by J. Saman
“Maybe, but the foundation is true, and that’s all that matters where Ivy is concerned. She’s too good for me. I don’t deserve her.”
“You’ve said that already, and it’s still bullshit.”
“I’ve pushed her away too many times. She’ll never take me back.” Now I’m getting to the self-pity part. I can’t think like that. I have to think that she’ll take me back eventually.
“I don’t know the answer to that,” he points at me. “But neither do you. You’ll regret this forever.”
“That’s the funny thing, Ryan,” I turn to look my friend in the eyes. “That’s all I ever do. I live in a permanent world of regret over stupid choices. Maybe I can redeem myself, and maybe I can’t, but the way my life works, the way my luck works, she’ll be long gone by then.”
Ryan drives me home. I left my car at the bar because I am far too inebriated to drive. I immediately walk into my room, stare at the rumpled sheets of the bed that I never made after the last time Ivy slept here, and dive face-first into them. I figure if I’m going to torture myself, I might as well do it right.
It’s been almost a week, but they still smell like her.
I didn’t sleep much in the days I was away. I never do when they have me sequestered on that boat. Boat, ha. I almost want to laugh at that. It’s a fucking yacht registered to some rich prick who doesn’t exist anywhere but on paper. But the people I work for are very competent at selling a bill of goods and coming out looking squeaky clean.
That is their job after all.
My job is another step in the game.
You read about China hacking some American corporation or Russia hacking our government emails or Israel hacking Iranian nuclear facilities—kudos to them on that one. You hear about all these things, but rarely do you hear about what our government does.
We play it off like we’re above all that espionage hacking bullshit, but we’re not.
We hack everyone. Foreign governments, private groups like Anonymous who think they’re above it all, WikiLeaks—damn those assholes are arrogant, good, but arrogant. You name it, we’ve got a hand in it and that hand just happens to be mine.
Am I proud of what I do? I’m more ambivalent than proud.
Do I feel like anything I do has even the slightest benefit on national or international security? Who the hell knows?
So why do it, you might ask.
Well, I don’t have a choice.
I went to that address at three o’clock in the afternoon, like those motherfuckers in the coffee shop demanded, on a perfect California day and walked into a meeting with the last person I ever expected to see again.
Ronaldo Sanchez.
Even his name is over the top.
I met him when I was fourteen years old on my second day of juvie. The fact that he had that name, was way older than appropriate for a juvenile detention facility, and his Spanish accent wavered, should have tipped me off, but it didn’t. This was Oklahoma for Christ’s sake. The only accents we breed there are twangs that go with our cowboy hats and tall boots. But I was a kid, so I didn’t pay attention all that closely.
Those four years in juvie were not spent idly.
I worked my ass off and graduated from high school. Not a GED, mind you, I fucking graduated. That and Ronaldo took me under his wing, giving me a love and appreciation for computers. An outlet for my restless mind.
The rest I picked up by myself. An innate gift he’d called it. A natural talent.
Maybe. None of that shit was difficult for me. I was released on my eighteenth birthday, and by that point Ronaldo Sanchez was long gone. He was two years older than me, or so he claimed.
And after getting accepted to Caltech—still don’t know how I managed that—I took my skills to the next level. So by my junior year, I was the master. The best in the hacking ring. I was cocky as sin. I was invincible and nothing could come close to touching me.
Hack the government? Sure. Why the hell not?
But I didn’t stop at the justice department. And I didn’t stop at the White House either. They didn’t pose much of a challenge, so I continued on, especially since no one came knocking at my door, and I was being so very careful, right?
So the CIA, that could be cool. And it was.
Because no one goes after mainframes. Do you know why?
Because they’re old as shit and hard as hell to break into. Companies, and even our government, spend millions securing their servers, cloud system, larger networks and everything else. But those mainframes? Those are like untapped mines filled with gold.
They’re bursting at the seams with information, and I was good enough and arrogant enough to gain access.
Sure I went after the other stuff too, but without a lot of challenge I got bored quickly.
I didn’t do anything with what I found. I wasn’t out for world domination or to bring people—or our government—down. I was there for the fun, for the excitement, for the sick adrenaline rush that is so much better than drugs or sex, or even jumping out of a fucking plane.
But I wasn’t as clever as I thought I was. Not as invisible, and though I could have sworn I was lurking solely in the shadows, I was really out in the open for all to see.
Or at least for Ronaldo, who was watching me the entire time.
So they busted me and then they screwed me, because I was Ronaldo’s guy. He was the man behind the scenes pulling the strings, and I was nothing more than his new puppet.
Still am for that matter.
Yes, I’m sure some of what I’m doing is important. Yes, I’m preventing a lot of bad shit from happening—at least that’s what I tell myself.
But at what personal cost?
I’m not allowed to tell anyone what I do or who I work for.
I’m not allowed to discuss anything I do with anyone.
I am to leave at a moment’s notice without complaint, nor am I to offer comment when assigned a task.
