by JA Huss
Mr. Perfect: What the fuck is going on with these messages from Ellie? First she’s asking you to fuck her and then she’s talking this delusional bullshit about puppies and dream houses.
Heath: What the hell are you talking about? Dream houses? I fucked Ellie a few times, but that was only because she wanted it. Stay away from her though, she’s crazy.
Mr. Perfect: Yeah, no shit. She’s sending you Pinterest boards filled with what your future kids would look like.
Heath: What? I don’t know what to say to that. Never saw that shit.
Mr. Perfect: Yeah, dude. Crazy with a capital C. I’m not sure if I should call security and have her escorted off the premises or see if she’ll fuck me in the stairs. Is she cute?
There’s a break in the conversation. Several hours. Then Mac is back.
Mr. Perfect: There’s two Ellies, you asshole!
Heath: Ellie Abraham? And who else?
Oh, my God. I wasn’t even on his radar, was I? Not that I care. I’m over any delusional feels I might’ve have conjured up for Heath. But Mac. God, what is this?
Mr. Perfect: Ellie Hatcher, you dumbass. I just felt her up in the stairs after she pulled this completely ridiculous stunt in a meeting. Holy fuck, man, you missed something supremely epic.
Heath: See, aren’t you glad I fucked up and got sent off to China. Told you that place was fun. At least you didn’t fuck with Ellen Abraham. And no one calls her Ellie, she uses that nickname because she’s got this weird obsession with Ellie Hatcher. Like hates her guts or something.
Well, that explains why she tried to ruin my life last week. I have no idea what I ever did to her. I’m nice to everyone. It’s practically my job to be nice to everyone. Well, to their face, anyway. I did make up nicknames for all my co-workers, but that was private. They didn’t know about it.
Mr. Perfect: If you’re not banging Ellie Hatcher, then I’ll give it a try. She looks totally corruptible.
My world goes completely still, the silence pouring in my ears to the beat of my heart. I did not just read that. I shake my head—no. It’s nothing. He was kidding. He didn’t know me back then. It was just guys being guys.
And while calm, rational Ellie knows all that, I also know that first impressions are everything. This is his first impression of me.
His words come back to me from that first day. This is completely ridiculous behavior, Miss Hatcher. My office now.
Ridiculous.
That’s why he thinks of me. I’m ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. And he thought I was Ellen Abraham that day in the stairs. In the meeting too, he must’ve.
I don’t know what to do with this information. I feel slightly stupid, more than a little bit betrayed, and naive for buying into Mac’s version of dating.
Is this dating? Even by his standards?
My phone buzzes in my purse and my heart skips a beat thinking this might be Mac and I will have to confront him.
But it’s not. It’s Ming. I tab the accept button and say, “Hello?”
“Ellie,” Ming says, very out of breath. “Oh my God, where are you? What she did is so fucked up!”
I get a sinking feeling in my gut. “Who?”
“Ellen!”
I have to close my eyes and place my hand on the desk, like I’m preparing for a blow to the stomach. “What happened now?”
“I’m so sorry, Ellie.”
“Just tell me, Ming.”
“She…” Ming hesitates again. “She sent out a newsletter, Ellie, and—”
“How? She was fired last week!”
“I don’t know,” Ming says. “Maybe she had it made and scheduled to deliver this morning. But it’s all about you and the Pinterest board for the employees. Screenshots and all the nicknames you have for people.”
I press end on the call, but as soon as I do that, Mac is calling.
I turn the phone off.
Mac probably wants to warn me about the newsletter, but that’s not why I’m thinking about right now. I’m thinking about that last sentence he wrote to Heath.
If you’re not banging Ellie Hatcher, then I’ll give it a try. She looks totally corruptible.
That is the only thing I care about right now. He’ll give it a try. Sure, why not? Some stupid twenty-something at your father’s company is willing to let herself be fingered in a stairwell? Sure. Mac is a man used to getting everything he wants. Mr. Perfect.
