by Julie Olivia
It’s official: my life is a dramedy. Where’s my laugh track to make this week better? Where’s the commercial break? I’d very much like one, please.
“I’m not saying Owen is a bad man,” Lara says. “Yet.” She moves in, and I instinctually lean away. “But I’ve traced what I’ve been looking for to New York and narrowed it down to his company specifically.”
“Bloody hell,” I mutter, clutching my head and running my hand through my hair, my fingers getting caught in my bun. That’s what I get for picking up Owen’s stress-regulating habits. I never ran my hands through my hair before meeting him.
The fact of the matter is that I have no clue what Owen was working on. My company was a bad company, but does that make him a bad man for attempting to take it down? I don’t know a lot of things, including why Lara needs to find hackers so badly, but what I do know is that any additional details are all just dust to me at this point. Because I can’t let Owen go to prison.
“So, what do you know?” I ask, straightening my spine.
“It’s just a lead,” Lara says, a grin breaking over her wrinkled face. She seems too excited to elaborate, which doesn’t help my own plan, but I’ll let it slide. I don’t need to know her intel. I can figure this out on my own. Her smile falters, and she lets out a heavy exhalation. “But I’ll follow up on it in a couple days.”
“Why?”
“I’m going on vacation!” she says, breaking into a wide grin once more. The kookiness I’ve grown to know returns, and I have my foot in the door.
“When do you leave?” I ask, almost too quickly.
“Now. Which is why I brought you more food, my dear.”
Lara pats the grocery bag, as if we didn’t just have a conversation about how she’s looking to send some hackers behind bars, my recently ex-boyfriend is on her hit list, and I’m just supposed to take it sitting down.
I return her smile, taking the bananas and jerky from her and letting them settle in my lap.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Meat is for winners.”
“I didn’t know there was a meat that could be classified as ‘for winners,’” I say. It doesn’t matter because I’ll take what she gives me all the same. I already know it’ll be near impossible to attempt to repay her after all she’s done for me in the past few days, but now I wonder if maybe she’s banking on that. Maybe she knows I have information on Owen. I don’t, but…I was just his girlfriend, wasn’t I? In fact, what game is she playing? And why does it feel like everyone in New York has their own agenda?
“Thanks again for all the help,” I say. “I’ll start job hunting this afternoon.”
“I’ll be back in a couple days. And this puppy”—she pats her pocket with the stolen sheet of paper—“is gonna be locked up safe and tight. Can’t chance losing it on my trip.”
The bell dings in my head loud enough that I almost wonder if she hears it. I clear my throat.
“Drive safe,” I mutter. Though once the words leave my mouth, I consider for a moment, Lord, can she even drive?
After Lara leaves, I abandon the food on my kitchen counter and pace back and forth in my apartment, the back of my blanket dragging on the ground behind me.
She’ll be gone for a few days. The paper will still be in her apartment.
Only one thought keeps trudging through, and although it sounds ridiculous at first, it feels like the more I repeat it, the more it seems viable.
I could steal her lead.
Wait—no! Who am I, Nicolas Cage? Do I steal important documents like the Declaration of Independence? This isn’t my life. I’m not a thief. My job is to keep things secure. It’s what I’m good at. Thievery? Have I gone completely mental?
But, to a certain extent, I suppose I have.
Other people’s lies have gotten me into various binds time and time again throughout the years. Sometimes figuratively, like David lying about screwing his coworker. Sometimes literally, like the time Owen said he was picking up sushi and instead he arrived with handcuffs. That was a good lie.
Wait, no, focus.
Lies upon lies, building my own mental image of what a man should be, and the fact still remains: I date bad men with bad intentions. Men who cheat. Men who give you only half the truth. But Owen never truly lied to me—not maliciously. He never put me in a position that made me question truth from lies until he hacked into my company, and, ultimately, he came clean within days. And he is protecting freaking animals!
I dated a good man who did bad things with good intentions, for the first time ever.
Okay, so I could sneak into Lara’s apartment, find the paper, and—
No! This is absurd. I shake my head. Leia leaps toward my trailing blanket, claws clutching the ends as I continue to turn in circles, now dragging her with me.
Owen isn’t guilty.
Well… I turn my head back and forth as the mental argument with myself starts to become a theatrical performance for me, myself, and I.
He is and he isn’t.
But Lara doesn’t know that, and she’ll no doubt connect him to the hackers around New York. He mentioned a friend. Is it his friend Ryan who is guilty? Bollocks, what am I even saying? Both of them are guilty, and I know this—but what do I really know of my beautiful man friend?
I pause, and Leia’s assault on my blanket now reaches my foot. I yelp and jump backward. She scurries under the couch.
I know, deep inside, in the core of me, Elijah Owen is a good man.
Which can only lead to one conclusion.
I guess I’m breaking into an old woman’s apartment.
Bully for me.
23 Owen
“Tell me something good.”
Sitting at my computer, staring at Ryan on the screen, and hearing his simple words of satisfaction as he leans back in his computer chair is enough to make me want to punch the guy. But what good would that do?
