by W. H. Vega
“That I do,” I say, wiggling out of Carly’s embrace. “Thanks, Car. But look, I’ve really got to get a move on with this.”
“Say no more,” she says, turning away. “Oh, but one more thing...”
“What?” I ask.
“Just...mull this over for a while,” she begins mischievously, “Gerard brought up a rather interesting idea while he was here...”
“Yeah?”
“He suggested, and please be a tiny bit open minded, here...He suggested that it might be really fun to try a little three-way action. Him, and the two of us—”
“Goodnight, Carly,” I cut her off.
“But—”
“I said goodnight, you sex maniac,” I say, turning my back on her completely.
“You never let me do anything fun,” she whines, turning on her heel and fake-storming away, closing her bedroom door behind her.
I shake my head in wonder as Carly departs. What must it be like to be so free of inhibitions as that? What kind of spotless, carefree life does one have to lead to not have a single care in the world? I’ll certainly never know what that’s like, try as I might.
Resigned, I dive into my work once again. My sex life might not be thrilling right now, but there are other kinds of satisfaction in the world. At least I can always chase down the feeling of a job well done without running into any weird hangups. That will have to do for now.
Chapter Five
Trace
Lost and Found
“What’s the name?” drawls the bored-sounding operator on the other end of the line.
I slap my hand against my forehead, forcing a steady breath into my lungs. I’ve been playing fucking phone tag for the better part of the afternoon, and I’m about to lose it.
“It’s Faber,” I tell the disembodied woman.
“Favor?” she asks.
“What? Who’s last name is ‘Favor’?” I ask incredulously. “Faber. F, A, B, E, R.”
“Oh! I see. That makes more sense, doesn’t it?” the woman chirps. I hear her punch the letters into her keyboard and wait for the results to load. “And the first name?”
“Nadia,” I tell her. “N, A—”
“I can spell Nadia, sir. I’m not a moron.”
Could have fooled me, I think, but keep it to myself. All I want from this woman is an address and a phone number, ASAP.
“Let’s see...there around about twenty listings for Nadia Faber...”
“Twenty?!” I exclaim.
“Do you have any additional information?”
“No...No, just her name,” I say, resigned. “Thanks, I guess. I’ll figure something else out.
I hang up before the operator can respond and bury my hands in my face. For hours now, I’ve been cooped up in my tiny new apartment, trying like hell to figure out where in the city Nadia might be. Since the moment I saw her picture in the paper this morning, I’ve been like a man possessed. All I can think about it what it would be like to see her again, to explain my long silence, to embrace her after all this time...
A knock on the door jolts me out of my sappy reverie. I eye padlocked door warily. So soon after arriving back in Chicago, I’m certainly not expecting company. And I’ve learned by now that unexpected visitors are not the kind you want.
“Trace, it’s me,” says Garrick’s voice from beyond the door.
“You could have just said that,” I tell him, crossing the small living room to let him in.
“What the hell did you disappear for this morning?” he asks, as I swing the door open. “The girls were gonna make us breakfast and everything.”
“Wasn’t in the mood, I guess,” I shrug.
“You sick or something?” Garrick asks, flopping down onto my years-old couch.
“Or something,” I allow, crossing my arms. “Did you just come over here to give me a hard time?”
“Well excuse me Missy, is it that time of the month already?” Garrick says gruffly. “But no, incidentally. I came by because I got a very interesting phone call from our old friend Skidmore.”
My jaw clenches involuntarily. “Skidmore,” I repeat, “Our old boss, Skidmore?”
“The very same,” Garrick tells me.
“And what did Skidmore have to say to you?” I press, “I hope he didn’t have any interesting offers for us?”
“As a matter of fact—”
“No. Fuck that, Garrick,” I say hurriedly, “We’re not getting mixed up in that shit the second we get back.”
