by Julie Olivia
“Fran?” I ask again.
Her name swings her back to reality for a moment, enough to look me dead in the eye and say, “Stuart got in.”
“Oh, shit,” I mutter.
She nods and I walk closer.
“No, no, I got it,” Fran says, a single arm whipping out to wave me away.
“I could help,” I suggest. Two heads are better than one, and I know if I could just see what she sees, we could get this show back on the road. But, the moment I look over her shoulder, my beautiful girlfriend snaps.
“I said I got it, Owen.”
It’s not loud. It’s not a yell. It’s simply curt and firm. But it’s not her tone that unsettles me. It’s the program she has open on her laptop, the few lines of code I see drifting by, the code that seems eerily similar…the numerical values that have been haunting my dreams for weeks on the screen…
There’s no way it’s…
My phone buzzes, and the name that appears make my entire body tense. It must be a coincidence.
I unlock my phone and see Ryan’s name appear with the message that takes my thoughts by the back of the head and tosses them into the water to drown.
Ryan: I’m in.
I don’t get sick on roller coasters. Anticipation never made me nauseous. I don’t even get queasy at the sight of blood. I once fell on my knee as a kid, had my bone bulge to the side, and limped all the way back home just in time for dinner. It was my mom who fainted upon my arrival while I eagerly awaited her home-cooked spaghetti special. Eating noodles covered in deep red marinara while my dad dialed the ER didn’t faze me either. Despite all that, this moment makes me feel how I imagine my parents felt that day: out of sorts and uneasy.
The pieces fall into place, and I hate where they land because there’s only one obvious truth: We’ve been attempting to hack into my girlfriend’s company, and we just succeeded.
My girlfriend works for an animal testing facility.
I’m Stuart the rat.
20 Francesca
I never liked the game two truths and a lie, but if I had to play tonight, it would go as follows: I might not have a job. Elijah Owen is going to break up with me. I am a horse.
Can you guess the lie?
I know the discomfort of a relationship’s end, and both my boss and my boyfriend have been throwing signs at me in spades for the past forty-eight hours.
Curt responses, the cold shoulder, and the sexting that suddenly feels like more of an obligation than a circus act with fun toys—though, that particular aspect is more on the Owen side of things than my relationship with my boss.
I stayed home from Thursday’s meet-up. I don’t even know if Owen ultimately attended. I was too busy cleaning up my mess at work Thursday night into Friday morning into Friday night again, a whirlpool of time dealing with call after call from my boss asking me how in the hell I could have overlooked that one back door, how I should have been more alert, and how he had every right to fire me if he liked given my blatant disregard for the company’s security. I’ve never had a supervisor speak to me that way, and I told him so. He hung up on me.
Indeed, I’m definitely sacked.
That was about eight o’clock last night. It is now late Saturday afternoon and I am still in my pajamas, stroking Leia’s thick fur as she plays nurse to me. I think cats can just feel when we’re not doing well, and Leia’s always been a decent stand-in mum when needed. That is, until she hacks up a hairball on the floor and I’m forced to get up and clean it. Though, is that a lesson too? Making me rise from my own misery?
I glance at my phone, eyeing the one text I’ve received from Owen outside of our morning sext conversation that had all the fervor of a closeted theater kid.
Owen McMan-Candy: I emailed you Emma’s address. Meet you there at six?
It’s only been two days since we last saw each other, but before Thursday night’s disaster, our norm was missing each other for five or six hours before caving and seeking the other out. I could blame it on my job and how busy I’ve been, but Owen hasn’t bothered to text me either.
I lost my cool; that much is clear. I pushed him away when he was only trying to help, and I looked like a crazy obsessive freak. Well, not only did I look like one—I was one. I couldn’t just accept some help. Why did my pride get in the way once again? Maybe if I had welcomed some assistance, I could have buttoned up the security holes faster than I did and stopped Stuart from stealing as much information as they did. But, no, my brittle ego refuses to accept help from anyone. Just me, myself, and I. The way I like it. The way it was meant to be, I suppose.