Then the previous call from his friend comes back to me. Mr. Perfect, Mr. Romantic, Mr. Corporate. Why does all that sound familiar?
I type in the three names as I stand in front of the computer.
Mac’s face comes up immediately. Tons and tons of pictures of him, only his name is not McAllister Stonewall. I click on the first image and an article pops up. The caption under the picture says, Maclean Callister, AKA Mr. Perfect, and Nolan Delaney, AKA Mr. Romantic, celebrate the dropped charges in the Mr. Brown rape case.
My legs are so wobbly I need to take a seat in the luxurious leather chair.
The Mr. Brown rape case.
I’ve heard of it, of course. It was all over the news a while back. Ten years ago, at least. Back when I was getting ready to graduate high school.
I study the picture of Mac a little better. He’s smiling. So is his friend, Nolan Delaney, who I conclude was the voice on the other end of the phone call I just took. But neither of them look happy and neither of them look like they are celebrating.
I click through more pictures and see them all. Mr. Perfect, Mr. Romantic, Mr. Corporate, Mr. Mysterious, and Mr. Match. They are all well-bred children from well-connected families who are rich beyond belief.
I skim the article to refresh my memory. Five college boys, one college girl, and a rape charge. I understand the basics of what happened. The night started with a homecoming party at the house the boys shared and ended with one girl claiming she was gang-raped.
The newspapers weren’t allowed to report the names of the boys until they were officially charged, so they gave them monikers until that happened. They called them the Misters of Brown University, or Mr. Browns for short. And then each boy got his own nickname based on how friends on campus described them to the media.
Once the boys were officially charged, they were expelled and their real names divulged.
The pre-trial media coverage lasted for well over a year and then abruptly stopped when the girl was found dead in her hometown, some seven hundred miles away.
The prosecutors were forced to drop the charges.
No one thought the Misters were innocent, not for a second. In fact, there was an outcry to charge them all with murder as well. They were blamed for the girl’s death even though all five of them had rock-solid alibis for that incident.
It’s a convoluted story, but I can follow it. What I cannot follow is how Maclean Callister became McAllister Stonewall. And what I’m having a hard time understanding is Mac’s anger at my teeny, tiny lie last week when he’s been holding back this bombshell of an explosion.
Somewhere in the house a phone is ringing.
Somewhere in myself, my heart is breaking.
Is Mac guilty? Did he slip away? Did his real father—because obviously Mr. Stonewall isn’t his father—pay someone off? Did they have anything to do with the girl’s death?
I don’t know how long I sit there before a voice calls my name from another part of the house.
“Miss Hatcher?” I recognize George the doorman’s voice.
“In here,” I call back.
A few seconds later George finds me. “Oh, Miss Hatcher, Mr. Stonewall called asking me if you’d left yet. He sent me up here to look for you when I told him no.” George stares at me for a moment. “Is everything OK?”
I nod out of habit, but I’m not sure everything is OK. In fact, finding out your boyfriend was accused of rape and might possibly be responsible for murder makes things decidedly not OK. “I was just looking for Mac’s phone. He asked me to bring it into work fo
r him.” I hold up the phone and stand. “I better get going. I think he needs it.”
“OK, Miss Hatcher,” George says. “We have your car downstairs waiting for you.”
“I’ll be right down,” I tell him. There is no way I’m getting in an elevator so I can be forced to chit-chat my way down to the ground level.
I wait until I hear the front door close and then I try to put my thoughts together. Was that scavenger hunt Mac’s way of preparing me for the truth?
I feel so manipulated. And that text to Heath. I just feel… used.
I’m sure there’s a way to justify it. Perception is everything. And if Mac can prepare me with his sympathetic point of view before I learn the truth, then he can control my reactions.
It reeks of power. Of what obscene amounts of money means to those who hold it.
Money doesn’t buy things.
