by Kate Myles
He looks at his watch. Chloe is late. His sympathy for her drains as he watches her pull up to the curb and put on lip gloss. His shoulder is still sore.
Chloe steps out of her car. She’s wearing the black blouse he bought her with the asymmetrical neck. The shirt is severe. It streamlines her face, taking away some of that apple-cheeked innocence. She’s still gorgeous. Perfect, actually. She walks toward him, grinning, unsuspecting. Like it’s an ordinary day.
“Do you want to sit in the sun?” she asks. “I have a blanket in the car.”
“Sit,” he says. “This is going to be a difficult conversation.”
She sits close to him. “I’m sorry about the bite.”
“You mentioned.”
“I’ve been thinking about your wife.”
“Please don’t bring up my wife again.”
Chloe’s eyelids flutter. She shakes out her hair. It’s as if she has no sexless gestures in her repertoire. She faces him with a look that’s half-seductive, half-steely.
“So what’s the deal?” she says.
He clenches his jaw. In a different era, he could simply kick her to the curb. Leave her penniless on the street to die of consumption or syphilis or whatever. She’s a lucky girl to be living in twenty-first-century America.
“Understand that I’m not firing you or encouraging you to quit,” he says. “But if you choose to go, HR can help you with options.”
She sniffs. “How much?”
“Excuse me?”
“How much is the severance?”
“You’d have to discuss that with HR.”
She nods into space. He stands.
“Do you have any more questions?” he asks.
Her body jerks. She looks down.
“I’ve kept you too long. Don’t want Jo-Ann wondering where her receptionist has gone to.”
“Are you going back to the office?” she asks. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. He’s her boss.
A sensation takes over as he strides to his car. It grows as he sits in the driver’s seat. He starts his engine. Before he even puts his car into drive, he feels like he’s in motion. His body pulses with an unbearable urge to consume.
Gobble, gobble, he thinks. That was what he and his buddies used to say before a big night of shrooms and pills and coke. Gobble up the drugs.
He searches his phone. What was that other girl’s name again? He can picture only her dark bangs and tattoos. Marilyn. No. Karyn. No. He has the contact information of everyone in Chloe’s group. He scrolls through his address book. Sheralyn. That’s right. Sheralyn the raunchy. He texts:
Hi there
He waits for the pulsing ellipses to indicate she’s writing back. Nothing. He thinks back to her pouts at the bar after the Grove, the way she slapped her ass on the trail for him. Sheralyn will sleep with him. Whether she’ll do it because she hates Chloe or because she’s easy, it doesn’t matter. If he has any instincts, any sense of certainty, it’s this. He knows which girls will screw him. He tries again:
This is Doug.
Doug who?
Chloe’s friend
Is everything ok?
Not really. Can we talk?
What’s wrong?
Better in person. Are you home?
Wow.
I guess.
OK.
He shuts off his phone before getting on the 405 north. Emily has been tracking him. He checked their cell accounts after she was so sneaky this weekend, stealing a look at his shoulder. He almost turned off the location-tracking option when he saw it but decided to let it stay. He didn’t want to tip her off.
Sheralyn greets him at the door to her apartment in high-rise jeans and a boxy white T-shirt. “Hi,” she says. She raises her arm to the door’s edge, standing in the narrow open space between him and her apartment. The thorny edge of a rose tattoo peeks out from the top of her crewneck.
“Hi.”
“What’s happening with Chloe?” she asks.
Doug shrugs. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
She studies him a moment before backing into the room. “You want to come in?” She walks ahead of him. Her movements are slow. Her body is meaty. Dirty. Pleading for violation. “I made banana bread,” she says.
He coughs. “I’ll just have some water if you’ve got it.”
She gestures to the futon. “Have a seat.”
He stops. The coffee table is a mess of bubble wrap and manila envelopes. The futon is crowded with mop-headed baby dolls.
“What’s this?” he asks.
Sheralyn turns on the tap and calls over the sound of the water, “I sell them on Etsy.”
