Chapter 30
Henry still thinks of her sometimes, the woman who ruined his life.
Her Instagram account is gone. Not just private, but gone.
He supposes he scared her, that she’s become more private since the incident.
But her precautions are belated and futile.
She never could have stopped him. He’s too good at finding what he needs.
It was so easy to get into her phone, to find those images—she’d sent them to some tool named Kent three weeks earlier.
And if that didn’t prove that she’d been asking for what she got, then what did?
No Instagram, but she does still maintain her LinkedIn profile. Henry checks it now and sees that she’s made a new post.
It’s a selfie of Lacey sitting in an office Henry doesn’t recognize, before an expansive window, three computer monitors in front of her. She’s smiling demurely, mauve lips closed, one elbow propped in front of her keyboard, chin in her palm. He reads the caption.
It was a difficult year for me at work, but I’m so happy to announce that I’ve started a new position as Director of IT at LKOP Enterprises! #career #careergoals #girlboss
His stomach drops. He was laid off, still unemployed eight months later, and she’s found a new role. And it’s a fucking promotion.
She should be fired for her final hashtag alone. And the reference to a “difficult year”—does that not come perilously close to violating the NDA? He feels a vibration in his chest—his anger, so tightly contained.
He’s smarter than she is, and they’re the same age, the same experience level.
It should have been him who’d landed that role.
He’s pretty sure it’s one he applied for, yet he wasn’t even invited to interview.
Their old company must have helped her get it, must have given her a glowing review and someone called in a favor.
Of course, even though he was gone, she couldn’t stay at their old company. How could she face those people after what they saw?
That picture, flashing on the screen at the beginning of the PowerPoint presentation, the human resources director, Penny, fumbling at the keyboard to make it go away—Lacey’s mauve mouth open, breasts bare, fingertips grazing her own skin.
The collective gasp of the employees assembled in the conference room.
When Penny finally managed to tap a key and the image disappeared, it was replaced by another—Lacey’s ass, recognizable only to herself.
Her scream rose in that too-crowded, too-warm room. Penny slammed the laptop shut.
She’s sure it was you. You’ve been making her uncomfortable for a while, his boss had said later that week. She said that she rejected you. That you’ve followed her. That she’s caught you going through her desk.
Henry should have had excuses prepared.
When she caught him in her office, he’d thought she was gone for the day—he thought everyone was.
But it was raining and she’d come back for the umbrella he hadn’t noticed was resting on the floor.
She caught him sitting in her chair, her top desk drawer open, one of her cinnamon mints dissolving on his tongue and her lipstick tube open between his fingers.
He heard the gasp, looked up, and there she was, standing in the doorway, those mauve lips forming a perfect O.
“I thought you were gone,” he’d said automatically, stupidly.
“My umbrella,” she had said, their joint shock apparently forcing civility and honesty. That was when he first detected the patter of rain against the windows. That was when the anger flickered across her face.
“Why are you in my office?” she had asked, voice icy, arms crossing tightly against her chest.
“I was looking for a flash drive,” he’d said. “We’re out. Greg said you might have one.” They weren’t out, and Henry hadn’t asked Greg. It was such a flimsy excuse.
He’d stood, then ducked past her, slunk into his own office, knowing he was already on thin ice with her, ever since she’d so frigidly rejected his invitation for drinks.
He should have denied everything to his boss. That he’d ever propositioned her. That he’d ever followed her.
But it didn’t matter. He didn’t stand a chance. They laid out their terms, and it all seemed so swift and neat; how could he not agree?
Still, the unfairness of it—the stupid hypocritical bitch could have a public Instagram account, could post photos of herself in a yellow bikini, could send nude pictures to fucking Kent, yet he could still get fired for opening her desk drawers, for eating her cinnamon mints, for inspecting her mauve lipstick, for lingering nearby while she made her coffee, for following her to the bathroom and then pushing into the men’s room at the last second, for touching her forearm toward the end of a company happy hour and inviting her to leave with him to another bar.