“I’m not suggesting that we make any hasty decisions,” Garrick says, “I just thought I’d let you know what’s out there, is all. Sounds like there’ve been some changes in the cells. A few of the higher ups have lost their touch, I guess. Skidmore’s got more pull now, and he’s looking for people he can trust to get things going again.”
“No way in hell,” I say definitively. “Garrick, it was one thing when we were eighteen and clueless, but things are different now. We could chalk working for those drug lords up to ignorance back then, but we know a thing or two by now, right? We’ve seen the world. The worst parts of the world. We’re too good for that shit. We’re veterans, man. People actually respect what we’ve done for the country. There are gonna be doors open to us—”
“What doors?” Garrick mutters, “You get any engraved job offers yet?”
“Not yet,” I allow, “But we haven’t even started looking, yet. I thought I might get back to working with my hands. You know I always loved cars.”
“And what about me?” Garrick asks.
“Computers, man!” I tell him, “That’s all you did over there was figure out how to work a fuckin' computer. That’s got to be good for something.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he admits, “I have to tell you though, it’s awfully tempting to go and help Skidmore out for a second. You remember the kind of money we were making back in the day? And we were just working low-level shit then. Imagine what it would be like now!”
“I don’t think I will,” I tell him.
“Since when are you such a pussy?” Garrick scoffs, “There’s no use pretending that we’ve been scrubbed clean of our pasts just because we did our time in Afghanistan, dude. Three tours of sacrifice doesn’t make up for the rest of our lives.”
“I know,” I tell him, “You think I don’t know that? But why would you want to get right back into that shit now, Garrick? We can start a whole new chapter now. We don’t have to be the people we were. Shit, we’re not even thirty years old, man. We’ve got entire lives to live.”
“OK, OK. Jesus Christ. Don’t go all motivational speaker on me,” Garrick shudders. “I might puke all over your fancy rugs. I’ll stay away from Skidmore, I promise.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Whatever,” Garrick says, “You still haven’t told me why the hell you acted like such a weirdo this morning.”
“I got...uh...distracted, I guess,” I tell him.
“With what?” he asks.
I hesitate, wondering whether I should let Garrick in on my plans to see Nadia again. He’s never been a fan of the idea before...but honestly, I could use a little backup.
“Did you see today’s paper?” I ask him.
“When have I ever read a paper, man?” he laughs.
“Yeah, I figured,” I say, “Well...Uh...There was a picture on the front page that caught my eye. It was...Dude, it was Nadia.”
Garrick’s eyes pop open. “Nadia? Our Nadia?”
“The very same. Ten years older than the last time we saw her, sure, but there was no mistaking her.”
“What the hell was she on the front page for? She win the lottery or something?”
“No, dude. She’s some big shot lawyer now. Just put away some pervert for kiddie porn.”
“That good fuckin' Samaritan,” Garrick grins, “Should have known she would make something of herself. That’s awesome.”
“Right?” I say excitedly, “I saw that picture, and all of a sudd
en it was just like, ‘What the fuck am I doing having breakfast with a twenty-year-old chick? I need to figure out where Nadia is!’”
Garrick’s face falls the moment the words have cleared my lips. “Dude...No,” he says, “Come on, don’t go there.”
“Why not?” I demand, “She’s here in Chicago, Garrick. I’ve got to find her.”
“To do what?” he asks, “Profess your undying love for her? Ask for a job? A loan?”
“No. I—”
“It’s a mistake,” Garrick says, “And it can’t end well. What’s it going to be like, seeing her again? You think you’re just gonna be able to pick up where you left off? You’ve both lived entire lives of your own since the last time you saw each other. You’re adults now. Shit, she could be involved with someone. Or married. Why do you want to open yourself up to that?”
“It’s not a matter of want,” I tell him, “I need to see her.”
“Give me a fucking break,” he grumbles.
“I’m serious. I’m not asking your opinion,” I say, “I’m going to find Nadia, and I’m going to go see her. Now I just need to figure out how.”
