by J. D. Robb
Jeremy’s heart was just beginning to race again with anxiety when a break in the wall suddenly opened up on his left. He stumbled to a halt in front of it and found himself looking into a marbled alcove that housed a bank of elevators.
“Yes.” He moved swiftly to the call buttons, pressed the down arrow, and looked above the sets of doors for illuminated numbers. Nothing, he thought, figures. Still, elevators went to ground floors and ground floors led outside. If he could get out onto the street, he could figure out where he was.
After several minutes with no change in elevator status, Jeremy pressed the “up” arrow so that both were lit. Immediately he heard movement behind one of the bays, the familiar lurch and roll of an elevator car moving in the shaft. Finally there was a ding and the far left doors opened, the up arrow shining red in the dim alcove.
Squelching a moment of fear that this might not be an improvement over his current situation, he boarded the elevator. After all, any change would be a good thing, wouldn’t it? He wasn’t going to get anywhere trapped in that cube farm with the Queen of Hartz breathing down his neck.
The elevator offered thirteen floors, something he decided to scoff at instead of hyperventilate over, and he pressed 1. So what if the elevator said it was going up? He stood back, waiting for the doors to close. When they did nothing, he moved forward and pressed 2. The elevator indicated that he was on the fifth floor, so anything below him would be a step in the right direction, but it didn’t take long to realize nothing was going to happen if he kept pressing the lower numbers. So he tried 6. Still nothing. Frustrated, he pressed them all—all thirteen of them lit up except for 5, the one he was on—and the door groaned shut.
The trip was short, the doors moaning open again on 7. He stepped into an alcove just like the one on the fifth floor and turned, fully expecting to see a cube farm exactly like the one he’d just left. What met his eyes, however, was more like a giant, humming casino. There were cubes, all right, but each one was brightly lit and pulsing with color and sound. He walked slowly forward, into the din, squinting against the glare of the lights. Apart from being the circus version of his floor, these cubes had aisles between each one so it was easy to walk to whichever blinding set of lights most intrigued you.
For some reason he glanced up, and his mouth dropped open. The ceiling was mirrored, so that the entire room’s cubes were visible at once, and the sight of it was unmistakable. The layout was exactly like the apps on a smartphone, each cubicle representing an app.
Could this be his phone?
As it happened, the Mail app was just in front of him to the left, so he turned toward it. If it wasn’t his, he might be able to find out who was contacting whom from this giant phonelike warehouse, and what they were saying. Maybe this was the brains behind the whole operation.
With a bracing breath, he stepped into the cubicle—and was immediately assailed by visions of folders and envelopes and one half-written message on a large screen right in front of him.
Bud, following up on our conversation earlier today, I’ve done some research and it seems StockSolutions has made virtually no changes to their logo, website, advertising or visibility in the market in the sixteen years they’ve been in business. I believe this could explain their lackluster performance with the public, their approach being the same—
Whoever had been writing the note had left off in the middle of it. Either that or they were still working on it. In any case, the note didn’t seem to have any bearing on this room or this building or the poor beleaguered souls trapped here.
He left the mail app and walked down the line. There was a music app—like a radio stuck between stations, multiple songs played at once—and a clothing app, with hologram models slouching and sauntering about the cubicle. Shoes walked themselves around in another. Hotel rooms drifted across cubicle walls in yet another. And on and on past YouTube and Amazon and real estate sites. One app whispered Spanish phrases as he went by. Another played tinkly music and urged him to relax. The Candy Crush game nearly deafened him, its cartoon characters waving flags at him to play, and the New York Times crossword demanded a three-letter word for a mythical Persian bird. He’d bet Macy knew the answer to that.
Some of the apps he passed weren’t open, but they were all lit up like pinball machines waiting for a quarter. He kept going until he got to one wreathed in a blinding yellow light. Squinting, he peered into the cubicle and saw a pulsing red center. He took a tentative step toward the door and was immediately yanked inside and swept into a chair. A screen opened up in front of him proclaiming itself to be the iLove Profile Page. Someone was typing.
Who I’m looking for . . .
I’m looking for a man who’s paying attention—
The phrase “paying attention” jerked him upright in his seat. Was this what he was supposed to be looking at? Should he have investigated that app on his own screen more closely? He continued reading.
. . . who knows the value of eye contact and asking questions. He has to be sincere, not just going through the motions, and he should be genuinely interested in people. He should be strong and smart, but confident enough to admit when he’s wrong or when the woman he’s with is right. He must be ethical, conscientious, generous and not petty. He should know how to make a girl feel special.
“He should be a boy scout,” Jeremy told the screen. “Don’t forget ‘Be prepared’!”
He should not be afraid of powerful women. The man I’m looking for is comfortable in his own skin and sure of his place in the world. He should also have a very large penis—
Jeremy blinked. Then the cursor rapidly backed up over the last sentence.
* * *
“Delete delete delete!” Macy squealed.
April cackled like a witch over a cauldron, pecking at the backspace key. She had moved from the phone to the computer for ease of typing.