He picks up one of the dolls. It’s made of cloth, a rough muslin. Arts-and-crafty looking. Something you’d expect to find collecting mold in an empty nester’s basement. He holds it up as she comes back into the room. “This is exactly what I pictured you doing for a side gig,” he says.
She smirks and hands him a mug of lukewarm water. There are no coasters on the coffee table. He sets the cup down on a piece of junk mail. Sheralyn sweeps the dolls to the side and sits. “Chloe thinks she’s going to end up with you.”
Doug raises his eyebrows. “She said that?”
“No. She’d never say it outright, but I know how she thinks.”
“And how is that?” He sits close to her. Her reaction is subtle. A slight recline. A sliver of an invitation. He wonders if she’ll let him tie her up.
“I see how Chloe looks at herself in the mirror,” Sheralyn says. “It’s never quick or like a simple once-over before she goes out, you know? She gets drawn in. She’s always swaying and tracing her fingers along her collarbone, like she’s got some kind of movie going in her head.”
Doug nods. “You don’t like her.”
“I don’t like anybody.”
He slides his knee toward hers so it’s touching. “Not even me?”
Sheralyn jerks her leg away. Her voice grows agitated. “I can’t stand these girls. It’s like they read some fairy tale and they think they’re going to win some prize. Chloe totally pictures herself as this fair-maiden type; I can tell. Like she’s waiting to get plucked. I mean, have some agency! I have zero respect for her right now.”
Doug sits back. He pumps air through his closed lips. “That’s really harsh, Sheralyn.”
“Whatever. She’s boring. I don’t like talking about her.”
“Then let’s stop.”
He puts a hand on her thigh. She looks down at it. She’s deliberating, he can tell. In a second, she’ll think, Why not? and have sex with him. He knows this.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“You know what I’m doing.”
He moves in to kiss her. She ducks underneath him and scrambles to stand. “Dude, what the hell?”
Rejection. It’s part of the dance. He lets it in. Lets it singe him slightly. He leans back and offers a little-boy pout. “I thought you liked me.”
Sheralyn winces. “This is weird.”
He smiles. “Why?”
“You’re married.”
“So?”
“You were just sleeping with my roommate.”
He shrugs.
“I think you should leave.” Her voice is flat. Her eyes are blank.
She’s serious.
He’s miscalculated. These girls. They’re different now. The signals aren’t the same as they used to be. But he can’t leave with her thinking she’s won. That he’s some kind of creep. He’s not a creep. He stands, stooping just a little. A small gesture of submission. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I just—”
“You were trying to see what you could get away with.”
He nods. “I’m an asshole.” He scans his surroundings. He needs an opening. The envelopes on the table. She’s handwriting the addresses. He picks up another doll and inspects its seams. “Who are your customers?” he asks.
She sighs.
“Seriously, Sheralyn. D
o you know what I do for a living?”
She sighs again but starts talking. “Well, I thought it would be mostly kids, but there’s a lot of middle-aged people.”
“Really?” he says. His curiosity is piqued. “What percentage?”
Sheralyn shakes her head. “I’m not sure.”
“Do you want my help?”
“Um—”
“Pro bono.”
“This is still really weird.”
“I feel bad,” says Doug. “Let me make it up to you.”
Doug waits until he’s safely parked in his office garage before he turns his phone back on. He steps out of his car. His phone vibrates as his messages and voice mails begin to load, but Doug doesn’t look at them. His attention is on this kid in front of him, a twentysomething wearing a black T-shirt and fanny pack. The kid is hovering outside the elevator vestibule. There’s something unnatural and nervous about the way he’s standing. He glances at Doug before burying his head into his phone.
“Good afternoon,” says Doug.
The kid meanders away from the door and lingers in the middle of the parking lot. Doug presses his key fob to make sure his car is locked and enters the vestibule. He looks back as he hits the call button. The kid is staring after him. Doug enters the elevator and frowns down at his phone.