My boss hasn’t officially fired me, and my boyfriend hasn’t officially told me he’s no longer interested in my crazy ass, but I can read between the lines.
I still prepare for Emma’s party as I usually would. At first, it just seems routine. Mascara? A bore. The dress I picked out last weekend? Snoozefest.
But then, the more I glance at my phone that shows no inkling of a response from my boyfriend, the angrier I get, the more heated my hands become—until I’m shaking with the eyebrow pencil in my fist and saying, “I will look pretty regardless of whether Owen likes me or not!”
So what if I freaked out? My work was broken into! So what if he can’t handle my stress levels? There are far crazier people in the world, anyway!
I go from Whatever, mascara to Bring on the highlights, and then I’m watching internet makeup tutorials and aiming for the smoky eye look with no drop of subtlety to it. By the time I’m finished, I feel like the makeup has invigorated me. My mirror reflects the same image. Topped with a cheap dress from one of those sketchy websites that I can probably only wear once before it rips to pieces, it’s a decent look.
The garment actually looks worlds better than I expected. It’s short with layers of tulle and lace stopping mid-thigh and opaque long sleeves the color of the night sky. The bodice and flared skirt are embedded with the occasional pearl detailing, and the whole ensemble shimmers with a twist in the light. It looks like the constellations brought to life. I feel ethereal. I feel like I’ve transcended above just female. Owen may be ending our relationship tonight, but he’ll be ending it with a damn goddess.
I feel like I’m commemorating the death of my relationship. I’ve been broken up with so many times, it’s almost a ballroom occasion. My going away party. My last hurrah. It’s only fitting I’m going to a murder mystery party to top it all off.
With one last ruffle of my bangs and a final pat on the ballerina bun atop the crown of my head, I head off to Emma’s. I try not to be too dramatic, but I may or may not throw on The Doors on my way down the stairs, earbuds pounding the sound of bass and tambourine as I look forward, shoulders back and the maps app pulled up on my phone.
Emma’s place is much farther away than I’m used to walking, in a part of town I’m unfamiliar with, so I call a rideshare service out front and hop in.
“Wow, going somewhere special?” the driver asks, my tulle dress puffing up around me as I plop down on the seat.
“Going to murder someone,” I say.
He doesn’t seem amused by my attempt at a joke, but that’s probably because he doesn’t know the theme of Emma’s party. I’m too tired from the past two days to care or attempt an explanation. More than likely, he’s heard worse anyway.
“Well, you’re dressed to kill,” he says.
That compliment will propel me through the night, I believe.
When I arrive at Emma’s doorstep and knock, she answers in a flurry of movement and air, her wood nymph personality already out in full force, like she’s made to be a host. Her eyes widen at me at the moment she opens the door, and her giddy smile spreads like water from a faucet.
Thankfully, Emma’s dress is just as embellished and unrestrained. It’s bright red with layers of tulle more overwhelming than my own, accented by sparkling red heels boosting her to my eye level and giving Dorothy of Oz a run for her money. With a dramatic look lik
e that, I wonder if she’s expecting to be broken up with as well.
“Well don’t you know how to party,” she says, pulling me in for a hug. Emma already smells like the sweetest of fruity wines, though I’m not sure if it’s her breath or just her natural aroma. She shuts the door behind me and shows me around the corner to the living room. My heart tugs because I can feel him. It’s an odd sensation, but one I just know, like the other side of my soul calling to me. Owen is here, even if I can’t see him just yet.
The lounge-like area is already crowded with people both familiar and not, and objects both real and not. A skeleton is posed in a chair, crazy spiderwebs adorn every surface of the fireplace, and there’s even a mannequin wrapped in toilet paper leaned against the wall to mimic a mummy.
I recognize Owen’s other coworker, Taylor, sitting in an armchair in the corner, legs crossed one over the other in a long mulberry-colored ballroom dress with both straps loose on her shoulders and slit riding high enough to expose the tops of her thighs.