And it was made very clear to me that I am a target because of all of this, which means anyone I bring into my life is at risk too. Not necessarily the people I work with or my friends, but a lover, wife, girlfriend? Yeah, they could be in trouble.
Governments can be vengeful fuckers. Private, wealthy assholes can be too.
How could I ever live with myself if something happened to Ivy? I couldn’t.
So I pushed her away after pulling her toward me, despite falling in love with her so effortlessly.
My head is spinning, or maybe that’s just the alcohol.
All I smell is the whiskey emanating from my pores, permeating the air around me with the pungent stink I love and hate. That smell will always and forever remind me of my father. Fucking motherfucker.
Yes, Dad, I blame you for everything.
What kind of man beats his wife and children?
What kind of man wants to ruin his daughter?
Ryan was right about one thing though; I do not regret every choice I made.
I just wish it didn’t cost me Ivy.
And as if the gods of irony hear my plight, my special black phone rings.
22
Ivy
* * *
Originally I was scheduled to move on Monday, but then I pushed it back to Wednesday because I figured the more time I got to spend with Luke, the better. But that all went to hell. Now I see no reason in prolonging the inevitable, which is why I moved it back up to Monday.
So here I am with my last day of this fellowship behind me, and it felt nothing but anticlimactic. It felt like a waste of a day and a graduation. Any excitement I should be effusing is non-existent. Any pride I should be showcasing is now not-so-mysteriously absent.
And now that Luke is officially out of my life, again, I am moving across the country in two days. But here’s the problem with that. I have absolutely nothing to do until then. I’m packed, all except one small suitcase that I’m living out of. I’ve had my farewell dinner with my parents and coworkers, and though
I could change my plane ticket again, my apartment in Boston won’t be ready for me until Monday.
Two days with nothing to do but lament the man I was certain was my future.
But I’m not exactly the type of woman who sits around with a pint of ice cream as I cry my eyes out, listening to a mix of the all-time greatest love songs. I don’t torture myself with romantic films or scour the pages of angsty romance novels looking for meaning.
No, I’m the type of woman who works her way through a problem—literally—as in I bury myself in my craft. But I don’t have that option for the next forty-eight hours, and that leaves me with nothing but my thoughts.
My very dangerous thoughts.
The kind of thoughts that get women all over the world into trouble.
You know the sort.
Overanalytical, compulsive, self-deprecating and relentless.
The type of thoughts that force you to replay every single second of your entire relationship to try and discern where things went so very wrong. Where the signs were that you blatantly missed, because you felt that this time was different. That you were different together and could eclipse all the rules you so carefully created and assembled into place to safeguard against this very thing from happening.
Kate rang this morning with well wishes and promises of a visit when she comes east. I want to excommunicate myself from everything that even remotely reminds me of Luke, but I can’t do that to Kate. I can’t do that to Claire either. So I agreed to those visits and did my best to keep my voice as upbeat as possible, knowing that every detail of our conversation—and my demeanor during said conversation—was going to be relayed to Ryan.
The problem is that I miss him. The problem is that I love him and I told him that I did. Worse yet, he told me the same. He even initiated that conversation, only to flip it all around and tell me that he was leaving me for my own good. Maybe he didn’t come right out and say those exact words, but that’s what he intimated.
It’s really difficult to be angry with someone who tells you that they love you, but can’t be with you because you deserve better and they’re unable to give you what you want.
Exasperated? Of course. Resentful? Absolutely. And maybe they’re close in meaning to angry, but they’re certainly not the same, and there is a very definite and distinct difference.
Maybe I’ll get there. Maybe I’ll reach the point of absolute heated rage toward him, but right now, I’m sad and depressed and so very mournful of what we could have had. Because I wasn’t lying to him when I said we could have been epic. I wasn’t lying when I said I envisioned a forever with him. In fact, I never lied about any of it.
But he did, and that seems to be his way. There is nothing more to be done except move on and start over.
So that’s what I plan to do.
Any minute now I’ll pull myself off the sofa and do something productive with my day. Any minute now, I am going—to answer the door?
I hate the irresistible fluttery dance my stomach leaps into at the sound of the knock on my door. Hate that I am hoping for it to be Luke on his knees, groveling for me to come back. Hate that when I swing the door open, I am greeted with Craig Stanton and not Luke Walker.
“What are you doing here?” I ask in a tone that comes out much sharper than I intend.
He’s not fazed in the slightest as he grins at me with that million-dollar gleam. “I’m bored, and I figured you would be too, so I thought maybe you’d want to go do something and get some dinner after?”
I should say no to him. I should turn him down flat and recommence my wallowing—but I don’t want to do either of those things. I want to say yes to him and the distraction he’s offering.
“Sure.” I step back, allowing him to enter. “What did you have in mind?” I ask as I gather my things and stuff them inside my oversized travel purse.
“I don’t know,” Craig laughs. “I hadn’t really gotten that far. I was actually expecting you to be with Luke, but since I was in the neighborhood, I thought I’d take the chance.”