He has eleven new voice mails. Four from his main office number. One from Jo-Ann. Two from Stan. There are texts too. From Jo-Ann. Stan. Eva, his PR lady. He opens the one from Jo-Ann and sees the first few words:
DON’T COME IN
The elevator door opens.
Doug sees the camera first, hulking, gray, and mounted on the shoulder of a burly guy in cargo shorts. The guy twists his hand around the lens. Doug peers into the dark glass circle, trying to make sense of this machinery pointed at him. Something dangles above. Doug looks up to see a fuzzy oval, a microphone, held aloft by another stone-faced man, also in cargo shorts.
“Welcome back!” shouts a woman.
It’s Dr. Maryn. She’s standing in the middle of his office. Her arms are spread wide as if she’s inviting him in for a hug. A second camera is pointed at her. She looks giant and out of place, like a redheaded Barbie storming a Lego village. Stan is off to the side. He makes eye contact with Doug and then looks at his feet.
Doug swallows, tasting only the briefest hint of fear before he moves past it. He locks into the front lines of his personality.
“Maryn! Stan!” He crosses to the center of the room with a cheerful smile. It doesn’t matter what he’s done. What they might know. He needs to stay upbeat. “What’s with the cameras?”
Dr. Maryn smiles back and salutes him with a gun finger motion. “Gotcha journalism! We’re bringing it back. I’m talking old-school 60 Minutes Steve Kroft–style exposés. What do you think?”
“I love it!” says Doug. There’s no time to digest the meaning of Dr. Maryn’s words. “Let me show you around!”
He holds an arm out, gesturing for them to walk ahead of him, but Dr. Maryn stands in place. She nods slowly. Stan looks uneasy. Doug glances at his frozen, gawking employees. Chloe is turned around in her chair at reception. Her hands cover her face. The open floor plan was a mistake.
“Question for you,” Maryn says in a deadpan. “What do a schizophrenic diabetic and a bipolar cancer patient have in common?”
Doug offers a conciliatory laugh.
“They’re both my customers,” she says.
“Aha,” he says.
“They trusted me with their information.”
“Maryn, I think you’ve—”
Dr. Maryn wheels around to address the employees on the other side of her. “You know what my privacy policy says?” She stalks the crowd, like his staff is her studio audience. “It’s three sentences.” She counts off on her fingers. “We don’t share information. We don’t sell it. Ever.”
The room is silent except for the whir of the camera zooming in on Doug’s face. He fights the urge to peek at it. He needs to speak, to make a show of strength. “That’s only two sentences, actually.”
Stan snorts. Dr. Maryn shoots him a look.
Doug’s phone is still in his hand. He grips it tighter. He needs to call Erik, find out what the hell is going on. The cameraman moves closer. Doug clears his throat. He can’t tell the guy to back up. He can’t ask Dr. Maryn to leave. These things will make him look weak. He has to project confidence.
“I’m sick of the bullshit, Doug.” Dr. Maryn crosses her arms in slow motion and sits on a programmer’s desk. The people nearby scoot their chairs away.
Doug waits. Maryn waits too. She’s toying with him. Doug won’t give in. He can’t. He hears another woman behind him. A soft murmur. “Rick, go to a two-shot.”
Dr. Maryn stares him down. She’s milking the theatricality; that’s what’s happening. There is a tone being set here. And he’s not controlling it.
“Maryn,” he says, adopting a hyperreasonable tone. “Let’s talk.”
Dr. Maryn turns her head and raises her eyebrows at the woman behind him. Doug can see a flesh-colored earpiece in Dr. Maryn’s ear. The other woman, the producer, Doug guesses, is dressed in black jeans with a walkie-talkie clipped onto her belt. She brings a ChapStick-size microphone to her lips. “Stay here,” she murmurs.
“I can hear you,” Doug says. The producer scowls at him. He turns to Dr. Maryn and raises his hands. “Maryn, come on.”
He’s savvy enough not to ask them to put down the cameras. Not while they’re filming him. It will only make him look guilty.
“I was just at your house. What happened this weekend?”