We got the files. We secured the information. We broke the law. And, in his mind, we’re simply floating on cloud nine.
“I’m out,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
I expected to see his face fall at that, but he remains stoic.
“That’s not good,” he says.
“No, but it’s necessary.” He hums out a thought, but I don’t wait for him to respond. “And I’m not doing it again.”
I’ve been mulling it over for days, but I knew where I stood the moment I found out Fran was involved, and it wasn’t with the man who blackmailed me into this.
“I guess you’ve done what I asked. I’ll transfer money into—”
“I don’t want your money.”
I just want Fran’s forgiveness.
Am I nervous Fran might tell the police? Possibly. She’s in the clear as far as I’m concerned. We’ll be covertly taking down her old company, and she’ll be unharmed. Easy as that. I’ve seen Ryan do it before. He’s decent at protecting our own—other techies. Most people on the security team don’t get touched when he destroys another company.
But I want nothing more to do with it. I want to distance myself from this as far as I can. If I could move away from New York, I would, but I’ve got a business to run and a woman to love. She may want nothing to do with me now, but I’m not giving up. I’ve already decided that once I’ve detached myself from Ryan, I’m doing everything in my power to get her back.
Will she take me back? I don’t know, and quite frankly, I can’t even afford to think like that, because all I want is her. I want her in my arms again. I want her light airy accent, her flowery scent, and her carefree laugh. I want to hear her sarcastic remarks. If I’m the luckiest man on Earth—which the universe is making quite clear is not the case—she’ll give me hell for this for the rest of our lives. I’d love nothing more than to hear her jeering remarks until the day I die because it’ll mean she was there to say them.
But I know I can’t possibly be that lucky. Even then, every moment I imagine that it couldn’t work,
I try to shake it from my mind because there’s no other option but Fran. Not my business. Not my morbid curiosity to learn more about other companies. Just her, and the decision to make her first priority comes as easy as breathing for me. It’s the obvious choice.
I know I don’t deserve her—not one bit. I don’t deserve even the tip of her pinky finger gracing me with its presence. I’m not a great guy and I didn’t do a great thing, but nothing else will do for me but Francesca with her irresistible combat boots and silly overalls. Not one thing.
“So, what’s the plan now?” I ask Ryan, interrupting the silence of his stare. “We set the animals free or something? Go all hippie?”
“No,” he says. “This time I’m selling the information.”
My heart kicks up a notch, and I feel a weight barrel into my stomach.
“Why would you do that?” I ask.
He narrows his eyes. “Why do you care?”
If he sells the information, Fran is screwed. I trust Ryan to sidestep the employees that matter, but I don’t know what another random proprietor of this information will do with it, and it’ll inevitably lead back to her. As an employee, does she count as an accomplice?
“Why don’t you just release the animals and call it a day?” I ask with a small, forced laugh, trying to maintain my ease. “Expose them like we normally do?”
Ryan cocks his head to the side. “Thanks for getting me the information, Owen. I’ll take it from here.”
“Wait, hang on—”
“You should be happy,” he says, throwing his hands in the air. His tiny dog Brutus walks in front of the webcam, and he moves him with one swift gesture. What happened to my old friend Ryan? What happened to the man dedicated to doing things for the greater good?
“You’re cut loose,” he says. “Go live your life.”
Like a dog being released in the wild. Like he was my captor.
Bullshit.
“Don’t ever contact me again, Ryan,” I say.
A slow, creeping smile stretches onto his features, and I’ve never felt like I know him less. I hang up the call and pace around my apartment.
I’m going to make this right. I need to warn Fran, but I don’t know how incriminating all of this truly is. What could we possibly do? Ryan has what he needs. Fran is involved, and she won’t be protected by anything but her word that she wasn’t aware of anything.
Maybe the both of us can flee back to England before she’s discovered by affiliation…no, that’s ridiculous. I’m not really thinking straight, but I can’t let her be involved in the fall. And then there’s me…I also might go to prison. I wrote the code that allowed Ryan to hack in. I can take the heat. I knowingly did what I thought was worth the risk. But, not Fran.
I reach for my phone, navigating to my favorites list. Her name is at the very top, and I tap it to start dialing her number.
One ring, another ring, and one more still…no answer.
“Fran, please pick up,” I mutter, more to myself than anything else.
A final ring and then the sound of her voicemail.
That’s not good enough.
24 Francesca
When I learned how to lockpick, did I know I would be using these skills on an old woman’s apartment? No, I’d say not.
I was a super nerd who wanted to be a thief in some fantasy novel I read when I was twelve. I would have pointy ears, speak with a ghostly ethereal voice, and find my Prince Charming among the other thieves. I guess part of that dream came true.
I wait a couple hours until I only hear the sounds of New York life zooming by outside, and then I decide to act. I had to brush up on my skills by watching online videos all afternoon, videos of people learning lockpicking just because it seems fun but saying old-timey locks rarely even exist in modern-day society so it’s a lost art.
Fun fact: they exist in our dingy old New York building.
I fiddle with the only hairpin left in my apartment—because those things really do go missing all the time—until I hear the latch release. I turn the knob and the door swings open.
