Intercepted

by Alexa Martin

  He hands me the last plate to dry, and his fingers graze mine. The contact is so minimal, I shouldn’t have noticed it. But when it comes to Gavin, I notice everything. “Thanks for helping, but I really do have work to finish.”

  I hang the towel from the stove and try to play it cool. I’m not a relationship expert or anything, but I’m pretty sure I’ve watched enough reality shows to know crushing on your boyfriend’s coworker is generally a no-no.

  “TK told me you did his website. I checked it out and it looks fantastic. Are you taking on new clients?”

  When I turn away from the stove and face him, he’s in the same spot, watching me with what I think is either curiosity, mistrust, or kindness.

  Yes, I’m aware those are all different, but I’ve never been very good at reading people.

  “Always. It’s rare for me to ever turn down a client.” I look for something else in the kitchen to keep me busy.

  “Good, because my website needs an overhaul since I switched teams.”

  Oh no. Not gonna happen. Seeing him on occasion is one thing, but working for him is on a whole other level of asking for trouble.

  “Your website? Didn’t you already have somebody design your website?” I scramble for any excuse to say no. “I doubt you need a new one, just a few tweaks, and I don’t like messing with other people’s work.”

  “You just said you rarely turn down a client. I want a new website. I’ll have Madison email you some pictures of me in Mustangs gear and shots of my charity events.”

  Oh lovely, Gavin and Madison. This keeps getting better and better.

  “Your girlfriend is your secretary? How very old-school.”

  “Madison isn’t my girlfriend. She’s an old friend who happens to work in PR.” He shakes his head, acting like the idea of him with the leggy beauty is outrageous. “Think about it for me. I’d really appreciate it, and I promise to recommend you to everyone I know.”

  Dammit. Doing this would be huge for me. I got my degree in graphic design from the Art Institute five years ago and started doing some freelance work to keep me busy. Business has been growing slowly over the past five years . . . which is fine. Chris gets all offended when I offer to pay for anything so I shovel all my money into savings and paying off my student loans.

  I graduated with my masters in marketing last spring and have spent all summer (unsuccessfully) trying to find an adult job complete with medical. Unfortunately for me, the closest I got to medical was the marijuana dispensary next door to an interview I went to. So while I wait to find the apparent unicorn job I’ve spent my entire life preparing for, I might just have to build a website for my ex-fling turned current boyfriend’s coworker.

  I’m about to agree when the intercom buzzes and Chris’s voice booms through the kitchen. “Marlee, can you go find Pope for us?” he asks. He hangs up before I have the chance to answer.

  “I guess that’s my cue.” Gavin starts walking out of the kitchen but stops before he makes it all the way out. “By the way, I think you dropped this.” He pulls something small out of his pocket, tosses it to me, and is gone before I even realize what I’m holding.

  My grandma’s necklace. The one my dad gave me after she passed.

  The one I lost four years ago in a Chicago apartment.

  Holy shit.

  He kept it?

  Holy shit.

  He remembers me!

  Six

  “Can I have two orders of the grilled cheese and two Moscow mules, please?” I ask the waiter and draw the eyes of everyone at the table.

  “Oh sweet lord in heaven, please don’t tell me you’re eating for two before marriage?”

  Before meeting Dixie, I would’ve never believed that loud could be part of an accent. But it’s the only way she ever talks. So when she yells, like she just did, people three blocks over hear her.

  “Yes, I’m pregnant. That explains why I ordered two cocktails.” Each word drips with sarcasm before I stand up and turn to all of the other patrons. “Vacant uterus, people. Please carry on with your meals.”

  “Really, Marlee? Why do you always have to cause a scene?” Courtney asks. But by the way her overfilled lips thin and her arms cross, I don’t think she actually wants an answer.

  I still put as much sugar as I can in my voice when I respond, “The spotlight loves me, Court.”

  My smile grows even larger when she rolls her eyes to the back of her head and turns her attention to Amber.

  “Why did you order so much?” Naomi asks. She must’ve missed the conversation between me and Courtney because the waiter took her order after mine, and she has so many requests, it always takes her like five minutes. A Diet Coke with three lime wedges—not two and definitely not four. Salad with olive oil and balsamic vinegar—but only a drizzle of oil and heavy on the vinegar. No! Wait. Bring both to the table. Could you substitute blue cheese for gorgonzola . . . no, blue cheese is fine. No. Definitely gorgonzola.

  Listen, if I didn’t love her, I’d throttle her, and I’m sure she’s had plenty of extra, undocumented additions to her food over the years.

  “One for me, one for you.” Her jaw drops, and I know she’s going to argue, so I continue before she starts. “No. I want my grilled cheese and if you tried to take half, I was liable to stab your hand with my fork. And since Courtney already gets mad at me for the scenes I don’t cause, I can’t imagine she’d be thrilled with silverware assault. But I ordered it, not you, so the calories still don’t count.”

  With the last statement, the fight she was about to put up flees. She presses her lips together, nodding her head and clearly wishing I would’ve swapped the tomato soup for sweet potato fries.

  Oh well, still better than dry lettuce.

