Page 86 of Love at First Sighting
I do what I should have done years ago and search my dad’s name.
Marcus has had this computer for so long that emailsfrommy dad actually populate. It feels like a punch to the gut seeing his words again. Most of the emails are boring and basic: file reports, expenses, and a ton of chain emails he sent Marcus. While Marcus types short and simple messages, my dad was always eloquent and clear in what he said. Perfect punctuation, little room for misinterpretation.
I scroll until I hit a spanject line in all caps from a few weeks before my dad’s death that catches my eye.
To:John Brody
From:Marcus Pearson
Subject:UNIFORM VIOLATION PENDING
J—
Hate to do this, but I’m gonna have to write you up for a uniform violation. That stitch job on the inside of your hat is a federal crime and goes against regs.
Marcus
P.S. It’s also crooked.
To:Marcus Pearson
From:John Brody
Subject:RE: UNIFORM VIOLATION PENDING
I think you need to get some hobbies besides looking at the inside of my hat.
It’s weird.
J
To:John Brody
From:Marcus Pearson
Subject:RE: RE: UNIFORM VIOLATION PENDING
I take it very seriously. But maybe cover the next round at Bender’s and I won’t send this to the chief.
And here I thought I was on to something juicy. It grabbed my attention because my dad wasmilitantabout his uniform. He was militant about most things, including his affection for those he loved. Years of cautiousness from a paranoia-inducing job left a mark on him. Back up your files (you never know when your computer’s going to crash), keep your receipts, take a picture so it’ll last forever.
Meanwhile, this is just stupid.
I scrub my hands over my face and lean back in Marcus’s chair, knocking into the coatrack behind his desk. It wobbles once, twice, and then a hat clocks me in the face before tumbling to the ground. Marcus is always leaving his hat behind at the office, so it’s rich that he’d write up my dad for a uniform violation. Or maybe I’m looking for reasons to be pissed off at the man.
I reach down and grab the hat, eyeing the cream-colored lining. Satin, off-white, with…white stitching.
PIS uniforms are standard issue. The same brand of suit, hat, and suspenders, with people able to “express themselves” via horrendous ties as long as they’re not on mission.
I inherited my dad’s hat. When we played our little spy games, he let me wear it and promised it’d be mine when I was old enough. It was the least I could do to honor him and keep him with me as I tried to follow in his footsteps.
I knew the stitching inside my hat was black.
It never felt off to me until now. I mean, of course the Men in Black would use black thread. It felt silly to question it.
But I’m shutting down Marcus’s computer and racing back to my desk. I pick up my hat and eye the inside of it. The same cream-colored lining is there, but where the PIS label is at the inner crown, the stitching is crooked. And black. Like it hasn’t been there from the start.
Memories of notes hidden in my lunch box, treasure hunts within our own house, and secret messages left in homemade invisible ink flood through my head. I hope I’m on to somethinghere. I reach for the scissors on my desk and begin to slice into the lining of my dad’s hat. I trim along the label and pull back the satin to reveal a small piece of paper folded into the lining.
