Ditched: A Left at the Altar Romance

by Hart, Holly

  I take a long swallow of coffee and open the second file. The sweetness of hazelnut creamer turns bitter on my tongue. My scalp prickles. It isn’t. It can’t be. In an instant, I’m eighteen again, sweating through my wedding dress. This can’t be happening.

  I grab for the FedEx pouch: nothing. No address. No customs seal. Nothing to indicate it was mailed at all. I rush to the intercom, dressing-gown flapping. The doorman picks up on the first buzz.

  “Miss Miller?”

  “The FedEx package that came this morning—who left that?”

  There’s a long pause on the other end. “Ah...the FedEx man?”

  “The usual one?”

  “Afraid I couldn’t say. Walters signed for it. Is there a problem?”

  “There’s....” I frown. This isn’t the sort of problem I should be bruiting about the building. “Nothing. A bit squished, is all. Thanks, Clarke.”

  “Good day, Miss Miller.”

  Good day. Not so far. I stalk back to my desk, tense and wary. My laptop’s still standing open. The glowing apple looks less friendly than usual. Eerie, in the gray light of dawn. I close my eyes as I sink into my chair, delaying the inevitable.

  The horror’s still there when I open them.

  * * *

  KATE MILLER

  * * *

  07/11/2017 – 30/12/2017 – Catfished six men on Tinder, using picture of former assistant. Made and broke at least three dates with each, using accidents, hospitalizations, and dead relatives (all fake) as excuses.

  02/03/2017 – Stole £4,800 necklace from Boodles at the Savoy.

  01/01/2017 – Left scathing anonymous review of—

  * * *

  I shriek and scroll down. Who could possibly... I never even wore that necklace. I’d have returned it, if I thought I could manage it without getting arrested. And the Tinder thing... That was stupid. Reckless. Private. Everything on here, it’s—it’s all my secrets, in reverse chronological order. Everything no one can know, and someone does.

  Just like before.

  “No, no, no....” I want to scream. Throw my coffee. Beat my brains out on my keyboard. But I swallow the lump in my throat and keep scrolling—past the time I got drunk and hacked Max’s e-mail, past my humiliating attempt to lose my virginity at the Glastonbury Festival, my 2013 tax fiasco—that was a mistake! And I already paid the fine!

  And there, at the bottom of the list—impossible, but I’m looking right at it: 08/08/2007 – Killed Matt Danbury.

  “I did not.”

  But I did. We all did, sort of.

  This isn’t a joke. It’s happening again. Ten years later—it’s not fair. Rebuilding from the ground up was hard enough at eighteen. At twenty-eight—

  Someone’s pounding at the door. Has been for a while. Got to be Wes. He’s the only one Clarke lets up unannounced.

  “Kate? You there?”

  “Coming!” I tie my belt more securely around my waist. I have the worst kind of feeling about this. It’s not too late: I could grab my coat and purse, run down the fire escape, and be in Morocco by nightfall. Get myself a new identity. Watch my old life burn to the ground. Again.

  “Kate! Open up!”

  Or...I could open up.

  Wes staggers in, half-drunk and brandishing a flash drive. “Did you get—” He’s hoarse, gulping like he might be sick. “Did you get one of these?”

  Him too, this time? What the fuck? I nod—no point denying it.

  Wes shrugs out of his coat. One arm sticks in the sleeve. “Shit. What—what is this? I don’t—I don’t....” He stands with his coat hanging off his arm, collar trailing on the floor.

  “Hey. Hey—come on. Sit down.” I guide him to the couch. He’s clammy, palm slick with sweat. He sits down and immediately bounces back up. He’s full of nervous energy, pacing around the coffee table.

  One of us needs to stay calm. I drag in a deep breath, and another. “When’d you get yours?”

  “This morning.” He stifles a hiccup. “I woke up, and there it was. Sticking out of the mail slot. Between a pizza coupon and the electric bill. Almost threw it out.” He finally liberates himself from his coat. “Did you...have you read yours?”

  “Yeah. It was.... A lot like yours, if the look on your face is anything to go by.“ I slam my laptop shut before he can sneak a peek. “What did yours say?”