A woman, who is remarkably androgynous, being both handsome and beautiful all at once, rests partway on the arm of Taylor’s chair as if eased into the position, a small tumbler of a dark drink in her hand. Her caramel brown hair is pulled back into a tight bun, not unlike my own, and she wears a fitted three-piece suit with the pants cropped just above brown oxfords. She and Taylor look straight out of a women’s fashion catalogue.
“You know Taylor,” Emma points out. “That’s Kate, her wife. Hey Kate!”
The handsome woman gives a small wave, much more eager than her Grim Reaper counterpart, who twiddles her fingers at me in greeting.
Across from them, I recognize the very plain look of Randy. He isn’t dolled up like the rest of us. He wears his usual round glasses that somehow appear rounder than ever and a sweater vest that only accentuates his male Velma contour, a Mr. Plum to the rest of our Clue aesthetic.
I look around for the last member of the Scooby gang, guiding me toward the window, where he sits in all his beauty, petting the house cat on the windowsill.
Owen is a vision. I never imagined this man would own a tux, but I’m happy that for some reason he does. If I know him at all, I bet there’s no way he went the extra mile to get it professionally tailored—he doesn’t have the time—but it fits him too perfectly not to be. The way the jacket hugs his broad chest, the stitching perfectly aligned with his shoulders, the neat cut around his sides… The backs of his knuckles stroke the short-haired black cat, and his perfect wrists and watch sit pretty next to polished cufflinks.
If I didn’t think he would be dumping me as soon as this party was over, I might just be petitioning to find a nice quiet place for him to take me not so quietly. That initial thought churns my stomach—I will be losing him tonight for whatever reason—and that only induces the same anger that fueled me to look as hot as I do.
When he finally meets my gaze, his eyebrows are turned in, a look of concern he generally only saves for when he’s lost deep in work. Is that what I am to him now? Work?
I walk to him, head held high as if we didn’t just practically ignore each other for the past couple days. I give a small spin, arching an eyebrow in defiance. His eyes bug out, and I think I might even see some drool.
Good boy.
He laughs, though it seems it’s against his better judgment. I can tell by the way it comes out stilted, like he tried to hold it back first. Butterflies zip through me at his smile, at the lines that draw along the outside of his lips as the low throaty sound exits.
I point to the cat he pets. “Leia is going to be so jealous.”
“I like the dress,” he says, ignoring my comment.
“You picked it out.”
“Is that why you asked me whether I liked pearls or studs last weekend?” he asks.
I smile at the memory. He’s correct. I couldn’t wait to see his face when I wore it, god willing it would fit like the foreign website promised. The dress didn’t disappoint, and neither does his face, stunned as his eyes trail from my tight bodice to the shimmering skirt.
“Well I bought a matching one for you too,” I joke.
“So thoughtful,” Owen says, in almost a sigh.
He seems almost wistful, and it tears at me. That was faster than the dress itself ripping; I’m surprised.
“Fran, Fran!” For once, I’m happy for Emma’s voice carrying across a room. She glides over, charcuterie board in hand, extended like a waiter. She even tossed a towel over the crook of her arm for effect.
I laugh, relieved by the interruption.
“Look, I even added blueberry jam for you!” she points out. I take a combination of cheese and a cracker with the jam and nod in agreement. It really is absolutely delicious.
“Emma, what would you like me to do with the casserole?” To my surprise, Lara’s head pops out from the kitchen entryway, and I throw my hands in the air. She lifts hers in response, the slight jiggle of her old woman chicken wings flying out in greeting under her black layered flapper dress.
Her appearance lifts a weight from my chest, a reprieve of home to let my shoulders rest in the uncomfortable fabric of my cheap dress.
“Oh, throw it in the oven!” Emma calls. “We’ll start soon!” She looks back to me, cocking her hip out and resting her elbow against it. “Do you want a drink, Fran?”
“Please,” I reply as I exhale. I hear Owen chuckle behind me and it puts me on edge once more, but I play it off with a side smile in his direction.