  As soon as the waiter walks away, Courtney pulls the glitter-covered gavel out of her extra large, extra ugly Louis Vuitton bag and starts the meeting.

  “So glad everyone could saddle up and gallop on over here for the meeting today.” She says the same joke at the start of every meeting. It’s not funny the first time you hear it and plain obnoxious the twentieth. The giggles coming from the women around me is proof of the fakeness I already suspected. “I talked to all of the vendors this morning, and they told me everyone had their fittings, so thank you. Everyone’s outfits are ready for the fashion show.” Her gaze cuts to me. “Except you, Marlee. They said they should have something in your . . . size soon.”

  Already? Really? Usually she waits until after the food arrives before she starts throwing jabs.

  Chris and I went to some little boutique downtown yesterday morning for our fitting. Courtney told the people I was a size fourteen (I’m an eight), and they were left scrambling to get something together for me. They had Chris stuck in a full-on red leather suit with a red turtleneck underneath it. It was absolutely ridiculous and even more so when Chris walked out of the dressing room looking like a black Zoolander. He was so into himself in the mirror, he didn’t even realize I didn’t try anything on until I told him in the car. The shop said they’d have something for me at the show, but I was hoping they wouldn’t.

  “Thanks for letting me know.” My smile is genuine, and my words have the perfect amount of sugar dusting them for none of the women to pick up on my secret desire to slap the smugness off of Courtney’s face.

  “Anytime.” She smiles at me . . . or at least I think she does. She’s gone a little overboard with the Botox over the years. I never realized what a vital part the forehead plays in reading emotions before being around some of these women. “I did hear from some of the other guys who may be bringing dates, and I’ve made it so the stores will bring extra racks in case girlfriends would like to participate.”

  Courtney says “girlfriend” like a four letter word. Every time it comes out of her mouth, I envision a battery splitting open and its acid soaking everything surroun
ding it. It’s equal parts fascinating (because I’m pretty sure at some point she was Kevin’s girlfriend) and annoying (because I’m pretty sure at some point she was Kevin’s girlfriend). The hypocrisy is strong with this one.

  “Why can’t we just make this one event about us?” Julie, a lineman’s wife, asks.

  “I’m sorry, Julie, but I didn’t see your hand. You know the rules on speaking without being addressed.”

  Dammit.

  I really don’t like Courtney, but I can’t lie, when it’s not me? The pleasure I find in watching her reprimand grown-ass women is endless.

  “Sorry,” Julie says meekly, melting into her chair.

  “It’s fine.” Courtney says what I guess only I find to be obvious. “We just have to abide by the rules or all we’d be doing is lunching together.”

  My eyes go wide as I look around the table of women getting ready to eat lunch. I open my mouth to point it out, but before I can get the words out, Naomi’s vicelike grip is squeezing my thigh and trapping the words in my throat.

  Killjoy.

  “Everything for the event looks so great. Amber has picked beautiful floral arrangements. I went to the final tasting last night and it’s all delish, and Marlee did a good job with the graphics,” Courtney continues, closing the door for me to crack a joke and at the same time, opening another. Because that forced and reluctant compliment she just paid me? It’s the reason I volunteer to help with our events. They always say you get more from giving than receiving, and watching Courtney fidget and mumble her way through saying something nice about me?

  #Priceless

  “It’s my pleasure, Court.” I know she wasn’t giving me an opening to talk, but I’ll risk getting scolded like Julie. It’s too good of an opportunity to pass up. “Anytime you need anything, Court, I’m here for you.” She shakes her head and opens her mouth, but before the words come out, I interject one more time. “No. I’m serious, Court. Anything for the Lady Mustangs.”

  You know how at Chick-Fil-A they’re required to say “my pleasure” every time you tell them thank you? So you say thank you as many times as possible just to hear them say “my pleasure”? No? Well, it’s a thing. Trust me.

  Anyways, it’s pretty much the same concept with calling Courtney “Court.” Except she doesn’t say “my pleasure.” Instead, her eyes reduce to little slits and her body changes from too-much-tanner orange to forgot-sunscreen-at-the-beach red. It’s the purest form of entertainment, and it never gets old.

  “Thank you, Marlee.” Courtney grinds the words out. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Good to hear . . . Court.”

  Two thank-yous in one meeting?

  Best. Day. Ever.

  * * *

  • • •

  TOWARD THE END of the meeting, my phone starts buzzing with unread emails. Hiding my phone under the table and trying to read them without bending my neck, I see they’re from Lauren, a client I’m in the middle of working with.

  Now to some bigwig design companies, Lauren’s site might not be a top priority. But as a small business, all of my clients are high priority. Plus, I shop at Nordstrom—I know what good customer service looks like. I’ll be damned if my clients have anything less than a great experience working with me.

  We’ve been running a soft launch on her site (which looks amazing, by the way) for two or three days now and it came to her attention that her customers aren’t getting their confirmations, therefore making it impossible to log in and complete their orders. By the sheer number of emails she’s sent over a ten-minute period, it’s easy to see she’s panicking.

  Without uttering a single word, I slide money on the table, give Naomi’s shoulder a quick squeeze, and make my exit. I know the wrath of Courtney will fall upon me soon, but I don’t care. Work is work and not even she could distract from that.