  “It, uh....” He swallows with an audible click. “I’d rather not say. D’you think Dev...do you suppose—?”

  Obviously. I gulp my coffee: stone cold. What secrets could Dev have had, besides Matt Danbury? His whole life was public.

  “Kate?”

  “I don’t know. Probably?” I need time to think. “Who’d know all this stuff? Don’t know about yours, but there’s things on mine I never told anyone. Not even my diary.”

  “Mine, too.” Leather creaks as Wes collapses in my chair, too close to my laptop. He’s staring at it, distracted.

  “We should—”

  Wes groans, a drawn-out, miserable sound. “I’m fucked. So fucked.”

  Join the club. “I think we need to call....” Max. “We need to call the others. Compare notes.”

  “Yeah. Actually, I—ugh. ‘Scuse me.” Wes makes a gagging sound, so visceral my own throat closes up, and bolts for the bathroom. I yank the flash drive out of my laptop and drop it in my pocket. My phone’s vibrating on the kitchen counter. Nine text alerts already: Carson, Rachel, Kyle...not Max. All vague. All panicked.

  Wes comes up behind me, wiping at his mouth. “Sorry about that. You got some water, or...?”

  I point him at the fridge. “I think we need to go to New York.”

  He goes still, hand on the counter. “Seriously?”

  “Rachel and Kyle are flying in from DC. Carson’s already there, and....” And so’s Max. “And everyone’s meeting in two days’ time. We should be there. For Dev, if nothing else.”

  “I’ll get us a couple of tickets.” Wes is already tapping away at his phone. I turn mine over to hide the text alerts still pouring in. Not sure I could take seeing Max’s name pop up...or not pop up.

  This is going to be hell.

  Chapter 7

  Max

  * * *

  They’re talking about Dev. Practically eulogizing him. Not one of them bothered showing up for the funeral, and here they are, simpering over his memory. All but Kate. Even a trip down memory lane’s too much effort for her: she’s glued to her phone, checking—I don’t know. Tinder, probably. Looks like she’s talking to someone.

  I should get in there. But a masochistic part of me keeps me in my seat, waiting for....

  I’m not waiting for her to ask about me.

  The security feed stalls and buffers. When it comes back, Carson’s in full swing. “—said he wanted a Viking funeral. That’s what I thought of. If he still wanted that. If anyone knew. And I couldn’t go, after that. Couldn’t watch them put him in the ground. He hated to be cold. And he fucking hated worms. Remember when we’d go fishing, and he’d—”

  Worms...what the hell? I power down the monitor. Hopefully, they’re getting the bullshit out of their systems now. I want to get in and out fast, and get back to my life. This is nothing. A blip. I reach into my bottom drawer and pull out a bottle of Jack, three-quarters full. One swig, and I’m warm. Two, and I’m calm. On the third, I’m ready. I can do this. In and out.

  They’re still going at it, down the hall. The rumble of conversation drifts my way. Someone laughs. Water splashes in a glass. Carson’s voice rises above the others, and Kyle shouts him down. Everyone starts talking at once. This is exactly the type of crap that won’t fly.

  One more slug from the bottle, and I stride from my office. Wes jumps satisfyingly when I barge into the conference room. Rachel clutches Kyle’s sleeve. I can’t look at Kate, so I turn my scowl on Carson. Couldn’t go—asshole. What, like I wanted to? Like anyone wanted to see him like that?

  Tamping my rage to a simmer, I take my place a
t the head of the table. “So. We all got one of these.” I waggle my flash drive. “Way I see it, that leaves three questions: who sent them, why, and what happens next.”

  Kyle opens his mouth. I hold up my hand: I’m not done.

  “Now, I have a couple of ideas on the who and the why, but we’ll circle back to those. As for what comes next, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m not playing this game. That leaves one option: root out the culprit and turn the tables on him. Before we run out of time.”

  Kyle huffs, still fuming at having to wait his turn. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. When do we run out of time?”

  Carson frowns. “A week, for me. I’m supposed to....” He turns an unhealthy shade of brick red. “Whatever. I’m obviously not doing it. What about you?”

  “A week for me, too. And Rachel.” Kyle takes her hand. Wes nods his agreement, which leaves me. And Kate, but she’s not saying anything different.