“What if you’d accidentally uploaded that?” Macy couldn’t help a burst of laughter. “I’d be swarmed by perverts!”
“You think there are that many big penises out there?” April scoffed.
“I think there are that many men who think they have big penises out there.”
The two of them cracked up again, and April poured another slug of wine into Macy’s coffee mug. They’d stayed late to write the profile—April running out to get wine and Chinese food—and Macy was getting just tipsy enough to think that maybe this was worth trying. After all, she could sit at the privacy of her own computer and flip through scads of men without ever having to leave her chair. The filtering aspects of it were awesome. You could knock out guys who smoked with the click of the mouse. You could choose them by political party. You could search by age, status, college degree—even hair or eye color, if you were that picky.
“I’ve never really liked blond guys,” Macy admitted when they got to that section.
“Give me a break,” April said. “Ruling out blonds is like men ruling out women with small breasts. Tell me you’re not that person.”
“Of course not.” She waved the suggestion off with her mug. “I was only saying. It’s weird, what you look for and what you don’t, what’s attractive and what’s not. It’s so . . . inexplicable. It’s a wonder anybody finds anybody. Don’t put that in there.” She clasped her mug in both hands, elbows on armrests and lips on the rim. “Though maybe you should add something about not being in love with technology . . .”
“Calling all Luddites,” April typed. “That’ll be our headline. You’ll end up with a guy who’s been living under a rock. With an illicit computer.”
They’d gotten through the multiple choice questions quickly and were halfway through the essay. April had typed in a few positive things about Macy and was racing through what she wanted in a guy.
“What else?” April sat with her hands poised over the computer keyboard. Taking another sip of her wine, Macy
leaned over to see what she’d written so far. It all sounded pretty cliché, but she thought it best not to mention that to April. She was, after all, just trying to help.
“He should be funny, and well-read,” Macy added. “With a goofy sense of humor.” She smiled, remembering Jeremy doing an impromptu dance while taking off his boxers in the middle of her bedroom. “And he should have kick-ass shoulders. Dreamy eyes, and long fingers . . .” Fingers that caressed with just the right amount of pressure, not tickling, yet not poking. A touch that sent shivers not just down a girl’s spine but into her toes, melting her insides . . .
“Yeah, we all know what long fingers means.”
Macy snorted. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I’m not putting all that. Especially not ‘goofy.’ You’ll end up with some loser bodybuilder with a kick-ass comic book collection.”
April laughed hard at her own joke, but Macy suddenly felt depressed. She put her mug down, blinking at the top of her desk.
“What? It was funny!” April protested. “Okay I’m putting down here that you want someone fit, with a good sense of humor . . .”
“I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
April looked over at her, then down at the desk where Macy was gazing. “What do you mean? Did you forget to do something?”
“No.” She looked up at her friend, her stomach in her throat, the conviction of having let something slip through her fingers filling her. How had she lost it? What had she been thinking?
“About Jeremy, I mean,” she continued, her voice reedy. “I think I’ve made a mistake. I can’t stop thinking about him. He was perfect, except for that one thing.”
April’s face lost its glee. “That one thing being that he didn’t pay any attention to you.”
She pictured Jeremy’s eyes gazing down at her as his body moved over hers, their breath mingling while their torsos arched and flexed together, legs tangling. “He paid attention to me sometimes.”
April made a sound in the back of her throat. “Sometimes. Listen to yourself. You’re a powerful woman, Mace. Look, it says so right here.” She jabbed at a place on the screen. “Come on, don’t get all maudlin on me now, or I’m taking my Three-Buck Chuck back. Jeremy was an addict, and like with any addict, you were number two. Is that what you want?”
It was true. At times, it was true.
“Remember that time you told me he spent the entire evening on his phone while you were trapped in a conversation with Weird Mildred at Rob and Frank’s?”
“Ugh.” Macy shuddered. She’d tried and tried to catch his eye, but not once did he look up to see where she was; and when she finally had escaped Weird Mildred, she’d gotten caught by the woman who ran the co-op, who went on and on about organic carrots. Something about how they shouldn’t be grown on farms, but in people’s backyards because that soil doesn’t usually have a history of pesticides— Could that be true?
“And he waited in the car with his phone one time, didn’t he? Instead of going in to your cousin’s baby shower?”
She tapped her fingers on her desk. “I had to go get him. To be fair, it was a baby shower. Most of the guys there looked miserable.”
“Sure, but if you say you’ll go, you go. You don’t sit in the freaking car.”
Macy turned to her. “I thought you liked Jeremy.”
“I did!” She lifted a shoulder, let it drop, continued to scroll down the profile page. “But, I don’t know, it just seemed like . . .”
Macy waited, but April didn’t finish.
“Seemed like what?” she pushed.
April exhaled and took her hand off the mouse. She turned the swivel chair toward her. “Don’t get mad.”
A bad feeling erupted in Macy’s stomach. “I never get mad at you.”
“Well, okay, don’t get upset, then.”