Dr. Maryn clasps her hands in front of her. “You know, Doug, I think the world of your wife. Because of that, I let you make a deal to put your app on my store, ignoring the fact that you’re a year late with it and you’re a dozen sexual harassment lawsuits waiting to happen. I was even ready to overlook you bringing mimes . . .” She waves a dismissive hand toward the reception desk. “You brought MIMES to my house! But when I start hearing about your secret payments to my tech consultant, your influxes of data . . . well, Doug, that’s the kind of thing that makes me wonder.”
Harper. It was Harper.
“Maryn, are you worried about the data we collected? That’s for you!” Doug lies. Oh Jesus, Doug is so fucking good at lying. “That’s a favor I’m doing for you!” He doesn’t know where he’s going. He just has to keep talking. Move forward. Deflect. “Erik hired me to curate your suggested apps to users. I tossed him a bonus. Is that the money you’re talking about?”
Dr. Maryn looks to her producer. The producer tightens her lips. This might be a fishing expedition. They might not know anything. He just needs to introduce enough uncertainty. Boring, wordy uncertainty. No easy sound bites.
“I thought you knew,” Doug says. “I mean, when your customers get offered apps based on their interests, who do you think does the background work on that?”
Dr. Maryn narrows her eyes at him, still playing like they’re in a standoff. But he’s fighting. He’s surviving. He thinks of everything he’ll have to do to make it look like he was working for Erik: create phony work orders, dedicate a server to the Dr. Maryn Store data, backdate downloads—is it even possible? Erik. He needs to talk to Erik.
Dr. Maryn lifts her face. “I don’t believe you.”
“Let’s do an audit, then.” It’s a good line. A solid line. He’s so conscious of the cameras. He’s coming off as powerful.
Dr. Maryn points at him while looking at her producer. “I still don’t believe you,” she says, but now she seems distracted. She drops her arms, drops her performance. The cameramen and sound people relax, just a bit. “Where is Erik?” she asks the producer.
The producer turns to a younger crew member. It’s the kid from the garage, the one with the fanny pack. “Try him again,” the producer says. The kid pulls a phone from his bag.
The camera trained on Doug lowers even more while its operator stretche
s his neck. Doug sneaks toward Chloe’s desk; maybe he can make it to his office, shut his door. But the other camera whips around and catches him. Doug’s cell phone rings. He ignores it.
“So what now?” Doug asks.
“Are you going to answer that?” asks Dr. Maryn. Doug blanches.
Dr. Maryn turns to the producer. “What do you want to do?”
The producer gestures toward Doug. “Is this something you want to preserve?”
“Guys,” Doug says. “I’m right here.”
The producer gives Dr. Maryn a pointed nod. “We should get the . . .”
“Yep,” says Dr. Maryn, clipped and officious sounding. She turns her back to Doug and brings her hand to her forehead. The boom operator and the rest of the crew come to attention. Dr. Maryn takes a few hyperventilating breaths before spinning around.
“You betrayed my trust!” she yells with her finger in the air. Her face is red and raging. “You stole my data! And did God knows what with it!”
Doug freezes. He’s caught. Trapped. Just for a moment. Then he recovers. He smiles, points to the elevator, and speaks calmly. “Nice talking to you, Maryn,” he says. “Now would you please get the fuck out of my office?”
Doug turns to his employees after the last of the TV crew has shuffled onto the elevator. His staff is stunned, staring back at him. Everything he built is about to collapse.
Chloe stands. She says, “Doug . . .”
He puts a hand up. “Not now.”
Chloe is a weakness. She’s a mistake. He’s made so many. But he has to survive. He has no choice. He checks his phone. It was Erik who called. He looks up. His staff is still watching. He texts Erik:
Call u back in five.
He raises his hands and addresses everyone. “Listen, people, what you just saw was a travesty. A cheap media stunt. We have done absolutely nothing wrong. I want you all to take the rest of the day off, okay? We’ll have a company-wide meeting tomorrow morning.” There is movement, packing up. He starts toward his office and stops. He turns back to his staff. “And remember your nondisclosure agreements!”