  I take a deep breath. “Same for all of us, then. Not a lot of time—so let’s start with what we know.” Kyle’s puffing himself up, ready to butt in again. I keep talking. “First: all our flash drives arrived in FedEx envelopes, but FedEx has no record of deliveries to our addresses. And there are no waybills. No postmarks. Nothing to indicate they came through the mail.”

  “Mine was—”

  I cut Kyle off. “Second: we’ve each been ordered to humiliate ourselves, with the implication that if we don’t, one or more of our secrets will be exposed. I’m not going to insist we share those secrets, but we need to go around the table and read the demands.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why?”

  “What could you possibly—”

  I plow on. Carson nudges Kyle, and the hubbub dies down. “The flash drives are untraceable. Generic. What we have is what’s on them, and nothing more. We need to work with that.”

  “But—”

  “Pay attention to the writing style. The choice of words. Anything jogs your memory, you speak up—and not before. I don’t want a lot of chatter.”

  Carson makes a disgusted sound.

  “We ready?” I look around the table: nothing but dubious faces. Pack of cowards. “Fine. I’ll go first—Max Westbrook: what a control freak! It’s what everyone says. But on the 10th of next month, you’re going to take a very public leak. A security leak, that is. Millions upon millions of e-mail addresses, in the hands of spammers, scammers, and people like me...so much for safer social networking! Don’t believe me? Check 2.txt.”

  Wes frowns. “Does it say what kind of security leak?”

  “There’s a script at the end of my second file. After the dirt. I’m supposed to run it. Looks like it’ll create a vulnerability, open the door for a hack.” But enough about me. “What did yours say?”

  “Westley Baird—uh, mine’s pretty much like yours. Sets me up to make a fool of myself, and quite possibly go out of business.” He shifts in his seat. “Can we—”

  “Read it out.”

  “I really—”

  Kyle throws up his hands. “Just read it! Some of us have places to be.”

  “Westley Baird loves....” He clears his throat. “...loves doling out investment advice to London’s elite, but where’s he been spending his money? Ten days from now, you’re going to make a fashion statement of your bank statement. Where’d your fortune go, Westley? London’s dying to know. Don’t believe me?” He scoffs. “Well, you know the rest.”

  “Where did your fortune go?” Carson’s leaning in like he’s forgotten it’ll be his turn soon. Carson ribbing Wes—it’d be just like the old days, if anything about this was remotely funny. “Don’t you have, like, money falling out your asshole?”

  “I hardly think—”

  “Yeah—what’d you buy, Westley?” And Kyle’s getting in on the action.

  Wes shrivels. “An island, all right? I bought a fucking island.”

  “Jesus, Wes!” Kate...her voice.... My heart skips a beat. Hearing her scold Wes like that, it’s like the last ten years never happened. She was always looking out for him, making sure his homework got done, buying extra lunch to make sure he ate. That’s what made me fall for her—one of about a hundred things. She—

  “—just thought, I don’t know. It was an impulse, all right? A fantasy. I had this romantic notion of retiring to my own private island. Living in a lighthouse. Raising chickens. It’s not like it’s a big island.” Wes hunches his shoulders. “Point is, who’s going to invest with me, knowing I—fuck. I need some air.” He pushes back his chair so hard it capsizes, and stalks out of the room. The door slams behind him.

  “So, should we wait, or...?” Kyle’s drumming his fingers on the table.

  “No. Go ahead.”

  He peers over his glasses—pretentious fuck—and starts to read. “Congressman Kyle Abernathy, champion of the children, the underserved, the downtrodden. Flag-waver and bacon-saver. A hero for the ages. On the tenth of next month, you’re going to vote against your own education bill.” Kyle rolls his eyes. “Never going to happen. Fuck two-dot-text.”

  “And Rachel?”

  She glances at Kyle. She’s still got those big blue eyes, but her hair’s been bleached to a generic honey blonde. “It’s kind of personal. I... This doesn’t go beyond these walls.”

  Carson nods. “That goes for all of us. I mean, it goes without saying, but let’s say it anyway.” His nerves are starting to show. I’m curious about his. He doesn’t have much to lose, compared to the rest of us. Maybe he’s stepping out on his wife. A secret Communist. A Justin Bieber fan.

