Broken Enagement

by Gage Grayson

  “I should hope not.” I turn back to the bar.

  “You know what I mean,” Ryan says quietly, trying to keep the conversation from reaching anyone else. “In the looks department or whatever.”

  “First of all, snap out of...this whole thing you’re doing right now. Seriously. Before it’s too late, or you just might end up by yourself here every night.”

  I look up to see Charles hovering over me across the bar, his imposing, bearded face looking just friendly enough.

  “What can I get ya?”

  I’m not sure if Charles remembers me. There are probably thousands of guys just like me in here every week, each one of them thinking they’re hot shit for eschewing the posh Wall Street bars for a neighborhood dive on Avenue A. Fair enough.

  “What he’s having,” I say, pointing to Ryan.

  “See, I have some good ideas,” Ryan says with a grin.

  I want to tell him to not flatter himself, but then I remember all the shit that has happened today, things that have me in such a maelstrom of confusion that I’m dipping in and out of denial.

  I’m in no better shape than Ryan—than anyone here—because I’m so far from figuring it out that I’m not even thinking about it.

  Charles places the fresh drinks in front of us. He doesn’t ask for money or whether I want to open a tab. He remembers me and has the situation sussed out just fine.

  More lyrics from the Monkees song bleed into my dour meditation over the plastic cup.

  I sigh, thoughts of today making my head spin. I try not to think about it too much. It’s a work situation now, and work will be the place to handle it.

  Tomorrow.

  Obviously, any personal aspect to it means nothing to her anymore. It’s time for me to let go.

  In unison, Ryan and I both swing around to face the crowd. I can’t decipher, from the haze of smiling, buzzed faces, what the situation is tonight—only that every woman here seems to be with a guy or a guy-heavy group of friends.

  Not the shit I feel like dealing with right now. I turn back to my drink.

  “Whoa, what the fuck are you doing?” Ryan starts, his voice grating on my nerves.

  “What?” I snap, a little too harshly.

  “That’s not an empty fucking room you just turned away from,” Ryan yells, but then he abruptly lowers his voice and brings his whiskey-smelling face close to mine, “and you don’t see someone like her every night, and she’s been scoping you out for like two minutes.”

  I know Ryan’s telling me about some chick somewhere behind me, the type of thing he always points out, but there’s something jarring about his description—that she’s unusual, a rarity in the world.

  I spin around slowly, trying to be subtle, as if I’m checking out the crown molding up by the ceiling across the room.

  I think I see the woman Ryan’s talking about. She’s sitting at a table nearby, ignoring two friends sitting with her, lightly moving a finger around the base of her martini glass.

  Her hair is dark brown, and it’s long, falling to a few inches below her shoulders. The deep color provides a contrast to her bright, icy blue eyes—a combination that drives many men to the brink of insanity.

  I turn back to my drink.

  “What is going on, man?” Ryan’s trying to keep his voice low, but his frustration is bleeding into the conversation. “I’m legit getting worried.”

  I take a huge swig of my drink, expecting it to be mostly cola. I should’ve known better.

  As the copious amount of Tennessee whiskey scalds my throat, I feel the words starting to escape, unable to stay buried any longer.

  “I saw Madeline today.”

  Tom Waits is now caterwauling through the sound system as I wait for Ryan’s response.

  “Hmm. Yeah.” That’s all he says. Did he even hear me correctly? “Oh...wait, what? Holy fucking shit. You mean the Madeline?”

  I guess he did hear me. My stomach’s starting to tremble with deep unease, but that blast of whiskey is keeping the worst of it at bay. I guzzle down the rest of my drink.

  “She works at the SEC now...”

  “So it is that Madeline.”

  “Yes, she’s investigating the firm.”

  “What’s going on? Did I piss you off somehow? You’re fucking with me.”

  “It was bound to happen eventually. I mean, with a firm rising that fast.”

  “Yeah...” Ryan stares at his drink, dumbfounded. “That’s what you’re worried about? The investigation? I’ve been through that.”

  “I know.”

  “I remember that wedding, and Audra...and that whole thing. What was that, like, two years ago? Three?”

  “Five.”

  “Holy shit. Really?”

  Charles is hovering in front of us again. With astute timing, as usual.

  “You guys need another round?”

  “You bet we do,” Ryan mutters.

  Ethan

  There’s a long list of things about my job that don’t change. People’s personalities—both the co-workers I know now well and the investors we deal with regularly—tend to stay static.

  I always show up around the same time every morning, and, without fail, stay way too fucking late into the evening. In some cases, I run back to my apartment for a short nap and a shower before walking the two blocks back to the office and starting it all over again.

  Another rock fucking solid constant is that there’s always a calamity of some kind. A good chunk of people working at the firm are experts at panicking, giving in to fear at every opportunity.

  I couldn’t imagine living like that. I’m lucky I’m predisposed, for whatever reason, to keeping my fucking cool and efficiently dealing with crises as they come.

  My co-workers are lucky that somebody like me is always there to lend some soothing stoicism and to just fucking take care of things.

  This morning, the feeling of electric angst throughout the firm is so strong that I can feel it in the Woolworth Building lobby, and even more strongly on the elevator up to the twenty-eighth floor.