“Mind if I steal her?” Emma asks him, already taking my arm with her free hand. Owen doesn’t argue. As I’m dragged off, out of the corner of my eye, I see his features melt back into the concerned look from when I arrived.
What happened to us?
I assist Emma and Lara in the kitchen for a few minutes, ensuring I have a heavy glass of wine to accompany my every movement. Eventually Emma shoos us out to the dining area, where she’s given us assigned seats at the long table. Randy sits quietly at the end, twiddling his thumbs. He adorably attempts to pull Lara’s seat out for her as she shuffles to it, but she throws him a good-hearted scowl, which he accepts with a blush.
The trifold with my name on it is across from Lara, who sits at the end of the table next to Taylor and Kate. To my left is Emma’s place, and to my right is Owen’s name placard. He shows up from the kitchen and sits down next to me.
The air between us could be cut with a knife, murder mystery party or not.
“Sorry I haven’t been very present,” he mumbles to me once we’re sitting. “Work has been weird lately.”
I look up to see if anyone is listening. Randy, Taylor, and Kate are discussing the most recent episode released on streaming. Lara is texting.
“As weird as mine?” I whisper back, forcing a laugh.
He chuckles good-naturedly. I hate how rehearsed it feels, how disingenuous. I want my old Owen back, the Owen who saw me before I freaked out over work. Even my sore jokes don’t process how I want them to. They’re falling flat, and it seems daft.
“I made sure to prep a vegan dish,” Emma chimes in from the kitchen. I see Taylor’s lips curl in on themselves as Kate claps to herself.
“Would you say you’re vegan?” Owen asks me. “Like, that you care about animals and such?”
“Pardon?” I ask, taken back. “You saw me eat a whole hot dog the other day.”
A sly smile tugs at his lips, a flash of that clever man I let rustle under my skirt daily.
“That I did,” Owen says. Just as easy as it came to be, the smile fades.
I shift in my seat, unable to get comfortable with how mixed our signals are.
“What’s wrong with you tonight?” I mutter. But I know what’s wrong—he’s finding any excuse to not be with me anymore, even if it involves our mutual love for hot dogs fizzling out and burning.
“Nothing. Nothing. I’m just…work, y’know?” he says, placing a hand on my knee. Nerves zip through me, all the way down to my
ankle and the tip of my pinky toe. He does that to me, whether he means to or not. “I’d really like to talk sometime tonight if we can break away for a bit.”
My heart stutters, tumbles, and putters to a near halt at the sentence. I nod, because what else do you say in response to that? ‘We need to talk’ is the universal sign of a breakup. He knows it. I know it. Everyone at the table who might have overheard knows it.
I glance around—nobody noticed. Lara may have, but she seems too distracted by the mysteries of her phone to be concerned with a side conversation.
Damn it. Damn him. Damn this night.
“Okay, before we get started, let’s hand out roles!” Emma says, bounding into the room as if skipping through a field of dandelions. She has folders in her arms with our names printed on labels on the fronts.
“Wow, this looks so good, Emma!” Kate says, taking hers.
“We’ll go around the room and announce our roles—” Emma starts.
“When are we going to eat?” Taylor drawls.
“If you’re the killer, it’ll be listed at the bottom,” Emma continues, as if Taylor didn’t speak at all. Kate leans over to kiss her wife on the cheek. It’s so adorable my heart hurts. Emma points to all of us once the folders are out. “But don’t tell anyone if you’re the killer! Owen, I’m looking at you!”
Owen shuts his folder with a fwap.
“I would never,” he says in a mockingly shocked tone. I smile. His comedic timing never fails.
“You ruined it last year,” Emma whines.
“Yeah, he was drunk,” Kate says with a laugh. “He could have given half of Times Square a run for their money.”
Owen shrugs as a small conversation on tourism explodes around me, even Lara chiming in for good measure. I look over to notice Owen is only drinking a glass of water.
“You don’t even have a drink,” I say.
He smiles, half-heartedly. “I’m letting you have a good time.”