“What do you mean, how?” Garrick says, cocking an eyebrow. “Hop on a fucking computer and Google her, ass hat.”
“You know I hate computers,” I tell him.
“Christ. What was your plan, a carrier pigeon?” Garrick laughs.
“Could you...maybe...help me with that?” I ask him.
“Ugh. You’re such a dick,” he groans, “I don’t want any part of this weird, masochistic thing you’re doing. But if you really need me to hold your hand through a freaking Google search.”
“Thanks, Bro,” I grin, “You’re the best.”
Garrick rolls his eyes and crosses to my ancient desktop computer. “For fuck’s sake, why do you even bother?” he asks.
“Appearances,” I shrug.
My friend boots up the machine and waits for it to groan to life. I sit beside him at the scuffed desk, holding my breath as he fiddles with the monitor and mouse. After what feels like a lifetime, he locates my internet browser and enters Nadia’s name into the search bar. With a few strokes of the keyboard, he pulls up a profile on some social media site with her name, work place, and photo.
“Shit,” Garrick says, starting slack jawed at her picture, “She grew up good.”
“Don’t ogle her, dick head,” I say, “Just find me an address for that law firm. What is it...Brewer, Roberts, and Santos.”
“Done,” Garrick says, in no time flat, “It’s downtown. Where all the fancy people play.”
“Excellent,” I breathe, springing up from my chair, “I’ll head over right away.”
“Whoa, whoa!” Garrick says, grabbing me by the shoulders. “What are you gonna do, show up unannounced in your fatigues and scare the living shit out of her?”
“I guess that was...kind of the plan,” I say.
“You’re so lucky that I’m around,” Garrick says, shaking his head. “Trace, first things first. Take a shower. Put on some real clothes. Comb your fucking hair. Figure out what you’re going to say to the girl—woman—when you see her.”
“Yeah...OK, you’re right.”
“Damn straight,” Garrick says, turning to leave me to it, “And good luck, you crazy son of a bitch. You’re going to need it.”
I padlock the door after him and fly into action. People have always told me that I clean up good, and thank god for that. Maybe I’ll at least be able to give a decent first impression when I get to Nadia’s office. My heart is tweaking out as I get myself together and head off in search of her building. I set off into the city in my best pair of black jeans and a flannel button-up. It’s not a three-piece suit, but I’m sure it will be just fine. Or at least, I hope it will be.
Tearing through the streets of Chicago, I try and figure out a good opening line. “Hey Nadia, how’s your decade been?”, “Hey Sis, you look smoking hot!”, “Hey, I dreamed about you all the time when I was fighting that war, want to get a drink?”
On second thought, I guess there’s nothing wrong with improvising.
As I bear down on the address Garrick found for me, I snatch up a small bouquet of flowers. Not roses, that would be weird. Some girl I dated told me once that flowers have meanings all their own, even the color matters. Hopefully I didn’t accidentally pick some kind that means, “I totally haven’t spent the last ten years wondering about you.” What good would it be to lie off the bat?
Finally, my trek comes to an end. I stand on the curb across the way from Nadia’s building and crane my neck, trying to see the top. The mirrored windows blind me as I try and count the stories. It’s incredible that the same girl who used to tutor me over plates of diner fare works here, now. I’m impressed and intimidated and terrified all at once.
“OK,” I say to myself, “Let’s do this.”
But try as I might, I can’t seem to move. One foot doesn’t want to go in front of the other. I’m rooted to my little square of concrete, gazing up at the imposing monolith before me. All of a sudden, a whopping case of self-consciousness comes down on me, hard. But even worse than that is the fear that, after all this time, Nadia will have simply forgotten about me.
What if, during all these years I’ve spent wondering and worrying about her, she hasn’t given me a second thought? What if she simply doesn’t have room in her impressive, cultured life for a mess of a man like me? Try as I might, I can’t silence the doubts that have begun echoing through my skull.
“You gonna stand there all day, buddy?” says a gruff voice beside me.