  I enter the suite of offices where the ambient anxiety is so strong I can almost feel my hairs standing up on end.

  While I don’t appreciate being infected with useless worry, I know that a lot of people at the firm, from partners down to interns, are terrified at the thought of getting caught up in headline-making criminal proceedings.

  The hallway leading to my office is buzzing with chatter. Everyone ignores me; maybe they’re assuming I’m responsible for getting them into this shit.

  Once again, I’ll have to handle this for the sake of everyone’s sanity. It’s just going to take longer than usual.

  Behind me, I hear all the noises of this morning—the quiet, tense conversations of interns, the shuffling of papers, the harried footsteps—suddenly stop with the hasty closing of office doors.

  This is the second time I’ve heard that particular concerto, and it can only mean one thing.

  “Good morning, Mister Barrett.”

  Five years and five thousand miles from where I last heard it, that clear, high, and lovely voice is part of my life again. Crises are part of my routine, but this is a whole different set of challenges.

  I let some time elapse, soaking in the rare quiet of the office corridor, quietly inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly before finally turning to face Madeline.

  That nervous energy is still floating around. I hope Madeline doesn’t sense any of it. As for me, I still have a dry mouth, and my heart is pounding hard against my chest.

  “I didn’t mean to send everyone running,” she exclaims from down the hall. She’s wearing a form-fitting dark gray pinstriped suit that flatters her curves perfectly. Her hair is pulled back in a French twist, letting her distinctly striking facial features shine on their own.

  She still looks good and knows how to dress well. Good for her.

  I’ve got other things to deal with right now. Madeline-related things. But they�
�ve got nothing to do with her appearance.

  “Don’t take it personally,” I reply, walking towards her this time. “Everyone here is very busy, you understand.”

  “Of course.”

  Drawing closer, I’m struck by a familiar aroma. Roses and vanilla. They remind of other things, memories that come flooding back so strongly—ocean air, pineapple, rum. I almost need to stop walking.

  “I know you’re not familiar with our firm,” I say, “but we have a lot of people visit. Keep in mind that not everything that happens is because of you.”

  I stop a few feet away from Madeline, keeping a distance that’s slightly too far for a comfortable conversation. I’m close enough that I can’t escape that aroma, which, I’ll admit, is really nice, but I don’t look at her directly.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She still has a way of being perfectly cold when she wants, but I’m not going to think about that or let it get to me. “As of now, I only need to speak with you. You’ve got—or can get—everything I need.”

  I look up at the gothic ceiling, taking in every nuance of the architecture.

  “I’m sure I do.”

  I’m being sarcastic and saying nothing of consequence. I make the mistake of tilting my eyes downward a bit too far, and I end up catching the vivid emerald force of Madeline’s eyes, fixed right on me and, for some reason, betraying discomfort at what I just said.

  She’s reading too much into things.

  “Well, for the sake of your workplace, I hope everyone gets used to the idea of my presence. I’d like to make this as quick and painless as possible, but I don’t want to lie to you...”

  “Likewise,” I counter.

  I’m not considering my responses or my interruptions. I’m more or less listening to myself speak while studying the wood-grain patterns on a closed office door.

  That was kind of fucking stupid of me to say to the investigator, but I’m admittedly unschooled in the way this works. It seems unusual right now, but I won’t let it throw me off.

  “Uh, good. Anyway, this’ll be quick. This is just another preliminary visit. In the spirit of honesty, since you seem to believe in it, I’ll tell you that we already have a file with all the documents we’ll probably need. That’s not what I’m here for.”

  I nod, although I do feel a bit irritated at the bureaucracy. “Thanks for clearing that up.”

  I’m positive everyone else in the office right now is crouched and crowded on the other side of these closed doors—just like they were yesterday—listening for clues as to what the fuck is going on.

  I’m sure my last statement didn’t help.

  “That’s what I’m here for.” Madeline’s quick answer and assured tone give me a little jolt. A specific kind of charge that I thought I’d forgotten about.

  That I’ve tried to forget about.

  Feeling it again is going to set me back. Like I said, this is the biggest set of challenges I’ve had, but it’s still just another crisis.

  I want to tell her that, along with the whole commission, she’s wasting her time with this.

  I would actually do it if it wouldn’t make me sound desperate and shady as hell.

  I’ll just have to let her waste this time and take her word for it that it will be quick and painless.

  “Mister Barrett...you said I could call you Ethan, right?” Madeline’s voice is much gentler now, but it’s still clear and confident.

  I feel another one of those charges, and my eyes are drawn to hers again.

  I look away before I can even register their color or intensity. This time, I focus on the carpet, the toes of my polished derby shoes, and the pointed black tips of Madeline’s business pumps.

  “Yeah, I said that.”

  “Ethan,” Madeline addresses me softly, walking closer. I wish she would stop. “I realize this isn’t easy. Especially when everybody here, it seems, sort of abandoned you to face me alone.”

  “I think I can handle it,” I say while staring straight down at our shoes facing each other.

