FIFTEEN #2
The file appeared on my screen, and I clicked on “Document History.” I looked up the last users’ names, expectant, holding my breath.
As if—what? What was I looking for? I didn’t know, exactly.
I was suddenly Nancy Drew and John Grisham rolled into one, waiting for an aha!
moment—the breakthrough clue. The music would swell, the mystery would unravel.
Once again, I would be the hero of my own tale.
I was used to this. It was the starring role that had found me.
When you stuck around at a dysfunctional, gossipy workplace like Parsons Valentine for as long as I had, and when you stood to gain as much as I did, there were plenty of people who might hold a grudge.
Maybe Justin really resented me for having bossed him around all summer.
Maybe Hunter hated that I was on the Diversity Initiative and drawing attention to his crazy racist skit.
I didn’t know. But I wasn’t really one for conspiracy theories.
I checked the electronic document history and found—with equal parts relief and dismay—that, sure enough, the document had last been opened by user isyung yesterday evening at 11:44 P.M.
No one had been screwing with the file. No one was out to get me. I had no one to blame but myself.
What I now had was cause to doubt myself . . . and whether I really wanted to be here, doing this.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head all the way back against the top of my swivel chair.
A very unpleasant, very unnerving thought had begun to develop in my mind, like a Polaroid, and I had been trying to force it out, to keep the image from coming into focus.
There it was, though, lumpy and misshapen, but still coming into view. Had I somehow done this to myself?
I was not going to allow my subconscious to sabotage myself, it was that plain and simple.
It was of absolute importance—it was crucial—that nothing more go wrong on my watch between now and the announcement of partnership decisions next week.
I was so, so close. And I did not have the luxury of giving up.
My phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID screen and saw that it was Murph.
I grabbed up the receiver before the first ring finished. “Hey.”
“Hey. So. You celebrating yet? How about a drink? I can be ready to leave in five minutes.”
Something about the juxtaposition of the SunCorp meeting disaster with Murph’s breezy tone broke my heart a little.
“Not celebrating yet,” I said quietly. I heard my own voice catch at the end. “Actually, things didn’t go so well today.”
“What do you mean? Are you okay?” Murph sounded concerned.
“I’m fine,” I said, definitely not sounding fine.
“I’ll be right there,” he said.
A few moments later, Murph slipped inside my door and closed it behind him. “Hey. What’s up? You sounded kind of—weird on the phone.”
I was standing against the window, leaning my full body against it, pressing my forehead and fingertips to the cool surface of the glass.
Murph nudged my arm. “Don’t do it,” he whispered. “You’ve got so much to live for.”
I pretended to smile, but this didn’t make me feel better. For a few moments, Murph and I just stood there silently, looking down at the endless stream of yellow taxis moving up and down Madison Avenue. It seemed to me that a long time passed.
Gently, he touched my shoulder. “So what happened? Only if you want to talk about it, that is. We don’t have to.”
I sighed softly. “It was a complete fucking disaster, is what happened.”
“Come on. I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think.”
“It was bad, Murph.”
“I’m sure you’re the only one who noticed anything was wrong.”
I looked at him. “The purchase price was off by three zeroes.”
“Holy shit,” he said.
“Uh, yeah.”
Murph let out a low whistle. “What the hell happened? You think it was that Keating kid? You always told me he was kind of useless, but I wouldn’t have thought he could fuck up that badly.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Anyway, ultimately, it’s my fault. The buck stops with the lawyer, not the paralegal.”
Murph was shaking his head. “But that doesn’t sound right. It’s not like you.”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I said.
“It’s done.” I pressed my forehead against the window again and closed my eyes.
When Murph moved next to me, I stood up on tiptoe and kissed him.
Not a sweet thank you for comforting me in my time of distress kiss, but a real one, deep and unchaste and on the mouth.
He seemed surprised at first, but then obligingly followed my lead, leaning into me, turning me around to face him, pressing my back up against the window.
I just wanted Murph and me to go away somewhere, someplace far away from here, far, far away from Marty Adler and Jack Hanover and Justin Keating and Hunter Russell and Gavin Dunlop and partnership votes and firm outings and rap song parodies and softball quotas and diversity consultants and Corporate Department meetings and all the rest of it.
All I wanted—all any of us here wanted—was to be able to work hard and succeed on my own terms. Was that so much to ask?
Murph pinned me against the window in my darkened office, kissing me. I guided one of his hands around my waist, and then farther down. I shivered. “Let’s go somewhere,” I whispered. “The R&R suite! You think anyone’s up there?”
He didn’t answer, pulling my wispy silk top loose from the waist of my skirt.
Through the thin fabric of my blouse, I felt the cool, smooth hardness of the window glass pressed against the length of my back, and the warmth from Murph’s body pressed against my front.
It was thrilling. This was definitely the most fun I had ever had at the office.
Why hadn’t we ever done this before? I actually thought this, and then laughed.
I was really laughing. This made Murph laugh, too, a little, before gently pressing me flat against the glass again and leaning down to kiss the hollow of my throat.
I closed my eyes. We were making enough noise that neither of us heard the door open.
Murph tore away suddenly, slamming his leg hard against my desk.
Justin was staring at us with his mouth open.
His body was frozen in midstep, one foot in front of the other.
Justin looked stunned. If not for my own predicament, I knew I would have enjoyed the fact that I’d actually managed to shock him.
For once, the smug know-it-all smirk had been knocked clean off his face.
Justin took a few awkward stumbles backward and banged into the door, hard. “Sorry, I—I just—I’ll come back later,” he mumbled.
And then he was gone.