  “I’m not talking,” says Kyle. A hum of assent goes around the table. I add my own to the mix. I don’t want this getting out, either.

  “Well, I....” Rachel slides Kyle’s laptop her way, replacing his flash drive with hers. “Here it is: Rachel Abernathy, Congressman’s wife, model citizen, mother of the year. I’ll go ahead and say it—everyone does!—what a beautiful family! But who’s your baby daddy? On the tenth of next month, you’re going to tell the world.” She snaps the laptop shut. “It’s not like it sounds. We couldn’t—we used a sperm bank, all right?” And there’s the old fire, blazing forth from her eyes. Maybe she’s not a total Stepford wife. Rachel glares around the table, daring anyone to comment. “And it’s not a scandal. We’re not ashamed. But Tom’s too young to know. He wouldn’t understand. I can’t tell him his daddy’s not his daddy. It’s—”

  “Ssh....” Kyle pulls her into his arms. He’s red-faced, himself, but to his credit, he’s trying to comfort her, rather than deflect his own embarrassment.

  “Then, that leaves....”

  “Me.” Carson stands up. “And I don’t have mine.” He lifts his head, jaw set at a defiant angle. “I took a hammer to it, soon as I saw that second file. But I’m supposed to get up in front of the Veterans’ Association on the tenth, and tell ‘em my favorite book’s The Red Badge of Courage. Because it reflects my own experience so closely.” He clenches his fists so hard his knuckles crack. “I’m not a fucking deserter. I got separated from my unit. And then I—it wasn’t like that. I’ll blow my own brains out before I disgrace my uniform.” He does a smart about-face, turning his back on us all.

  “Shit....” Kyle leans back in his chair, brows raised. For once, I’m in agreement with him. That, I didn’t expect.

  “We won’t let it get that far.” I take a gulp of water, wishing it were Scotch. “No one’s getting disgraced. No one’s losing their job. No one’s kids are getting dragged into it. We’re—”

  “Aren’t you forgetting someone?” Kyle nods at Kate.

  I don’t want to hear hers. Two words out of her mouth, and I was back in hell. So far, she’s mostly stayed out of it, but....

  She starts to read. “Poor, dumpy Kate Miller, catwalk dreams destroyed by a growth spurt that never quite happened! But you can still have that modeling career: ten days from now, you’ll insist on walking the runway in your own New York show. F
urthermore, you’ll push one of the models off the stage in a fit of drunken pique.” She yanks out the flash drive like she has half a mind to fling it across the room. “There. That’s mine.”

  “That’s it?” Carson whirls back to the table. “You’ve gotta get drunk and pitch some model off the runway? Isn’t that, like, Friday night in the fashion industry?”

  Rachel’s nodding. “Yeah, I mean...what’s that going to do? Get you some free publicity? An appearance on Project Runway?”

  Kate crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t know. I mean, I did think it was a joke, at first, but—”

  “It is a joke.” Carson’s face is flaming. “What’s the worst that could come of that? An embarrassing hashtag? A few teenyboppers boycotting your clothes?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he ran out of ideas. Maybe he knows how much I hate looking stupid.”

  “Or maybe you’re behind this.”

  Shit. Carson’s going for the jugular.

  Kyle cocks his head. “That doesn’t sound—”

  Rachel restrains him with a hand on his arm. “I don’t know—I think we should at least consider it. How do we know this isn’t some trick to get Max to notice you again?” She leans over her laptop, suddenly predatory. “I mean, think about it: while the rest of us are tearing down everything we’ve built, she’s up there strutting her stuff, decked out like a princess, hair and makeup—it’s the perfect plan.”

  “That’s what I’m saying!”

  “Right? Like, the rest of ours are real. That’s just—”

  Kate’s turning this way and that, searching for a friendly face. Looking everywhere but at me, just like at our wedding. I feel sick.

  “I say we get her computer. Our files could still be on there.”

  “Get her credit card receipts. All those flash drives—”

  They’re all talking over one another. Carson grabs her laptop by the monitor, dragging it across the table. Her nails clack on the keys as he jerks it out of her grasp.

  “Stop it!”