CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Brandon

I HEAR FROM BRIDGET TWO days later. They’re two days I’ve spent doing the Life of Riley dance, and so far things are going well. I thought it would be touchy, given the way I keep thinking about the boss’s daughter in inappropriate ways, and I thought it might be awkward on my end because I’ve had a dream twice now in which Riley and I end up by Reed Creek holding hands. There’s nothing to the dream; if her father saw it, it’d be hard to find anything there I’m doing wrong. But the simplicity is powerful in itself because in the dream, I feel like a teenager again. I hold her hand and watch her cry. I’m sure I’m there to comfort her over something, but the dream itself is far from sad. Both times, I’ve woken feeling guilty and somehow hollow, as if something is missing.

But Riley — whether she likes or loathes me; I could go either way and have done nothing to encourage either — has thus far been easy to avoid. I work out at the Stonebridge site. She works in the office. When I call, she doesn’t answer the phone.

I’ve been hung up on girls before.

Waitresses at my favorite bars.

Random girls who hit the floor to dance.

Even, once, a lady cop.

But in time, those waves of fascination always pass. I’ll either end up sleeping with them and the sense of wonder ends, or I’ll move on. That’s what will happen with Riley, despite the odd dreams. And just as well because man, do I need the VP job. I can avoid her until someone else catches my eye. I’m self-aware enough to know there’s nothing to any of these infatuations. They’re just me trying to get by, to grab for something better than where I am.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text. I can almost hear Bridget’s husky voice.

Throat feels like I swallowed a saw. Thanks, Bro.

I toss her a few texts then call her phone to fuck with her. The girl who answers is clearly not Bridget. It’s Abigail, whom I barely know though I probably should, considering she’s a good enough friend to sit with Bridget through recovery. Although it has to be easier when Bridget can’t talk, given that it’s so much harder for her to insult people when robbed of her primary weapon.

“Very funny,” Abigail tells me the second she picks up the phone.

“What’s funny?”

“Calling. You’re a laugh riot.”

“I just want to talk to my sister.”

“She’s not supposed to talk for a week. Ideally two.”

“Oh. Well, just put her on, and she can mouth things at me.”

“Asshole.” But Abigail is actually cool. She’s pretty, too, though I’m not allowed to so much as look at her sideways. Bridget said she’d “punch a hole in my dick” if I ever made a move on Abigail. Bridget has this impression that I consider women as one-serving dishes, and that I lose interest after getting my rocks off. Probably because so far, that’s been true.

“Seriously. Put her on.”

“No, Brandon.”

“I just want to tell her I love her.”

Abigail sighs. I hear the phone move then hear an unflattering sound that’s a lot like retching, like someone about to throw up.

“Hey, Bridge,” I say. “If you want me to not hit on Abigail, just tell me.”

My phone buzzes in my hand. I pull it away from my face and see a text that says, Go fuck yourself. I’m fascinated. I had no idea you could send and receive texts while on the phone.

“Love you, Bridget. Now, put Abigail back on.”

And she hangs up.

I smile to myself, realizing just how giddy I’m feeling. I have no idea why. It’s been a hard few days. Yesterday, minding my credit card balance, I hunted through my couch cushions for enough money to buy a cup of coffee. It seemed indulgent with so few cents to my name, but I figured that if I worked for those funds, I deserved it. A true abundance mindset.

But still, I feel good.

Bridget got her nodule surgery. I spoke to the doctor before talking to Bridget. He said she’s doing well and that they all couldn’t wait to get rid of her and check her the hell out of the hospital. Everyone loves Bridget once they get to know her, but she never makes it easy. She’s more honest than a person should be, and outspoken in general. Let’s just say that even her friends don’t feel bad that she’s been muted for a week or two.

That uncomfortable morning with Riley James, which preoccupied me for the next forty-eight hours, is far enough past that I’ve shaken off its odd sense of foreboding. When we returned to the office, Margo told me that Mason wanted to talk to me, and I’d been sure he knew something — something I felt guilty for having done to his daughter, even though those things had never left my imagination. I was tense throughout the encounter, and even though it was a good meeting (Mason said something about us maybe having dinner together soon), what felt like a recent near-miss with Riley colored the whole thing in shades of meaning. How could I have dinner with Mason while his daughter held me in a twisted sense of confused obsession? And how could I capitalize if I had to see Riley again the next day, and the next after that?

But I didn’t see her on my way out of headquarters.

I didn’t see her the next day because I was at the job site.

After that, the idea of having “dinner sometime” with Mason worked on me in a way it hadn’t before. I started to wonder if I’d moved up on the short list.

I went home that night and started kicking around the Internet, looking for budget calculators. I filled a few out, being conservative, and realized I could be out of debt in under a year if the salary was half what I thought it might be.

After that, I wouldn’t know what to do with all that money. I could move out of this shithole. I could build Bridget a sound booth so she could record at home. I could replace my Tacoma. I love that truck, but it’s not just transportation. It’s the place I lost my virginity. I was fifteen then, and I’m twenty-seven now. The math, even on a tough truck bought used, isn’t good.

That night, last night, I had another dream of Riley. And again, I woke up hollow. But this time, the feeling went away quickly, and because it’s Saturday, I could take a little walk. Strolling around here, especially if you detour through the park, might get you knifed. But I suddenly feel invincible.

And now, bantering with Bridget? It’s all good. Things are going according to plan. I’m almost through the roughest spot, and everything is going fine. It looks like I might get that job after all, and then … well, then everything changes.

My phone rings. I see Abigail’s name on the screen and figure she’s calling to bitch me out for trying to make Bridget talk when I know damn well she can’t, and shouldn’t. I paid for this operation. Don’t I want it to work?

But when I pick up the phone, I realize I must have read the screen wrong. Because it’s Abigail all right, but it’s not Abigail Powell, Bridget’s friend. It’s Abigail Skye, Mason James’s personal assistant.

She apologizes for the late notice but wants to know if I’m free for dinner with Mr. James. Tonight.

I can’t agree fast enough.

Only after I hang up do I make sense of what she told me about bringing someone with me, and the way she said, “They will meet you at seven.”

Not he.

“They.” 

And based on what I’ve heard about Mason’s sparse personal life, there’s only one person I can imagine him bringing to a social dinner.