by Ellie Hall
Miranda elbows him sharply.
His gaze skirts over us and he twitches slightly. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you all and feel like I know you already. In fact, you must be Cora Albright. Miranda showed me a selfie of you just the other day.”
If this guy didn’t look like a fish that washed up on the shore of the lake with about the same level of social skills, I’d turn red with embarrassment.
“Yep. That’s me. Forever Inked in infamy thanks to that selfie.” I let out a breath. “And I am so happy the two of you found each other. I can already see you’re the perfect match. A Forever Match.”
Mila covers a laugh with a cough.
“Yes, we’re so happy for you both. Congratulations again.” Blakely’s tone is genial unlike mine which overflowed with sarcasm. I should take notes.
Just then the main door whooshes open. Mila, Paisley, Blakely, and I turn away from Miranda and Reed, who now stand at our backs.
Daisy rushes in, catching her breath. “Did I miss anything other than you four?” She dives toward us for a hug, not noticing the bride and groom-to-be holding court behind us.
Seeing her smiling face is enough to make me forget about Mean Miranda and her new minion.
Plus, Daisy’s unintended comment about missing us four, not including Miranda, was a welcome burn.
Boom. Bam. Take that, frenemy.
2
Shaw
I should be running scans on software that’s been tripping up as well as investigating a low-level hacking attempt from an IP doppelganger. Nice try to piggyback your way in, sucker. Saw you coming three threads back. I should also be in a meeting with Rick and a CEO from another tech company. Until I can clone myself, I’ll stay out of stiff meetings.
With a few clicks, I correct the software trouble and block the hacker.
Now, I go back to rereading the last few messages between @PacManWizard and @CookClickChick on the HUB. Rick can wait. I’m not known around here for being overly accommodating, generous, or friendly. I stick to my office, do things on my terms, and make sure the company is secure. A while ago, I gave up busting my hump, only to be betrayed by those closest to me.
DigiPower is no longer a passion. Just a job and one that I grudgingly do because there must be some sliver of goodness left in me...or because I don’t know what to do instead. Scratch that. I know what I’d like to do, but I’ve gotten used to success and am not sure how I’d handle failure if my endeavor didn’t work out. My chats with @CookClickChick keep the doubts at bay. I reread our last one, hoping she pops in again.
@CookClickChick: Monday, Monday, why do you torment me?
@PacManWizard: Did you walk into the office to find a dumpster fire?
@CookClickChick: No, I woke up to one. In fact, I started it with a stupid little slip of my thumb.
She went on to describe posting an accidental selfie to an app called Forever Ink. Ever since that hit the tech waves, I’ve been fascinated—I still can’t figure out what kind of code the developers used to prevent deletions. In the tech community, it’s dubbed the “tattoo code” because it can’t be erased. However, as it turns out, tattoos on the skin can be removed so there must be a way...
And if there is, I’d be the guy to find it.
Not that I would because I don’t do stuff like that. Ahem. Not anymore. More like I learn the ways that rules are broken, hacks are made, and how security systems are breached so that I can act preemptively for my employers and prevent things like that from happening to their data.
@PacManWizard: It happens to the best of us.
@CookClickChick: But not everyone has a frenemy like Miranda.
@PacManWizard: Harsh. But I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.
When we originally sent these messages back and forth, I had to force myself not to ask her to include a selfie. She’s so refreshingly down to earth I can’t help but be curious about what she looks like. However, it’s pointless to think this is anything other than a friendly exchange between tech nerds because even though @CookClickChick is sweet, funny, and smart I am not looking for likes, loves, or follows.
Nope. None of that.
I’ve been called selfish, self-absorbed, self-centered... All the selfs. It’s me, myself, and I over here. Had to be that way in order to survive my childhood from a broken home and abusive father. Hacked my way out of that one. Literally and technologically. It’s a situation I don’t dwell on. However, I’m self-aware enough to realize that self-perseveration became a habit. One, I’d really have to get over myself to break.
