Bianca sits down in front of his computer. Some of the reps have given her their passwords; they often ask her to check their emails when they’re on vacation or out of the office. Those are the reps who keep their personal business on their phone or a different email. Wes is one of them.
One glance at his inbox tells her nothing has changed. All work-related, nothing of interest. But that’s not why she’s here, because if she wanted to see his emails, she could access them through her own computer. What Bianca wants to see is his calendar. On her side, she has a limited view. Business hours only. His entire calendar is only accessible through his computer or his phone.
She pulls up yesterday, which shows his day is blocked off for the evening, starting at five thirty. The only explanation is two letters:
AB
No idea what that means, but Wes didn’t leave the office at five thirty last night. After the detective left, he stayed in his office for a long time. Didn’t leave until after six.
Tonight, the first part of the evening is blocked off for the basketball game. He’s the kind of guy who always has his schedule planned out, even for social activities. Bianca knew about the game—the reps have been talking about it all day, and right now they’re all watching it at Scooter’s. Wes’s calendar is marked off until ten thirty.
Another engagement starts then, and it’s marked with a different letter:
I
AB one night, I the next. Her first thought is women. Maybe one of them is the reason why that detective showed up.
Or maybe the letters have nothing to do with that. It could be something about a project or a deal. Impossible to know without more information.
Bianca looks ahead on the calendar, to next week, but sees only business dinners and another night marked off for a basketball game. Nothing of note for the rest of the month, no further letters or strange plans.
She checks his internet browser history, skimming through the news and sports sites, looking for anything unusual. Not tonight.
After locking up Wes’s office, she takes a glance through a few others. Might as well, since her key is out and no one is around. She learns one of the guys is still cheating on his wife, Dana has started seeing a guy in accounting, and a sticky note on Tanner’s desk makes Bianca think he has a new woman in his life. He doesn’t send flowers to just anyone, but someone named Julia will be getting a delivery tomorrow.
Bianca double-checks that she leaves the offices exactly as she found them and that the doors are all locked. When everything is in order, she puts her key back and leaves. Her knowledge about people comes from intuition. Snooping just fills in the blanks.
If she didn’t snoop, she wouldn’t know about Wes. Wouldn’t be watching him so closely.
About a month ago, she was making her rounds. She doesn’t do it too often, because she doesn’t want to get caught, but enough to know what’s going on with everybody. When Bianca checked Wes’s internet history, a donation site popped up in his browser: the Joseph A. Fisher Memorial Fund.
Joey Fisher.
Of all the things she has discovered at Siphon—the affairs, the interoffice politics, the gossip—this one shocked her the most.
9
I’ll text you when the game is over, Wes had said.
The game is over. Ivy knows who won. She even knows the score. What she doesn’t know is why there’s no text from Wes. It would be fine if she texted him first. They are back together, after all. Not dating—in a relationship. She can text anytime she wants.
In theory.
In reality, she won’t. Because she shouldn’t have to.
Brooke smiles at her, holding up her almost-empty glass. She is a true California blonde, right down to the blue eyes, the beachy hair, and the tan. Though that’s fake, because real tans cause wrinkles, and nobody wants those, especially not Brooke. Not aging badly is one of her prime goals.
“I just have to say you’re handling this stalker thing so much better than I would,” she says. “I swear, I’d be at home curled up in a ball or something.”
“I would’ve gone to my parents’ house,” Lucia says.
Ivy would’ve done a lot of things if she had a real stalker. “I’m not going to let some loser psycho decide where I go,” she says.
“Good for you,” Brooke says. Her eyes are glassy, and she slurs a bit. One too many gin martinis. “Just be safe.”
“Always.”
Lucia slips between them and tries to get the bartender’s attention. A few months ago, she started working in Ivy’s department. It didn’t take Ivy long to realize Lucia’s the type that men want to take care of, including pouring her drinks, and she knows it.
Ivy checks her phone again. She should put it in her pocket, on vibrate, but it feels like she’ll miss something. Holding it in her hand is far more comforting, though it doesn’t go unnoticed by Brooke. Drunk doesn’t mean stupid.
“You keep looking at your phone,” Brooke says.
Ivy rolls her eyes. “I know, right? Bad habit.”
Lucia hands the drinks back, another round of gin martinis. They’re at Salt, where everyone prefers clear drinks. No fruity mixed cocktails here, though scotch or bourbon is acceptable.
Brooke launches into a story about someone who did something that may or may not be interesting, but Ivy isn’t listening. She wonders how bad it would really be if she texted first. She could ask Brooke and Lucia their opinion, but she already knows what they would say: bad. It would be bad to text first because if a guy wants to see you, he’ll text. Or call. One way or another, he will make it happen. If anyone asked Ivy the same question, that’s exactly what she would say.
It’s not that she’s angry he hasn’t texted; it’s the disappointment. The honeymoon period is so short.
Ivy takes a sip of her martini and continues to tune out Brooke’s story. She curses herself in all the languages she sort of knows—English, Chinese, Russian, French—as she looks at her phone again. It shouldn’t be like this. Her boyfriend, since Wes is her boyfriend again, should text when he says he’s going to. He should keep his word. He should be as excited to see her as she is to see him.
The moments when they’re on the same page are always the best.
A few years ago, after one of their increasingly ugly fights, they stayed apart for six months. At the time, their longest separation. She had started dating again, making profiles on the usual sites, meeting guys for coffee or a drink. Nothing had stuck. Nothing felt right.
Then an FBI agent showed up at her office.
Both tall and broad, he filled out his black suit and then some. Buzz-cut hair, square jaw, a nose that had been broken one too many times.
“Ivy Banks?” he said.
She nodded. Couldn’t speak.
He used his index finger to beckon her, making her walk out of her office and into the hallway. The agent pulled out a pair of handcuffs, and just when it seemed like he was about to arrest her, he belted out “Happy Birthday.”
It was not her birthday. Just a singing telegram from Wes.
When the performer-slash-agent was done, he handed her a card. The kind that comes with flowers.
I couldn’t wait until your real birthday. Too far away.
No name. Ivy didn’t need one.