Okay, sure, I did feel like a little bit of a badass right there.
Lara’s apartment is the mirror image of my own: a studio with a small kitchenette, a tiny corner for a bed, and another, smaller corner that might serve as a living room. A closed door is in the corner, and I know it to be the small, barely functioning loo in every apartment. I don’t worry about it.
Unlike my place, hers smells like aged coffee grounds, baked cookies, and freshly cut grass. It’s clean, but cluttered: boxes neatly stacked on her coffee table, folded laundry taking up three-fourths of her couch, and her daybed in the corner appearing to be more pillow than bedding.
I tiptoe in, and my eye twitches every time the floorboards creak. It’s the knowledge of being somewhere you’re not supposed to be—the unfamiliar scents, the eerie quiet save for the outdoor noises of the city…it’s wrong, but I knew that before I came in here. I knew that when I made the decision to lockpick my way in.
The only uncluttered part of her apartment is the kitchen counter, empty except for one thing: a folded piece of paper with hints of green sticking out from the sides.
Owen’s paperwork and whatever leads are supposedly written on it.
The whole image seems too easy. It’s propped open, just enough so I can see his blocky handwriting and the sticky notes that denote it as his. If it were any more obvious, it would have a giant sign above it reading Hey, steal this! It’s Indiana Jones’s holy grail. Are there booby traps I’m not seeing? Should I look out for rolling boulders?
I walk over, peering from side to side as I gingerly reach out and take the paper between my two fingers. I don’t let go in case maybe spikes rise from a secret compartment in the floor. But, no, that’s silly, I’m just being paranoid—so I lift it, breathing a sigh of relief when no poisoned darts stick in my neck, and place the note in my pocket.
When it rustles, I shush it, but my sound is louder than the crinkling paper so then I just shush myself. Internally groaning, I know I need to get out of here.
But as I turn to head back toward the door, toward safety and being in the clear, the boxes on her coffee table catch my eye, and I can’t help but wonder…what else does she know? What if there’s more? This paper can’t possibly be the only bit of evidence, can it?
I ease toward the coffee table, inching back the flaps like I’m peeking at a holiday present before I’m supposed to, hoping not to leave any traces of my being here. I peer inside. It’s filled with papers—envelopes from old bills, faded yellow legal paper with chicken-scratch notes I can’t decipher, and right on top is a picture of Lara, from at least ten years ago, I’d imagine, with what I can only assume is her late husband, Richard.
His arm is wrapped around her neck, pulling her in to place a large kiss on her cheek. Even as old as he looks with his dentures and laugh lines pulling at the sides of his mouth, he still has a head full of hair—it’s full-blown grey, but it’s there. He’s dressed to the nines, looking almost as sharp as Owen did in his tux last night. Lara’s eyes are closed, mouth wide in the middle of laughing. She’s never looked happier. They’re in front of a marquee, but the title of whatever is played is cut off in the picture. The framing only focuses on this moment and on their love.
I know this is what love truly is: laughing, caring, and even continuing on the legacy of your lost soulmate. That’s all Lara is doing. This is the only piece of him she has left. Would I do the same with Owen?
When you know, you know, yeah?
I step away from the box and tuck the folds back in.
I have what I came for. She couldn’t do anything before this piece of paper, so this is all I need. I’m sure there is more in those boxes that could help Owen, but if they’re all Lara has left of her late husband, that’s a line I just can’t cross.
I’m about to leave when the smell of cookies wafts my way once more. I look over, see she left a window open, a
nd think it must be the café down the street baking new goods—but when I look down at the side table, I notice an open candle burning next to the sofa. I peer at the label that says ‘Home Sweets Home’ with a winking personified cookie on the side.
Lara left a candle burning. Good lord, she should not be living alone.
If she forgot to close a window and blow out the candle, she won’t notice if I do it for her. I wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing an open flame was lit next door.
I head for the window first, shimmying past the side table with the candle, but that was a big mistake.
I should have listened to all the times Owen told me how nice and big my ass was. For my small frame, my donk is disproportionate to the rest of me and can’t seem to mind its own business.
When I sidestep around the table, my thick arse knocks into it, and the cookie-scented, massive, three-wick burning candle falls directly into Lara’s side recliner.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” I mutter as a tiny ember flits to the cushions and catches instantly.
I don’t think I’ve met a recliner I didn’t hate.
“No, no, no, no,” I repeat, over and over as I run to her daybed, grab one of the thousand floral-printed pillows, and start beating the chair as hard as I can, trying to stifle the fire down.
“FRAN!”
I think my soul leaves my body at the sound of another individual in this apartment—even more so when I realize who the feeble, light voice belongs to. There in the doorway to the bathroom is Lara, rushing over to me, grabbing a fire extinguisher off the wall—wow, do we have those?—and aiming at me.
“Get back!” her shaky voice yells with more strength and tenacity than I can muster in my own nervous state.
I step aside and let her douse the tiny flame, but not before reaching into my pocket and tossing the piece of paper over it.
With how fast it goes out, it’s more spark than bite, and the paper with green stickies ignites and withers, curling into its black center.