“Wh-what?” I stammer, turning to face a short, round man who’s looking at me like I’m clinically insane.
“You’ve been standing there for, like, an hour,” he says, eyeing my flowers, “I say, either nut up or keep moving.”
He pushes past me across the intersection, and I’m jostled from my reverie. I take a deep breath and take a step toward the skyscraper across the way. But just as my foot touches down, the revolving doors ahead swoosh open, and a startlingly beautiful woman emerges. She’s weighed down by a heap of papers and files that obscure her face for a moment. But as she turns and hurries away, her profile is revealed.
“Nadia,” I whisper, drinking in the sight of her. I never could have imagined at seventeen that it would be possible for her to become more beautiful, but I’ll be damned. Her familiar features have only grown more striking, her figure is lean and athletic...and even better, she’s actually real. After so many years of dreaming about her, I can actually rest my eyes on her once again.
That is, unless I let her walk away.
I pick up the pace, hurrying after her as she winds through the pedestrian traffic like a pro. My eyes are fixed on her smooth blonde hair—there’s no way I’m letting her out of my sight. I was hoping that I’d be able to visit her at work, keep things neutral and safe to begin with. Showing up at her apartment seems awfully desperate...but then, I am desperate to see her.
Without knowing it, Nadia leads me back through the city to an apartment building that is just as impressive as her office. I stop across the street and watch as she pushes open the front door with her shoulder. I open my mouth to call out to her, but my voice catches in my throat.
As I stand there, silenced by nerves, Nadia disappears into the shiny castle she calls home. I watch through the window as she greets the doorman and steps into the elevator. Just like that, she’s gone once more.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, sinking down onto the closest bench. With a deep breath, I ready myself for another round of psyching-up. And this time, it might take a while.
Chapter Six
Nadia
Daffodils
“What the...?” I murmur sleepily, peeling my cheek off the desk before me. I blink in the early morning sunlight, peering around my bedroom. I must have fallen asleep over my work last night, whenever the hell it was I managed to fall asleep.
I stretch in my de
sk chair, sore from sleeping in such a strange position. Thank god it’s Saturday, at least. That means I have all weekend to rest, and recover, and take my time sifting through this new case. Most people spend their weekends pursuing hobbies and putting their feet up, I spend them working. But hey, you don’t get to be the first female president in history by taking weekends off. And I’ve got to hurry if I’m going to beat Hillary Clinton to the punch.
Sloughing off my work clothes, I pull on a pair of white cotton shorts and an airy tank. Might as well get comfortable before taking on another round of Find the Drug Lord. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes as best I can, I head to the kitchen and brew myself the strongest cup of coffee imaginable.
The rich, dark brew fills my favorite coffee mug, and I lean back against the kitchen counter to take a nice long whiff. In this moment, I am almost content. I’ve got my creature comforts, a wonderful and meaningful job, a beautiful apartment. But happy as these things make me, I’d be lying if I said I was truly content in my life.
As much as it pains me to admit it, something is still missing from my world. There are many ways in which my second act, after leaving the foster system, has treated me well. But there’s one thing that no amount of success or renown can offer me: Someone to truly care about. Someone who cares about me.
“Maybe I should rethink the cat thing,” I scoff to myself, popping some whole wheat bread into the toaster. I let my mind wander through the new case again, or at least what I’ve been able to discern about it. The identities of the high-ups in the ring are totally shrouded in secrecy. I’m kind of at a loss about how I’m ever going to unravel truth. Maybe after breakfast, things will start to make more sense.
Just as I set my mug and plate down at the table, the phone begins to ring. Of course. I grab the receiver and cradle it against my shoulder.
“Good morning, Ms. Faber,” says my doorman, Braulio. “Sorry to ring up so early. There’s a delivery here for you. Do you mind if I send it up?”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Flowers, Ms. Faber,” Braulio says cheerfully, “Looks like you have an admirer.”
