by Julie Olivia
Tendrils of smoke drift up to the ceiling from the tiny wreckage. When the loud fwoosh of the extinguisher stops, even the city sounds feel dead quiet in opposition to the chaos that just ensued.
I awkwardly wave the fumes toward the window, clearing my throat and coughing away from her. When I finally meet her gaze, Lara looks like the spitting image of a bridge troll, hands on hips, lips cinched to the side of her mouth.
Do I need to tell a riddle to pass her by?
“So, that…that was not…” I say, placing my own hands on my hips to mirror her pose, because how in the world do I explain any single thing in front of me?
Lara breaks the silence with a heavy exhalation.
“You came faster than I thought.”
I shake my head. I must not have heard that right. It’s the cookie fumes blazing my brain.
“Pardon?”
“I needed to know if you thought Owen was innocent.”
I blink, hoping each time my lashes hit the tops of cheeks, maybe some ounce of understanding will flow through me. But, nope, this still makes zero sense.
“You were waiting for me to steal from you?” I ask.
“More or less.”
“Am I in a movie?” I turn my head to the side, squinting. Maybe she isn’t real. Maybe I’ve been living in a dream ever since I was hacked. That murder mystery party at Emma’s was straight out of my nightmares, so why should I believe any of this is real? “Is this…” I spin in circles, looking at the corners of her apartment, surprised I don’t find any cameras. “Am I getting pranked?”
“Sit down, dearie,” Lara says, rolling her eyes.
I look at the burnt spot in the corner of her recliner and then back to her.
She huffs out a breath and points to her daybed. I walk over, grab a pillow to free up some space for my bum, and plop down, hugging the pillow closer for support.
“I’ve been looking for Owen’s old business partner for years,” she says, and I really wish she hadn’t because my brain soars even further into the abyss.
“What?” There’s no way this is happening. Did I get caught up in some bigger plot? Me, in a crowd of everyone in New York, and somehow I landed the weird part of accomplice in a story much bigger than my own.
“It’s strange that you moved in next door and started dating him,” Lara says.
“Is it, though?” I ask with a quick humorless laugh. “Because I’m starting to believe my entire life has been dictated by the universe and not myself.”
“I know you got hacked,” she continues, ignoring my disbelief. “And I know Owen does hacking on the side.”
“Do you hear yourself?” I ask.
“I know from the party that he’s the hacker who got you. And, these walls are thin, so I also happen to know your pet names for each other.”
“I knew you were a spicy lady, Lara, but my word.”
She smiles. “I’m not blackmailing you, snazzle tookus.”
Ah, so she can hear through walls. Owen thinks that name is hilarious. I told him not to use it, but what else are pet names for than your significant other bothering you with them?
I smile at the memory but shake it off.
I sigh. “Okay, so that’s out there. Great.”
“We should talk.”
Distantly, I hear footsteps, two at a time, being taken until they stop at my door. There’s knocking and the unmistakable sound of Owen’s deep voice.
“Fran?” he says. My head shoots to the open door to Lara’s apartment, and I hear his worry wafting through the hall. “Fran, I need to talk to you.”
Lara smiles, and my stomach churns. At this point, I don’t know if I should like or dislike that smile of hers.
“Perfect timing,” she says.
25 Owen
I don’t know why Lara’s apartment smells so much like cookies when there are none around and it is in such disarray, but I’m too distracted by the burned spot in the corner of her recliner, the general haze of smoke in the air, and the fact that no fire alarm has gone off to really be concerned about the lack of baked goods at the moment.
I can hear Leia mewing from Fran’s apartment next door, probably knowing she’s nearby but not close enough to give attention.
Wow, are the walls seriously that thin?
Fran and I sit on the daybed, inches from each other. Lara is in the kitchenette putting on a pot of coffee for us with a tea kettle on the stove for Fran. Other than deciding we all need to talk and mutually deciding we should start with a warm drink, we haven’t said a word in a couple minutes.
I’m still unsure how I feel about Lara. She’s humming a little tune to herself and she seems almost grandmotherly in the way she scoops spoonfuls of coffee grounds into the filter, bobbing her head to the beat.
Fran, on the other hand, is indecipherable. Her face has been a blank stare since I came in, like she’s lost in thought. We keep making eye contact, and whenever I can hold it for more than two seconds, a slight blush fills her cheeks and I know we must be okay.
Who blushes if they’re mad?
Okay, so, lots of people, but that’s beside the point.
It’s not angry blushing; I can tell. It’s ‘happy to see you but don’t know what to really say’ blushing. I think.
I reach out to touch Fran’s shoulder. She leans into my open palm, letting me stroke the outside of her shirt. There are stains of all sorts on it that resemble rings from the bottom of mugs, but I try not to question the weird designs she wears. This is the same woman who wears combat boots with dresses. She knows what she wants, and I’m not going to be the man to question it.
I’ve missed how small she feels under my palm, how I can wrap all of my fingers around her and feel like some sort of protector. Not that she even needs that, though, which only makes me wants to do it more.