  “Hey, Ethan? Ahem, Earth to Ethan.” I see Madeline wave her hand in front of my downward-cast face, and I finally force myself to look up.

  She’s smiling lightly.

  Okay, she’s won me over enough for that. She’s personable, which must come in handy with her job.

  “What?” I ask.

  “It’s important that you hear what I’m saying; otherwise, this could end up a lot more difficult for everyone.”

  “Okay, Madeline.”

  Madeline’s smile changes from cautiously polite to subtly wistful, and she glances down herself, for probably less than a second, before shooting her green gaze back to me.

  “This investigation is my life right now, so I’ll tell you what—I can work with your schedule. I don’t want to have to rush anything or create some sort of issue that could muddy or delay things.”

  I glimpse at my wristwatch for no reason.

  “My schedule? Yes, that can be a problem, sometimes.”

  “I know, Ethan. So, here’s what I’m going to do.” Madeline reaches into a side pocket I didn’t even know was there and pulls out an off-white business card.

  Fuck, I said her name. Has she even introduced herself in the office?

  She hands me her card, and it appears legitimate enough. Her name is printed there, first and last.

  If there was ever a time or a place to deny it, it’s not here, and it’s not now.

  Another break in routine today: I go home shortly after five in the afternoon. It’s still light outside when I get home.

  Ethan

  The only time I’m used to seeing sunlight through my windows is during those early morning hours before—or after—work, or if I wake up on a weekend morning and decide to go for a run across the Brooklyn Bridge to clear my mind.

  Some mornings, there are the beginnings of soft sunlight when I’m doing what I do best. I think I’m decent at hedge fund management, even if some of my colleagues lay on the praise a little thick.

  But I’m even better showing my partner—whoever she happens to be on a given evening—some of the greatest pleasure that life has to offer.

  If it now sounds like I’m the one laying on the praise too thick, all I can say is that it’s something I give my all to and pride myself in. I also really enjoy it.

  The sun of the late afternoon is a novel sight here in my home, on the fifty-second floor of the Barclay Tower.

  There’s a nice glint to the uptown-facing view, with the Empire State Building still taking precedence over the ugly, new colossal residential towers going up around it.

  I’m still looking out of the window of the apartment I’ve lived in for five years, debating whether to take a picture out of my own fucking window since I don’t know when I’ll see this light again, as I walk over to my living room bar.

  The bar is mostly for show. I didn’t intend it that way, but I hardly ever find myself using it.

  The scotch-filled crystal decanters do match the sparse décor of the room well enough. Even though they’re unlabeled, I have the contents of the decanters memorized: Johnnie Walker Blue Label, Glenfiddich, and the fifteen-year-old Macallan—that’s the one I go for this time.

  I pour myself some scotch whiskey and add a few drops of filtered water from the fridge door dispenser. Not very glamorous, I know, but who gives a fuck?

  As a rule, I ace every fucking test my career throws at me—without breaking a sweat. The only time I ever stop to take stock in any of it is when I realize how goddamn easy it is for me. That can be disconcerting, on occasion, but I don’t think about it often.

  What’s giving me some pause now is that this doesn’t feel easy. It feels out-and-out ineffable, like an ‘I don’t even know where to begin’ type of feeling.

  I’m going to need to quit complaining when shit seems too easy because I’ll take easy any day over this.

  I hold up the glass of whiskey at eye level. The water’s making
the spirit look hazy, diluted, unattractive, but when I take my first taste of it, standing right in front of my gleaming silver refrigerator, it’s immediately outstanding, the water having done its job of expanding complexities to the surface.

  With intricate flavors still telling their insistent stories, I almost fall over walking to the leather recliner facing the window.

  The sunset’s quickly giving way to the night over New Jersey, and they’re turning on the floodlights at the top of the Empire State Building, bathing the few stories in a fierce red glow.

  I’m still wearing my goddamn suit jacket, and, as I reach for it, I find Maddie’s card in the chest pocket.

  Okay, I’ve found a place to start with this current test: Stop calling her that.

  I pull out Madeline’s card.

  The paper industry’s glad these things still exist, for sure. I don’t have anywhere to store it, though, but I’m not keeping it in my wallet.

  I hold the card in front of the window, the skyline illuminated in the background.

  There’s Madeline’s name in Helvetica or some similar font, her position underneath it in all caps: SECURITIES COMPLIANCE EXAMINER.

  Below that is SECURITIES EXCHANGE COMMISSION in a smaller typeface, right next to the commission’s address on Vesey Street, literally just around the corner from where I’m sitting.

  How long have I been living so close to her? Does she live in this fucking building? Not likely on that salary—maybe in a smaller studio, but I probably would’ve seen her.

  She must live in New York, though, or really close. The SEC’s local office address is on her card after all.

  I need to stop thinking about where she lives. The presence of her card is not doing me any good. I was doing just fine before I got it, even after Madeline waltzed back into my life.

  I should toss the card in a recycling bin—but not before saving her number. I’m responsible for dealing with the investigation after all.

  Okay, next phase, saving Madeline as a contact—by calling her. If the thought makes me uncomfortable, which it does, then I’m probably onto something.

  Besides, it’s not even fucking six yet. I should still be working.