Page 85 of Love at First Sighting
Carter
For a few days, El helps me pretend there’s not still a mystery that needs solving. We’re both excited to return to my place after the motel bed left us with minor back pain, but I was even more excited to spend a weekend with her in my arms, watching movies, hardly bothering to put clothes on, knowing nothing could hurt me with her around. But on Monday morning, the peace comes to a close when I walk back into the office.
Meanwhile, I’m sure Marcus spent most of his weekend smoking like a chimney and hitting up Palm Springs casinos, gambling something more mundane than lives.
I’m sure at no point in the weekend did he think about me. Or miss me. Or want me around. I’m sure he didn’t think about the fact that he played a role in my dad’s death and I’m nothing more than a pawn to him, which Iheardhim admit. He was able to wash his hands of the things he said with little issue, but I haven’t been able to let it go.
I’m dreading the moment when I’m going to have to face Marcus again. I don’t know how I’m supposed to look at him and pretend things are normal when I know enough of thetruth to cast the blame, though I’ll never have the full truth. I have never liked my job, but days in the office have always been dull, if anything. I grumble at having to fix the coffee machine or show someone how to open a new tab on their browser, but I’ve neverhatedit.
I’ve neverfearedbeing here.
Marcus doesn’t come to work Monday, and I’m grateful for it. I’m still trying to parse through the memories—fifteen years of them—and figure out who the person really is who kept leftover dinner out for me and taught me to drive.
Maybe I was naive, but Marcus might also be alarmingly good at covering up the truth.
I have no idea how I’m supposed to face him. If we’re at work and there are other people here, it’ll be another day at the office. Except this time, I’ll be shattering inside while everyone goes about their day and Brad clips his goddamn nails at his desk again. I’ll know there’s no chance of getting justice for my dad. Not with my dad’s file gone.
The rest of the office has gone home for the day. I kept Toby occupied all day with finding new UFO videos so he’d be out of my hair. I didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to handle anything else. The rain pelts against the grimy old windows and apparently isn’t supposed to stop for another hour.
My phone buzzes on my desk. I glance down at El’s message.
El (6:52 pm):Hi.
Seeing her name makes the ache in the pit of my stomach hurt just a little less. I type outI love you, then delete it. I keep almost saying it and pulling back. I think she feels the same, but right now, my emotions are so complicated and ever-changing.Except when I’m with her. She has no idea how much her presence alone helps steer me through the stormiest waters.
Carter (6:53 pm):Hey waiting for the rain to slow before I head home. I’ll see you soon.
El sends me a gif of two animated cats hugging. I watch it over and over again and feel the simple, warm love I have for her deep in my chest. I felt the same way the first time she packed my lunch. She was so excited to hand me a brown-bag lunch (it was a very fancy sandwich and an overpriced yogurt), and at first, I thought she was eager to do something nice for me. Then I found the secret note she left inside my napkin:“you hide those aliens”
It’s deathly quiet at the office, with only the sound of the rain, the buzzing ceiling lights above me, and the hum of a computer trying to open an email on our archaic software system. Instead of the rain slowing, it pours harder. I may as well get comfortable. I pick at the loose string along the lining of my hat and scroll through the internet until my eyes flicker over toward Marcus’s office.
The file is long gone, but giving up now feels like a disservice to my dad’s legacy. I should make what I can of this unsupervised time.
I head over to the front door of the office and turn off our MacGyvered security cameras, then approach Marcus’s office. I might be grasping at straws, but at least I’m trying something.
I jimmy the key into the lock and push the door open. A puff of nicotine wafts into my face. It feels like a lung cancer–laced metaphor. Facing my fears. Facing what’s wronged me. Fifteen years ago, my dad and Marcus had matching desks inthe bullpen. They could look across the aisle at each other and swap intel and facts about their cases, both thinking they’d be able to work their way up one day.
Instead, it’s just one of them.
I scan the top of Marcus’s desk. There’s the calendar we found the Brazel Airfield appointment in. I skim it quickly for anything interesting. There are a couple meetings listed (Rick check in,Brad 1-2-1,budget call??) but the juiciest detail on there is that he has a dentist appointment on Friday morning. The part of me that views Marcus as someone so ordinary and, honestly, even a bit boring wars with the part of me that now thinks that was calculated, too.
There’s an ashtray, a pale yellow pad of Post-it notes, a couple of bitten-up pens. I can’t see these as being parts of the person I once called a father figure anymore. I need to see them as evidence. What kept me from doing this for so many years was my respect for Marcus. But that respect is in the garbage.
I tear through drawers, looking for signs ofanythingsuspicious. There are random files, expense receipts (that I’ll have to file), and plenty of cigarette cartons. That’s not good enough. That doesn’t get me answers. He may not have anything written on paper for me to find. I might have to look harder. I might have to look elsewhere.
I shake the mouse on his computer and wait for the ancient log-in screen to boot up. Marcus has had the same computer since his days as an agent with my dad. It’s begging for death with each click. I might have a degree in computer science, but I’m no hacker, so my best bet is hoping Marcus zoned out on our IT-mandated security training. I think half the division ignored it.
I type inDodgers123on a literal fucking hunch, and I feel like the president of the United States when it works.
What they leave out of hacker movies is the detrimental potential for Windows Vista.
It takes three minutes for the computer to boot up and another minute for his email program to open. I slide into his chair, where years of work have carved out his shape in the cushions. I look out at the PIS offices from this perspective. I think of how Marcus might look out and feel power. Instead, all I see is the same ugly office with shoddy air-conditioning and a faintly mildewy scent.
I question if this is something I’d kill for.
And by no means is the answer yes.
New emails populate and I sift through them. Most are dull—emails from Jim in accounting about budgets, reports from Senior Agent Rick about his latest case, and an overdue thank-you email from Toby, which I advised him to send Marcus’s way on day one. I make sure they all remain unread to avoid raising any suspicions when Marcus comes in tomorrow.