I like the way her bangs fan on her forehead, a bit wavy and flustered by whatever events I just missed. I like how she tugs the pillow close to her chest when she scoots her butt a bit closer to me on the bed. I like how there’s a small smile peeking through the cracks of her distant demeanor.
But, most of all, I like how I absolutely love that silly smile. I love her. I love it all.
Lara clears her throat. I drop my hand, which somehow made its way up to her cheek, the thumb stroking over the smooth curves of her high cheekbones.
“Okay, shoot,” I say, leaning forward and settling my elbows on my thighs. The same hand that was on her cheek moves to her knee. I can’t help myself.
“I’ve been hunting Ryan Reed for a while,” Lara says, splaying out her hands on the countertop as the coffee pot rumbles to life behind her. “Figured I’d just start with that and see where we go.”
It’s surreal having my former best friend’s name leave this woman’s mouth, to feel my two worlds colliding in such a weird way.
“Why?” I ask.
“He was my husband’s obsession the last few years of his life. He finds vulnerable companies and sells their protected information for money.”
I bark out a laugh and say, “He doesn’t normally do that.” But I feel stupid the second I do, because what do I truly know about Ryan anymore?
“I don’t know what he’s been telling you, son, but he’s not a good man,” Lara says. The tone is even, and I know that, even if her previous claim is up for debate, that is nowhere near a lie. “He’s notorious for not solving any of the problems he finds. He just sells the information and moves on.”
I don’t question what else he may have found and passed on. We’ve always worked on the simple stuff, but I’m sure he does other things when I’m not working with him. I don’t want to know what those things are.
“So what now?” I ask, feeling like my life the past day or so has just been that—waiting for someone to give me direction on where to go next. “You sending me to prison or what?”
It’s the obvious question in the air. We all know it. Fran’s eyes dart over to me, and I rub m
y thumb over her knee, running my hand up her leg to meet the palm that extends down to entwine her fingers with mine.
“No,” Lara says. “No, I’m not.”
The relief that washes over me is instantaneous, like a cold shower. A welcome shock to the system, but a shock nonetheless.
“Why?” I ask.
Lara shrugs, turning to take the tea kettle off the stove as it has started whistling. “I’m too old to send nice people to the clink,” she says with a laugh. It’s that kind laugh I was waiting to hear and didn’t know it—the one everyone else seems to see except myself. A kind woman, a woman who makes you tea when you’re talking about things like prison or cruelty, an old woman who’s lived a long life and is pretty much done with the day-to-day bullshit.
“Fran trusts you,” she says. I look at Fran from the corner of my eye, and she is already staring back at me. Her chest rises and falls slowly, but her lips are pursed to the side. A casual eye roll follows, causing me to laugh.
For some stupid reason, her expression says.
“Plus, if I sent you to prison,” Lara continues, pulling down three mugs in varying floral designs, “Emma wouldn’t have a job, and I love that girl like my own daughter.”
I slowly shake my head. “How do you even know Emma?”
“We both took night classes in security administration,” Lara says. “She wanted a career. I just wanted to learn more about my husband’s life work.”
“You wanted peace,” Fran says softly. Her answer is confirmed by Lara’s sweet wrinkled smile.
“Hate to break it to you, but Ryan already sold the information we just got,” I say. “It’s probably already lost somewhere with someone. Fran…” I stroke the outside of her wrist with my thumb. “You should probably get out of town or something.”
The sentence itself strikes me hard. It feels unfair to be encouraging her departure and such a ridiculous trope of leaving the country to be saved from the evil bad man, but somehow this has become my life. I did to myself, and I did it to Fran.
“Quit with the dramatics,” Lara says, bringing me back to the moment. She pours the coffee into the mugs with a single eyebrow lifted, as if scolding the mugs. “Ryan’s selling the information to me.”
And all at once, I know I like this crazy kook.
“Funny enough, somehow the information with you in it got burned,” Lara says, laughing to herself in a throaty, raspy tone and stealing a glance at Fran. “Weird how that works out.”
A smile creeps at the edge of Fran’s mouth. It’s beautiful, sly, almost sinister in the way it spreads across her face so slowly and with such pleasure in the event I missed.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“I couldn’t see you go to prison just for caring about animals,” she says, straightening her posture for the first time since we’ve been talking. There’s that Fran I know. “They’d eat you alive in there.”
I bark out a laugh. “I’d start an advocacy group.”
She snorts. “It’d be so unorganized.”
“I’d have more than enough time to figure it out,” I say, squeezing her hand and eliciting another laugh-borderline-scoff from her.
“I bet you wouldn’t last three days.”
“Give me two.”
“I’ll give you both thirty if you don’t stop,” Lara says.
Fran smiles, relaxing into the seat, glancing between the two of us and nodding toward the steaming teapot on the stove. “I’ll take that tea about now, if you please, Lara.”
26 Francesca
There was big news about Ryan Reed’s arrest—at least that’s what I thought I would be saying, but instead the news of a big hacker getting put in the slammer passed by in the background like fireflies in the night. No fanfare. No big justice train ready to choo-choo down the tracks. He was simply free one day, then the next he was in jail with nobody but his puppy to bail him out. I only know this because Owen said he received a phone call—Ryan’s only call—with instructions to swing by his house and get a small dog named Brutus.