My computer pings with a notification from the HUB. A zing of anticipation shoots through me in the hopes that it’s from @CookClickChick. No such luck. Instead, it’s a reminder that I’m supposed to be in a meeting.
Regrettably, I go. Do I dislike my job? No, not really. Do I dislike my boss and all his subjects—he actually calls them that—? Immensely.
While they rattle on about expense ratios, scalability, and a deadline for a new project, I zone out and return to the chat thread with @CookClickChick from earlier.
@CookClickChick: Oh, it was bad. Hideous. And now recorded on the internet forever and I only have myself to blame.
@PacManWizard: I can have a word with your thumb, if you’d like. Tell it to say sorry and promise not to randomly click buttons on your phone without your consent.
@CookClickChick: I already sent it to the naughty step for a time out, but thanks. You’re the best.
I chuckle at her comment.
Rick, leading the meeting, says, “Shaw, do you have something to add? Something funny?”
“Oh, yeah, the piggyback attacker struck again. Don’t worry, I was all over it,” I say in an attempt to cover my tracks.
“And why is that funny?”
“The name,” I say, as if that’s not obvious.
Sometime between college and present day, Rick and half the guys I work with lost their senses of humor. They went all in accumulating wealth and power—two things I am all too aware ultimately yield little in the way of ROI. The return on investment on a life well lived on the other hand... Not that I haven’t pursued the same, but I like to think I still know how to laugh. Smiling is another matter. One reason Rick was all too happy to see me step down as partner was I was known around here as the Grump, as in the Grumpy Boss.
The “subjects” aka employees would give me a wide berth when I strode down the hallway of our two-acre tech complex. Comments during meetings started with something like, “Sir, may I offer an idea,” even though I’d pointedly asked them a question. And no one dared take my parking spot.
But for now, I’m stuck here, doing Rick’s bidding.
He brushes his hands together. “Good to know your juvenile humor lives on because these reports are nothing to laugh about. Our subsidiary is a quickly sinking ship. You, of all people, need to become aware of that and treat this like the business it is.”
I bite my tongue. He knows where I stand. He knows why I’m not at the front of the room commanding this meeting.
My attention drifts when they discuss a merger.
I check the HUB again. No new messages from @CookClickChick. It’s Friday, and I’d like to be home or, at the very least, back in my office. The last time I was home by six p.m. on a Friday evening was...
I don’t remember. Back to the HUB thread from earlier.
@PacManWizard: Anything exciting happening at the office this week? I remember you mentioned that guys did Show and Tell Tuesday. The week before was Code Crush Wednesday...We never have stuff like that.
@CookClickChick: Does going to the aforementioned frenemy’s wedding on Friday count? :(
@PacManWizard: Only if you’re crashing it. I added the laughing emoji.
She went on to tell me she had no such luck and how her high school nemesis invited her and four of her closest friends to the event.
I wanted to ask if she was going solo. Again, I forced myself to hold back.
No sense in finding out more about a girl who I’ll never meet, never have time for.
Also, I know better than to get involved. Learned that lesson the hard way. Instead, I focus on work, at least for now.
Well, not right now, because I’m still in this pointless meeting.
“Do you have anything to add, Shaw?” Rick asks.
I’ve been only half—okay a quarter—paying attention to these things for a couple of years so as if reading from a script, I say, “No. You about covered it. Thanks, Rick.”
Without waiting for further comment, I stride out of the meeting room.
Back in my office, I take one more look at the exchange between @CookClickChick and me before I do something productive like plan my next adventure—one of the many benefits of being the head of security here is I can cover my tracks so my “boss” doesn’t know that I’m browsing travel sites online or chatting on the HUB while on the clock—or revisiting previous chats like I do now.
@CookClickChick: I have to get a project done this week and then I’ll be offline all weekend. Leave it to Miranda to get me to give up some of my precious few weekends. Then again, I’ve been working a lot so it’ll be nice to get away.