Money buys people.
Chapter Thirty-One - Ellie
I turn the computer off, toss Mac’s phone in my purse, and head down to the lobby.
George is talking to someone at the front desk when I walk briskly past him to the front doors, but I’m secretly glad I didn’t have to have a conversation. I just hand the valet a tip and get in my car, taking a deep sigh to be back on familiar ground.
What just happened?
I’m not sure. I don’t trust myself to speak. I don’t trust anything right now.
It only takes me a few minutes to wind my way around the elaborately landscaped roads of the Tech Center and get through the gates of the Stonewall campus, and a few more minutes to navigate to the Atrium parking lot, get out of my car, and be standing at the front doors of the building.
I take a deep breath and step forward, triggering the automatic doors. The waterfall sounds remind me of Mac’s apartment and I have a pang in my stomach for the loss of something familiar and soothing.
I force it away because it’s some kind of false memory. A fabrication. That’s not his apartment because his name isn’t McAllister Stonewall.
People point and laugh at me as I enter the lobby. Snickering behind hands cupped over smiles. The newsletter. Ellen sent out that newsletter.
I should feel embarrassed. Ashamed. But I don’t have time for that stupid silliness right now. My feet only have one stop in mind. I wait at the elevator, alone, and step through the glass doors, seeing the people down below as I ascend, but not registering them.
I brace myself for the dirty looks and the contempt for what was said on my behalf in the newsletter. These people were my targets, after all. I’m not sure anyone down below cares too much about what I privately think about the seventh-floor executives.
When the doors open I stare straight at Stephanie, willing myself to be invisible as I make my way to the back corner offices. My luck doesn’t hold. Jennifer slides into step beside me.
“Ellie,” she says cautiously. I picture all the times I called her Jennifer Sluts-around on that Pinterest board. “Are you OK?”
I glance over at her without stopping. “Am I OK?” I have to laugh at that.
“I’m so sorry that Ellen got your phone.”
“My phone?” I say, my steps slowing. “What do you mean?”
“She got into your phone on Friday before I collected it from your office. I’m so sorry. She’s an evil bitch. The video, the phone, the texts—” I almost die hearing that. “The Pinterest board. The newsletter. I’m just sorry.”
Well, my life here is over. I’ve been humiliated on every front. “I thought you’d be mad.”
“Mad?” Jennifer asks. “Why would I be mad?”
“I called you Jennifer Sluts-Around.”
Jennifer laughs, shaking her head. “I know, that was hilarious!”
“Hilarious?” I’m confused.
“Those nicknames were adorable. Oh, my God, we laughed so hard this morning, Mac and Stonewall Senior came out of their meeting to see what the noise was all about. You nailed it, Ellie. Those rants in that newsletter were the perfect cure for Monday morning. I’m sure Ellen did it to make you look bad, but we all thought it was ridiculously funny.”
There’s that word again. Ridiculous.
They do not care that I made a fool of myself in that meeting and got stuck in the slide trying to make my escape, that I was fucking my boss in my office all week long and got caught on video, or that I had made-up nicknames for all the higher-ups in this building.
They don’t care because they see me as ridiculous.
I am the token ditzy blonde. The girl assigned to escorting celebrities around and satisfying their whims. The girl who works out of an airplane hangar and wears second-hand designer clothes. The girl who got hired in college and never moved up. Sure, they gave me raises, they gave me titles… but I’m still doing the very same job I always did. I am still twenty-year-old college intern Eloise Hatcher. A quiet girl who can be trusted with secrets, because she lives a fictional life filled with made-up relationships.
Jesus Christ. I even wrote a book about those relationships and tried to sell it to a publisher, for fuck’s sake. All these celebrities I pretend to know just because I’ve walked them around campus a few times over the years. All the worldly wisdom I’ve gathered by staying put in the same spot I’ve been standing in for seven years. And all the life-changing advice I’ve handed out.