Lara filled me in on more details regarding the arrest itself. Apparently, she and Owen parsed through the information and gave it to some trusted detectives who valued her husband’s work. They took over from there. Anything involving Owen was not included, the backups of backups deleted by him and burned by her. My employment with the company was also unrecorded. Turns out their recordkeeping was just as shady as the rest of their dealings. Payments came out of a private account, untracked, into my direct deposit. My actual name was nowhere to be found.
Everything worked out. Everything was wrapped up perfectly and tied with a neat bow on top—everything except my relationship with Owen.
A week after we all spoke at Lara’s, I received a call about his new puppy, but I was in a busy lobby about to attend a job interview, so we didn’t talk long. I haven’t heard from him since then, and I wasn’t sure if I should call back.
Back into relationship limbo we went.
Leia also started getting lethargic over the next few days following the whirlwind of drama. I took her furry little ginger butt to the vet after wondering why she hadn’t shoved her face full of food after two days. Very odd for her, indeed. However, they said she was perfectly fine, most likely just mourning a deep loss.
“Did someone in your life suddenly leave?” the vet asked. “You know, animals get sentimental when they lose a familiar face.”
Leia was prescribed lots of cuddles and feel-good snacks for her broken heart. They didn’t give me anything for mine.
Lara was now skilled at how to nurse me back to health. She brought over a VHS player with old movies recorded on cable television. We didn’t even skip over the commercials. They were recorded in America, so the advertisements weren’t reminiscent of my own childhood, but I somehow felt nostalgic all the same.
She eventually coaxed me out of the house, convincing me that I simply needed a blueberry scone to get me “right as rain.” I almost walked out the door right then and there, but a simple pat on my shoulder and a crinkle of her nose told me, oh, I should probably shower.
Ten minutes later, with me in tights, a corduroy dress, and a thick coat—as insisted upon by Grandma Lara—we’re headed down the sidewalk toward the café.
The weather has gotten entirely too crisp overnight. Leaves are no longer on the trees, instead littered in bundles of tan, maroon, and grey on the ground. The wind is harsh against my skin, and I pull my coat closer. Lara’s remarks about how she knew for a fact I’d be cold, that I am too tiny not to be blown away are all I hear while we journey the two blocks.
When we reach the shop, I don’t look in the window. I used to do that so I could get a glimpse of Owen before he saw me. I liked catching him off guard, watching as he concentrated on whatever was on his laptop. I liked how giddy it made me to know his smile would break across his face in a second flat at seeing me. I’m too afraid to know what it will feel like when I cross the threshold into the café. I’m scared it will feel like I’m intruding on the happiness that formerly belonged to Fran and Owen—not depressing Francesca with a sick cat and an elderly caretaker.
We pull open the door, the bell dinging above our heads, and when I finally look up, I’m instantly hit with a punch of air leaving my gut at the sight in front of me.
A freaking piano is in the center of the café.
And next to it is the man I’ve wanted to see so desperately for too long.
My Elijah Owen.
I look him over, noting the shoes, which are somehow so sharp yet casual with the oxford style, as he stands in between delicately placed flowers. They’re not petals, but full-stemmed flowers, and it shatters me just a little bit more because it’s so telling of who he is as a person. Owen wouldn’t hurt anything alive—even plants.
His straight-cut jeans, narrowed around the ankles, lead up to his black jumper hidden beneath a thick grey peacoat.
And his expression may as well belong to the f
inest of fairytale princes.
His jawline is freshly shaved, and I can see the sharp yet gentle curves to it that have been traced by my fingertips countless times. He has his gorgeous, lopsided smile, curved right at the end of his lips with lines drawing from the edge of his cheek down to his chin.
His hair is immaculate, or as neat as he could make it. It looks similar to the night of the party, and I still wonder if he used some type of gel to keep it in place. Even so, it doesn’t look like he used as much, and I can tell he’s probably already been running his hands through it obsessively.
We finally catch eyes, and he stares back at me with those mocha-colored beauties behind the thick style of glasses I’ve loved since day one.
Owen is too gorgeous for his own good.
Beside him is Bob the pianist, fingers poised and ready to play.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, sucking in my bottom lip to stifle the burn at the backs of my eyes.
“Your grand gesture is to meet me at the same dumb coffee shop we always go to?” I ask, a slight waver in my voice. In classic Owen fashion, he doesn’t look offended at all. But my man wouldn’t be, would he? Instead he smiles, looking to the floor of flowers then back up to me, shaking his head. “Why didn’t you hack into my computer or something? Write some cute message on my screen?”
He laughs. “I think I’ve done enough illegal hacking for a while. And hey, I like my grand gesture,” he says, opening his arms wide. “Did you notice Bob? I mean, come on! We moved a piano in here!”
“You’re going to sing for me?”
“Anything you want. Lara told me you stole from her to help me,” he says. I look over to her; I almost forgot she was here. She gives an absolutely adorable shrug, her palms folded together, a Mother Teresa stance.
“That I did.”
A large breath of air escapes him in the form of an almost disbelieving laugh.
“You’re something else, Fran. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything I did.”