I pause, my hand clutching my keys as I turn to face him. “No,” I say, but my eyes lower to the floor automatically, unable to watch his expression when I tell him, “We broke up.”
“Oh,” Craig says, taken aback. “Stupid bastard,” he whispers more to himself than to me. “Should I feign disappointment?”
“It is what it is, Craig. I’m not really in the mood to rehash it.”
“Do you love him?”
I can only nod.
“Then I’m sorry you’re hurting, Ivy. That’s not something I would ever want for you. I know people always say this, but in your case it’s true. You deserve so much better.”
I raise my eyes to his, somewhere between irritated at the platitude and flattered at the compliment. “Like you?”
He smiles and it lights up his gorgeous hazel eyes. “Maybe, but remember you said it first.”
I shake my head, trying to hide my smile. “Enough of this, where did you want to go?”
“To Boston. With you.”
I roll my eyes dramatically. “You are going to Boston, but not with me. Friends, Craig. That’s all I’m offering here.”
“That’s what they all say at first.”
“Rack off,” I laugh. “I want to go walk about the city. It’s a beautiful day, and we won’t be able to enjoy it much longer.”
“Then let’s go,” Craig turns the knob on my door, holding it open and waiting for me to walk through. After locking up and taking the stairs down the four flights, we step out into the bright sunshine. As someone who lives in Seattle, I can’t help but soak it in with a smile.
I don’t look across the street. I don’t even venture a glimpse at the bench, because I know I’ll be disappointed when I don’t find Luke there. Amazing how I went from one stalker to another. Amazing how one terrified me, and the other made me fall in love.
Craig opens the door for me to his over-the-top Range Rover, and as I slide onto the buttery leather seat, cushioned in luxury, I can’t help but laugh. “What?” he asks as he gets in, shutting the door behind him with a click and buckling his seat belt.
“What are you going to do with your car?”
“Have it shipped. I love it too much not to.”
“Where are you living? I don’t think we’ve discussed that?”
Craig starts the car without asking where I’d like to go. Pulling away from the curb, he begins to drive us in the direction of the market.
“There is a complex of apartments near the Longwood T stop. That’s where I’m moving. You?”
“Yup. Seems to be the place the doctors go. That’s where my flat is too.”
Craig beams at this. “We can walk to work together, and when it snows, I can drive you.”
“I may take you up on that. I have no plans on bringing my car with me. In fact, it’s already parked in my parents’ garage.”
“Seriously?” he asks, and I nod. “You’re just going to leave it here?”
“I may sell it. I may not. It’s newer than my mum’s car and better in wet weather, so I told her she could pretty much have it.”
“What about your furniture?”
“No, I actually managed to get a furnished flat there. The landlord of my building here said he’d take what I left behind, and everything I want to keep, I’ll ship.”
“If we had thought this through, we could have shared a place.” He gives me a wicked grin. “You know, to save on expenses.”
“Right,” I ooze sarcasm. “That would have been an ace idea.”
“You can resist all you want, and because you’re nursing a sprained heart, I won’t push it. But you’ll end up loving me in the end.”
“Sprained heart?”
“Yup. Definitely not broken. And while you’re waiting for it to heal, I’ll be around.”
He pulls into a parking space, hopping out with a wink and a grin before he gets my door for me. “What if I said that it was brok
en, and that I was only going to want to be friends with you. Will you beg off or stick around?”
“Stick around. I’m not going anywhere.”
He smiles that smile again, the one that you can’t help but feel, and we both decide to leave it at that. I get what he’s indicating. It’s not exactly subtle, and though I have no intention of taking things to the next level with Craig, it’s nice to have someone when moving to a new city.
Craig and I end up walking around for hours, to the point where our feet ache and our heads pound. And after dinner, we finally decide to call it a night.
“Thanks for a really fun day,” I say, once he pulls up in front of my building.
“It was fun. I’m glad I stopped by this morning. Can I walk you up?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m good. Cheers, though.” I lean across the console and kiss his cheek before exiting. Craig waits for me to open and enter the front door of my building before driving off, but once he’s out of sight, I exit the way I came in, descending the few steps that lead to the street.
He’s there. Sitting. Watching. Waiting.
I stand, motionless on the sidewalk, watching him in return, wondering just what his presence means. Wondering if he saw me leave this morning with Craig only to return hours later.
It’s dark out, but the street lights on either side of the bench clearly illuminate him and his expression, though I can’t decipher it. Maybe that’s the reality of only knowing someone for a month. I don’t know all of his expressions. I don’t know what every single look he has means.
Maybe I don’t really know him at all.
He rises slowly, clearly as torn about crossing the street and the distance between us as I am. There’s a large black duffle bag along with his computer bag at his feet, and as my eyes focus in on them, I realize what they signify.
He’s going away on another one of his trips.
He’s leaving and wanted to make sure to see me one last time.
My heart sputters to a stop for the briefest of moments before taking off at warp speed. Never have I felt such rising panic before in my life.