  The meetings are never far from our gated community, so the drive home passes quickly. I park my car on the custom pavement tile driveway (because that wasn’t a waste of money), grab my computer from the kitchen, where I left it last night, and make the trek through the marble lined hallways until I reach my office. Except when I sit down and open my computer, I’m met with a background that isn’t mine.

  Chris and I have the same laptop model, so I’m usually careful about putting it away. But I guess after a certain quarterback threw me a certain necklace, hinting he remembered a certain night together, I totally forgot, and I left mine on the kitchen counter, where Chris usually leaves his.

  Luckily, Lauren’s problem is a fairly easy fix that I can take care of from any computer. I go to log in to my email, but Chris’s computer automatically signs me into his. I’m moving the mouse up to the log out button when the subject line in one email jumps out at me: Miss you already.

  Now, I’m not normally one to snoop. Chris and I have been together since high school. When he first got into the league, I’d find an earring here or a pair of underwear there, but for the most part, I’d let Chris talk his way out of it. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve broken up many times, but since the last time it happened (four years ago), things have been fantastic. I thought we’d moved on from all of the issues that arose those first few years of Chris’s career.

  I let the mouse hover for what feels like hours. I know whatever I decide to do next will change my future. I could look, find out he’s cheating, and leave like I promised would happen the last time we went through this. Or I could pretend it never happened and try to fight my way back into my rainbow-filled bubble.

  I open the email.

  Hey baby,

  I had so much fun at the game Sunday. I know you had meetings after, but I was so glad I was able to see you the next day. This weekend can’t come fast enough, when I’ll be back on a plane to see you.

  XOXO,

  Ava

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  After reading one message, I’m consumed. I sit at the computer, ignoring Lauren and the churning in my stomach, and click message after message. I find flight itineraries that span the entire season—home games, away games, even a ticket during the bye week. And those are just the emails in his inbox. After more obsessing, I check all of his folders and find out the one named “Confirmations” is filled to the brim with nudes. And like the glutton-for-punishment fool I am, I look at every single one.

  The kicker on it all is while I’m looking at all the different ways Ava can angle her camera, I notice something disturbingly familiar sparkling on her right hand. I zoom in and get a crystal clear view of the ring I thought Chris took to a jeweler to help him pick my engagement ring sitting pretty on this skank’s hand.

  #OnTheNextEpisodeOfSnapped

  I slam the computer shut and navigate my way through the hallways to the garage. Once there, I pull out every piece of luggage I can find and drag them up the spiral staircase to our room. All of my shoes. Every dress, skirt, and top. Pictures, yearbooks, and even my baking supplies all find their way into a suitcase. The only problem with packing when upset is a few broken picture frames and more than one gift from Chris hurled across the room and into the professionally painted walls that now need to be professionally patched.

  When I have everything I want, I drag them down the stairs one by one, allowing myself to admit how much I loathe this stupid, ugly house.

  I pull my last suitcase down the stairs, the sound of my flip flops barely heard over the bang of the wheels every time they hit a marble step. My hair, which I had straightened and left down for our meeting, was getting so frizzy from the sweat I developed going up and down the stairs that it is now in a messy bun on the top of my head. My makeup melted off at some point over the last hour, and mascara is smeared across my cheeks from the traitorous tears I couldn’t stop from falling. My tank top is sticking to my chest, and I could really use a re-up on my deodorant. Basi
cally, I’m a hot-ass mess.

  So of course this is the moment Chris walks into the house.

  He’s looking at something behind him and doesn’t notice me or my belongings. When I obnoxiously clear my throat, he turns to me with a grin on his face so big, it threatens to take my rage to uncontainable levels. Thankfully, for his safety and my clean record, it flees the second he gets a good look at me and my mountain of luggage filling the space.

  “What the fuck, Mars?”

  “You took my computer.” There’s zero emotion in my voice when I speak to him. “I needed to check my email, but yours opened instead.”

  As I’m speaking, I watch as his face registers what I’m telling him. The range of emotions is fascinating. Confusion, surprise, sadness, until he settles on what looks like anger.

  “You went through my shit? I thought we were done with this detective bullshit.”

  I knew he’d do this. It wouldn’t matter if I walked in on him with his dick still inside of another woman, he’d blame me for not knocking. He might get paid from football, but he’s a professional fucking gaslighter.

  I shrug and walk toward my bags. “Funny, because I thought we were past you fucking groupies and lying to me. Guess we were both wrong.”

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” His temper is steadily rising, but I refuse to give him the reaction he wants.

  “My parents’ house. I already talked to my dad, he’s expecting me.”

  “Well, you better call him and tell him you need a ride because if you touch my car, I’m calling the cops.”

  For my birthday two years ago, he woke me up with breakfast in bed and told me he was taking me to pick out my new car. He dragged me to the Cadillac dealership first, then to Mercedes, then to Audi, before I was able to break him down and go to Toyota so I could get my Prius. I love my car, but Chris hates it. The only time he ever rode in it was for the test drive the day he bought it. But you better believe he made sure his name was the only one on the title.