@PacManWizard: But it’ll be lonely on the HUB without you. I’ll miss you.
I’d clicked send before I thought that through and quickly added a few silly emojis so it didn’t seem like I’d meant anything by it. I didn’t, right? I mean, I’m just looking back through our chat now because I’m procrastinating.
Yeah. That’s why.
@CookClickChick: You mean you’ll miss she of twelve chins and ostrich skin? Ha ha ha! Chat Monday...and hopefully, it’ll be better than today so far. <3
I’d be a big, fat liar if I hadn’t wondered what @CookClickChick looks like. The avatars for users on the HUB are various neon objects that we select when we create our account—hers is a spoon and I’ve gathered that she loves cooking. Mine is an umbrella...for reasons.
My job is to make sure we don’t have a rainy day, hence my job in cyber security. Also, little known fact, I am—or rather was—the umbrella of this company.
Speaking of symbols, should I read into the less than symbol combined with the number three to form a heart at the end of @CookClickChick’s reply or does she sign off that way regularly? I skim back through previous chats. No heart emoticons.
I’ve worked hard to get to the top, but my number one business partner, the guy I trusted with this baby we created, screwed me over big time.
Looking back, everything worked out fine, but I’m cautious about who enters the trust triangle, especially when it comes to women.
Yet, the connection I feel to @CookClickChick is stronger than Wi-Fi.
As I turn my attention back to work, because I probably should be somewhat productive as I close out the week, I countdown the days until Monday—for the first time ever.
3
Cora
On the job applications I’ve completed, they’ve never asked, Do you feel well suited to make outfit selections for big events? My strength does not rest with fashion, though I’d never say no to a shopping trip. Thankfully, I’ve always had Blakely, who possesses all the styling talent I lack, and back in high school, a closet just down the street I could borrow from.
The bellhop unloads her Louis Vuitton trunks and luggage in a tidy stack as the rest of us watch slack-jawed.
She thanks him and gives the young guy a tip that makes his eyes widen as he leaves the room.
“So this is how the other half lives?” Mila asks wryly.
I snort, as if Mila doesn’t know. She may be slumming it with me in Boston, but she’s no stranger to the “the good life” as far as wealth is concerned.
Blakely flutters a laugh. “I’m going to Monaco from here so I had to travel light.”
Yet something about her laugh sounds hollow. She looks thin and tired. Like me, she probably works long hours. Unfortunately, the closest thing to anything designer that I have is the Gucci purse she gave me for my birthday a few years ago.
Paisley bounces on the bed. Mila gazes out the window at the lake. Daisy checks in with her sitter on the phone.
The suite is spacious with polished wood furniture, a sectional couch, an enormous flatscreen TV, and what I recall loving most about this room—the birch beams on the ceiling. They have that peel-y paper bark that’s always fascinated me.
This resort is a combination of old New England turn of the century charm and modern amenities. Whenever I’d come in this particular room to clean, for the first minute, I’d let myself pretend that I was a guest and the fresh roses in the vase on the table, wafting their delicious scent on the breeze from the lake, were all mine—a thoughtful addition made by my beloved.
Back in high school, that would’ve been Alex Wilder. Now, I’d take anyone. No, not really, but my thoughts drift to @PacManWizard, our exchanges, and how he said he’d miss me. Is it silly to get excited about something like that?
Is it wrong to wonder what a witty, smart, and sweet guy like him looks like? What about wishing he was my plus one to this wedding?
I gasp as realization dawns. (No, it has nothing to do with @PacManWizard. With my luck, he looks like an ogre and lives in his parents’ basement.)
All eyes turn to me when I belatedly realize something and blurt, “Blakely, this is the bridal suite.”
A mischievous grin spreads across her lips.
Mila’s expression sharpens. “Does that mean the bride and groom-to-be do not get the bridal suite?” Paisley says, tapping the tips of her fingers together.
Blakey shrugs innocently. “Lucky me. I booked it first.”