I bet all those agents and publishers are laughing at me too.
I want to cry. Not because of the things that happened with Brutus, or the video, or Ellen’s stupid last stand with the newsletter. Not even because I found out Mac was a liar, at the very least, and possibly a rapist/murderer at most.
I want to cry because I’m a joke.
I stop walking.
“Ellie?” Jennifer asks, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Are you OK?”
Mac and Stonewall Senior are visible through the glass walls of the executive conference room. They’re both serious. Hands are waving in the air, mouths making odd shapes that tell me the conversation’s heated. They are standing up at the digital whiteboard at the front of the room going over some chart or another. And it’s not that I think they are talking about me. In fact, I’m sure they are not.
Stonewall senior knew my father and gave me a job back when I needed one. I am just this little party favor left over from some by-gone good time. Like a balloon, or piece of candy, or cheap toy that looks pretty inside the brightly-colored bag of treats but has no actual use once the party is over.
“Ellie?” Jennifer asks again.
“Why aren’t you mad at me, Jennifer?” I turn to face her.
“What?” She laughs, and then tsks her tongue. “About the nickname? Shit, Ellie. I did my fair share of slutting around. It’s not like you made it up. You just called it like it is. Once upon a time I was an office slut. So what? I can appreciate the funny in what you wrote.”
“Don’t you care that I didn’t know you well enough to see you differently? You’ve been married for a while now. It’s been years since you did anything remotely slutty. Don’t you care that I still thought of you that way?”
“You found out quick enough, didn’t you? We got to know each other pretty fast once you were moved up here. How would you know what I was up to? You were stuck down in the hangar for years.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“Look,” Jennifer says, her hand still on my shoulder. “We all know those names were made up years ago. It’s just some harmless fun. Letting off steam. I mean, Mr. Sowards wasn’t too crazy about being called Mr. Sour-puss, but come on!” She’s outright laughing now. “It’s funny in a very stupid way. No one is mad.”
I almost accept that. Almost. If Mac hadn’t stood in his office two weeks ago and talked about cows and rowers on the river then I’d probably be OK with what she just told me.
But he did. He said those things and I heard them and they cannot be unheard.
I am scenery to these people. I am a view.
I am a car on the
road, or a boat floating under a bridge, or a light flicking on and off on the side of a building. No one cares about the driver in that car, or the man on that boat, or the couple in that apartment. No one cares because they are nothing but a view.
“Ellie!” Mac calls me from the conference room door.
“He’s not mad either,” Jennifer says, looking over at Mac.
I don’t say anything back, just turn and walk towards the conference room. Mac smiles at me as I approach. “You’ve heard, I take it? Ellie, don’t let Ellen get to you, OK? We are going to press charges. She will pay for this.”
I slip past him and enter the room. Stonewall Senior stands up and holds his hand out. I extend my hand too, but instead of shaking it, he engulfs it into both of his as they cup around and press.
It’s a warm gesture. One that says more than words. And I appreciate it, I really do. But it’s not enough to take away this deep, sinking feeling of hurt bubbling up from within me.
“I’m…” I stop, not sure how much I should say, but then press on anyway. “Sad.”
“We’re going to make her pay,” Senior says. “Don’t worry about that.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not sad about her. I’m sad about me. I thought about your offer all weekend, Mr. Stonewall. And I appreciate it, so much. I really appreciate everything you’ve done to help me, so I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m leaving. Today. Right now, in fact. I’m walking out and I’m not coming back.”
“Ellie?” Mac says. “Are you sure?”
“Is it the video?” Senior asks. “I’m so sorry—”
“No,” I say, cutting him off. “No, that’s not it. I just want to be more than a view.” I look Mac in the eyes for that last part. He squints at me, getting it, maybe. Or not getting it. I’m not sure. I don’t care. “That’s all I have to say.”
I fish around in my purse, find Mac’s phone, place it on the glass table, and walk out.
