my fan club had followed me in here. That was irrational, though. I hadn’t seen him all day, and certainly not that night.

  I spun around and relaxed when I saw it was only Lawrence, looking dapper in a polka-dot bow tie and with his light hair carefully combed and gelled.

  “You scared me!” I exclaimed with a relieved laugh.

  “Sorry. That wasn’t my intention.”

  He was smiling, but the intense way he held my eyes and the studiously casual way he was leaning against the doorframe sent a warning flare up my spine. Honestly, I was so paranoid these days that even Nick was giving me the creeps.

  I shook it off and asked, “What are you doing in here?”

  “I saw you come this way and didn’t know if you needed help with anything.”

  “Nope,” I said, holding up the battery. “I was just looking for this. All good now, thanks.”

  Lawrence straightened and licked his lips. “Audrey, now that we’re alone—”

  The warning flare transformed into full-blown alarm. Nothing good ever started with the phrase “Now that we’re alone.”

  “I really should get back to the gallery,” I interrupted, taking a step toward the door.

  “Just a second,” he said, catching me by the arm.

  I looked uneasily at his hand. It was resting lightly on my forearm, an ostensibly friendly touch, and yet it felt vaguely threatening. Lecherous Larry. I shook his hand off me.

  “Not now, Lawrence.”

  “I need to talk to you about something,” he continued as though I hadn’t spoken, still making extreme eye contact. I fervently wished we weren’t alone in this space, out of earshot from everyone else.

  “Later,” I said firmly. “I’m busy right now.”

  “Come on, Audrey,” he said softly, reaching out to touch my hair. “Let’s stop dancing around the obvious. I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

  “Excuse me?” I recoiled, wincing in pain as some strands tangled in his fingers and were yanked free from my scalp.

  “There’s no point in denying it,” he said, closing the short distance between us and breathing heavily on my face.

  “I haven’t been looking at you like anything,” I snapped, rubbing the sore spot on my head and taking a step backward. Annoyed, I added, “Except maybe with ridicule because that bow tie looks like some sort of bad joke.”

  His expression flickered through irritation, anger, and finally settled into amusement. “I’ve always liked that you’re not afraid to say what’s on your mind.”

  “This conversation is over,” I said, and moved to step around him. He shifted his body to block mine, and even though he wasn’t a particularly large man, the motion forced me backward. I stumbled, surprised when my shoulders hit the wall behind me.

  I’m literally cornered, I thought. A glimmer of fear ran through me before it gave way to anger. There was no way I was letting some grabby jerk ruin one of the most important nights of my career.

  “Back off!” I ordered, planting my hands on his tangerine-colored shirt and shoving him away from me.

  Lawrence recovered quickly, laughing as he grabbed my bare upper arms tightly. “Come on, Audrey—”

  I jerked my arms from his grasp and brandished my cell phone. “Don’t touch me again or I stream this live.”

  He smiled playfully as though this was all one big joke. “Audrey—”

  “I’m serious,” I said. “Get out of my way, or I go live in three … two …”

  His grin faded and he straightened his bow tie. “What’s gotten into you? I was just messing around.”

  “Ha ha,” I said sarcastically before stomping around him and out the door.

  * * *

  I WAS STILL trembling with anger as I pushed my way through the crowded gallery, searching for Cat. Sequins scratched at my bare arms and I caught elbows to my collarbone, but I pressed on, muttering apologies as I stepped on people’s feet. I needed Cat. Where was she? For the ten millionth time in my life, I wished I were just a few inches taller so I would have a better vantage point.

  In the center of the gallery, a crowd had formed around the diorama where Rosalind first arrived in Los Angeles. It was one of the more hopeful scenes in the otherwise dark series: a tiny spotlight simulating the sun shone down on Rosalind, her red lips grinning and blonde ponytail high as she stood proudly beside a doll-sized U-Haul truck. In one of her tiny hands, she clutched a miniature tabloid, its headline—“Dead at 24!”—hinting at the horrors that would come. I paused my search for Cat and lingered on the crowd’s edge, eavesdropping—immaculate details, how about the use of lighting here?, God I hate knowing how this ends—and searching for the best candidate for a quick Live. My eyes had just settled on Lena, who was engaged in a deep conversation with a pastel-haired woman dressed completely in white, when I felt the sensation of being watched.

  I whirled around, expecting to find Lawrence staring at me from across the room. Instead, I saw only a sea of unfamiliar faces, none of which were looking in my direction. I scanned them anyway, paranoia growin
g as I searched for someone, anyone, who might have been paying me undue attention. I froze as I caught a glimpse of a bulky figure wearing an incongruous baseball cap. That creep always lurking around the halls. Still riled up from my encounter with Lawrence and spoiling for a fight, I curled my hands into fists and started toward him. I was going to tell that loser to leave me the hell alone once and for all. I was not going to let another stupid man intimidate me at my workplace.

  “Hey,” I said, my voice crackling with anger as I tapped him sharply on the shoulder.

  He turned around, licking his lips when he saw me. “Hello there.”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  He adjusted the brim of his cap and cocked his head at me. “Checking out the exhibit. You know I’ve been interested in this one.”

  A memory of the shock I felt when I saw him in the gallery on that first day flashed through my mind, and I tightened my fist. “I seem to remember you helping yourself to an early glimpse. Now, as this preview is exclusively for donors and members, you’ll need to leave.”

  He laughed slightly. “I’m not leaving.”

  Furious, I jabbed a finger at him—the second man to ignore my request to leave me the hell alone in the last thirty minutes—and snapped, “Listen, I don’t know who you are, how you got in here, or what it is that you want, but I am sick and tired of you showing up and ogling me when I’m just trying to do my goddamn job.”

  A large, vaguely familiar-looking man with a ruddy complexion lumbered up to the creep’s side and placed one of his hefty hands on his shoulder. Glowering at me from underneath bushy gray eyebrows, he asked, “Is there a problem here?”

  Suddenly, I recognized him as Senator Adrian Potts, whom Ayala always praised as a generous patron of the arts. Shit. Upsetting Senator Potts was a serious enough offense to cost me that promotion, no matter how many special videos Irina Venn created for us.

  “No problem, Dad,” the creep said.