The pictures on the screen at the meeting—no one could prove it was him. That was what Henry said to his boss. You can’t prove it was me. But that was the wrong thing to say. His boss’s eyes hardened, and Henry realized too late that he shouldn’t have mentioned proof at all.
Anyway, if he was better looking, Lacey might have said yes; she might have gone to that other bar with him, she might have touched his arm while she laughed, and he’d still be working there.
He’d still have his apartment. He’d be interacting with his parents a normal amount, rather than living in their basement.
They’re not home now, so at least he has that.
His mother went out for lunch. His father is at work.
Despite all his mother’s threats that his dad will soon retire and they’ll sell the house and move closer to his sister, Henry can’t imagine how his father could retire.
If he does, he’ll have to be with Henry’s mom all the time.
And there’s no way she’ll let him spend his days in his recliner with crossword puzzles and baseball games on the TV.
She’ll write to-do lists, things she’s capable of doing herself.
Henry closes Lacey’s LinkedIn page, rage still simmering. It makes sense now. She was probably offered a payout, and help securing a better job. That was why she signed the NDA. And he’s expected to be grateful that it wasn’t worse for him.
He wishes for a moment that he knew the wife’s name, that he could look at her LinkedIn page or her Instagram account.
Yet he suspects she doesn’t have one. She wouldn’t.
Not her. She wouldn’t share photos of herself in a bikini or her avocado toast. She has probably never even had avocado toast. He loves that about her.
She’s not trendy. She’s classic. She’s perfection—this beautiful and lonely soul. This deeply unhappy wife.
And it’s as though he’s summoned her with his thoughts. There she is.
She’s been coming out more lately. Not just her Saturday-morning walks with her possessive husband, but walks by herself, during the week, while her husband and his black sedan are at work.
Once so sporadic, they’ve become more predictable, something he can track.
She wears a white baseball cap, and her dark hair cascades from the hole in the back like a waterfall.
Henry took a photo of her when she passed his house.
He zoomed in as much as he could and snapped, then studied the blurred image, confirming what he’d thought—there were no headphones, no earbuds, no AirPods.
And she doesn’t run, never runs. She walks and she does not smile, listening to nothing but her own thoughts.
She’s not heading out for a walk now. Just into the garden, where the mulch has grown sparse, the flowers she planted weeks ago turning parched, obscured by creeping and wiry weeds. Someone needs to pull them, to replenish the mulch, to water everything.
Inexplicably, Henry tastes something sour and hopeless. He swallows, rubs at his throat. He feels stuck, just the same as he has felt for months now.
At least there’s her. Stuck, too, he thinks. He can’t be sure, not until he meets her. But there’s that connection, that thread tugging between them.
The wife crosses her arms over her chest, looks down at her front garden. She leans forward, inspecting something more closely, her left leg lifting slightly, as though for balance.
Henry tucks his novel under his arm. He’s feeling reckless, like that day he went into Lacey’s office. It wasn’t the first time he went, although it was the first time he got caught.
Once, he found a long, dark hair on the headrest of her desk chair. He wound it around his index finger until the tip turned blue while he crunched down on two of her cinnamon mints.
Now he has less to lose. And he’ll never meet the wife if all he ever does is sit in the living room, looking out the front windows with his book on his lap. He’s here alone.
It’s time to make his move.
The first move. Who’s to say what’s to come? But for now, this.
Paperback still beneath his arm, Henry steps outside onto the front porch.
The wife isn’t looking at him. She’s still inspecting her garden.
She bends to pluck a weed. But Henry pretends that she is watching him.
He strolls down the driveway, glances both ways, then crosses the street.
He’s looking ahead, up the sidewalk, but he hesitates, eyes catching on the wife, the weed dangling from her left hand.
He glances away, then back again. Ah, well, he thinks, feigning a lack of premeditation for no one’s benefit but his own. Why not say hello?
He takes a few steps closer, onto her driveway.
“Hey there,” he says. He can hear the tremor in his voice, but he hopes she can’t. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
He’s smiling. She turns.