“Just spit it out,” Macy said, feeling ill. “Was he cheating on me? Did he make a pass at you? Oh my god, it’s not one of those things like Suzanne’s boyfriend where you all took an oath not to tell—”
“Oh for god’s sake, no! To be honest, I started thinking it wasn’t right when you told me about that time he answered a text in the middle of having sex with you.”
Macy’s cheeks flamed. “That was a work thing. It was really important. And we weren’t supposed to be having sex, actually. We were at the tennis club, in one of those unisex bathrooms near the pro shop.”
April laughed and rustled Macy’s hair. “That’s right! I was so proud of you, thinking outside the box like that. A public restroom! That was a first for you, wasn’t it?”
But he had taken the text, she was thinking now. He must have had one eye on the phone the whole time . . .
“Seriously,” April said, “and I’ll only say this once, in case you end up back together with him.”
Macy’s eyes shifted to hers, knowing it was hopeless. He’d texted during sex. You didn’t come back from that. Granted, that had been months ago, but in light of all the evidence since then, it was significant now.
“What?” Macy was uncomfortable under April’s scrutinizing gaze.
“He just wasn’t that into you,” she said finally, looking at her sorrowfully. “I hate to say it, but if you have to fight for a guy’s attention, that’s the bottom line.”
“You don’t . . . ?” April’s words were injury enough, but she steeled herself and forced the question. “You don’t think he was in love with me?”
April’s expression got sadder, and it was so unfamiliar a look that it, more than anything else, convinced Macy she must be right. Then April shrugged and her face retrieved some wryness. “Eh, love. Maybe it was his version of love. I’m not calling him a liar. But I know you, and it wasn’t your version.”
Macy slumped and put her hands over her face. “I know,” she said in a small voice. Emotion threatened to swallow her, but she pushed it back. It was the wine making her weak. She’d broken up with the guy because she’d known that what April said was true.
After a moment she straightened her spine, pushed her hair back off her face, and said, far more confidently than she felt, “All right, let’s do it. Let’s finish this stupid thing and post it. I’m moving on.”
April’s expression was instantly delighted. “Yesss!” She lifted a fist in the air, then lowered it to Macy. “Fist bump, sister. You are on your way!”
“On my way to what?” Macy fist-bumped April’s ring with a wince.
“To happiness, my friend.” April turned back to the computer. “Now, choose a picture . . .”
CHAPTER FOUR
Jeremy looked back up at the ceiling. Stuff was going on here, emails being written, that iLove profile page being worked on. As hard as it was to believe—though really, no harder than all the rest of it—he was starting to think the seventh floor was somebody else’s cell phone. Each cube was an app, some of the apps were being used, and he could do nothing but watch.
But it wasn’t his phone. Certainly he hadn’t filled out a profile looking for a man. Nor had he written an email to anybody named Bud.
Was being here a message that he should be paying attention to that heart-throbbing app? He watched as the typist finished the essay with some blahblah about having a sense of humor and a sensitive side and whatever.
He stood up and left the cubicle, the forces that had sucked him in apparently having had enough of him. He looked up at the ceiling again, saw the face of the giant phone, and decided to check out the photos. If this place made any sense at all—and that was in some doubt—he’d be in this person’s cell phone for a reason. Pictures might be the quickest way to figure out whose it was.
He went straight down the aisle from iLove to Photos, where he was once again immediately zapped inside. On the large screen in front of him was Macy’s gorgeous face.
His breath left him
in a whoosh. He should have suspected, but he’d felt so hopeless it hadn’t even occurred to him—he was in Macy’s phone. That email was to one of her PR clients. She was filling out a dating profile.
His heart twisted.
Most of the recent photos were of the two of them, or just him, and he had a moment of feeling glad she hadn’t deleted them. Then again, it hadn’t been very long. As he scrolled through the photos, he began to notice how many of the ones of him showed him bent over his cell phone—at restaurant tables, on city streets, in her living room, his kitchen, in bed . . .
He scanned the folders, opening a video. Immediately he heard her laughter, then the shaking screen revealed her face. God, she was beautiful—her eyes wet with laughter and sparkling as they looked at him holding the camera.
He remembered the day. They’d gone hiking, her hair was windblown, her cheeks pink, and they’d gotten to laughing over something. Her laugh was so infectious, her face so brilliant with joy, that he’d wanted to capture it. Of course he hadn’t told her that, or she’d have gotten embarrassed and cynical. She never believed compliments.
They’d hiked one of the steeper trails that day, tramping through old fallen leaves, though the colors hadn’t quite changed yet. Macy had said she loved fall the best because its breezes were summer heat wrapped in cold, as opposed to spring, which was winter cold veneered with warmth.
“Two old ladies,” she said, marching up the path ahead of him, her booted feet picking their way over roots and rocks with confidence, “one with a feather duster, the other a knife.”
“That’s—visual,” he said, thinking he could use something like that in an ad. “But why two old ladies? I’d think spring would be a young woman.”
“Because every season is wise. But they’re not all kind.” She tossed a smile over her shoulder at him. “Do you think I’m crazy now?”