“How’d you pull it off? Miranda would’ve reserved this room before she sent out the invitations.”
Blakely winks. “Money is a valuable tool.”
Mila cackles. “You are an evil genius.”
“But that means all of you have to stay in here with me, sleep-over style like we used to do.” Blakely sweeps her arms wide.
“I already booked a room,” I say...and paid generously for it. I make decent money at my job, but rent in Boston isn’t cheap. Not even with a roommate—right now that’s Mila. I still have student debt and a slight artisanal cheese addiction. Also chocolate. But this isn’t about me. “Blakely, what did you do?”
“I had the charges refunded to your methods of payment. I couldn’t stay here without you all. It would be lonely.” She puffs out her lower lip.
Yeah, I know the feeling all too well.
In short order, we have music on and a pool of strewn clothing, belts, and skirts puddling around us as we play dress up with all of Blakely’s designer clothing. Actually, she dresses us up like dolls and has us pose for her social media account. It’s kind of always been our thing—even before she was online, she’d create outfit combinations, do our makeup, and hair. Maybe I am a little girlie.
Daisy frowns at her reflection in the mirror. “This dress is beautiful, but what am I going to wear to the rehearsal dinner? I still have the same clothes I’ve had since high school. And Miranda will have a field day if I wear my prom dress.” She wrinkles her nose. “Which is what I brought.”
“At least you still fit into it,” I mumble. Let’s say the aforementioned cheese and chocolate haven’t done my waistband any favors.
“Don’t be silly. You’re going to wear that,” Blakely says.
Daisy presses her hands to her chest and middle like she’s been caught naked. “I can’t wear this, it’s designer.”
“You can and you will. Now, give me a minute to get ready.” Blakely whisks into the bathroom.
“I told you to come down to Boston and we could go dress shopping,” I say to Daisy.
“It’s a long ride.”
“You guys could’ve stayed with Mils and me. Plus, I would’ve liked help picking something out. Thank goodness Blakely came to my rescue.”
Mila sits on a large chair, pouting like a toddler pr
incess in time out—this makes me think of my exchange with @PacManWizard who offered to scold my thumb for sending that selfie.
“Oh, come on. Just because the dress isn’t black doesn’t mean it looks bad. A little color does you good,” Paisley says, encouraging Mila.
“I don’t like floral prints.”
“But you like Daisy,” I say, joking.
We go back and forth, moving from the past to the present and back again, reminiscing, and teasing Mila about her penchant to dress only in black.
Meanwhile, I admire my best friends—Paisley in a teal and silver fitted dress, knee-length, and with capped sleeves. “I’ve always thought you look lovely in ocean hues.”
She smiles.
Mila grimaces. “Florals aren’t my thing.”
“But it’s understated.”
Daisy wears a little lavender dress that’s airy and has light, thin straps. She tugs at them as if uncomfortable. It’s definitely a step up from her prom dress. Let’s just say it had a ruff and leave it at that.
“You look hot,” Paisley tells her, also noticing.
I nod in agreement and then say, “You won’t hear any complaints from me.” I spin in the mirror, wearing a dress with a fitted black top and a flared pink skirt that’s one shade away from neon. I love it.
Blakely emerges from the bathroom wearing one of her designs in a color she referred to earlier as stormy. It has a V-neck and an A-line cut, is intentionally asymmetrical, and has tasteful ruffles. Shod in a gold pair of Louboutin’s, she looks stunning.
We all whistle.
“Let’s go knock ‘em dead,” Blakely says, jutting her elbows out for us to take.
Three hours later, we don’t knock ‘em dead but do have enough stories and nuggets of gossip to last us until the high school reunion.
Not that we wish any ill will on anyone. Well, maybe Miranda. A little. She cornered Paisley and asked her a million personal questions about Jason and toasted the four of us in hopes that we’d find our Prince Charmings, commenting that she’d give us a discount on her Scroll Click Date app.
