Chapter 14
Elliot
Once I'm out of the building, I stop at the first trash can. I only accepted that stupid sticky note to appease Mira and spare myself the awkwardness of refusing.
Right, sure... because making other people happy suddenly matters so much to you.
I stare at the neon-pink scrap of paper as if it holds my destiny. Look who believes in fate now, you damn hypocrite.
Mira's elegant handwriting catches my eye.
I'd like to thank you, if you're comfortable texting (and if Elliot didn't throw this note away instead of giving it to you). , Mira Damien
I crumple the sticky note in my fist. Why is it so hard to toss it? She'd never know. I covered my bases: I made sure she understood that the illustrator values his privacy and is very busy, both of which are true.
You could find someone to work with her with a snap of your fingers. In theory, that would be a good solution. Yet, for some reason I don't understand, the idea leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
I stuff the little piece of paper into my pocket before continuing on my way. It's a bit of a hike through the underground passages. I pass fewer and fewer employees as I approach the tunnel leading to Grandfather's residence. When I was little, exploring the maze with my brothers at night was one of my favorite things to do. Our father made a game of it: Mom and he would make scary noises while we wandered through. It was meant to discourage us from doing it again, a tactic that only worked until our next visit.
I let out a shaky breath, trying to rid myself of the weight pressing on my chest. Dwelling on the past leads to only one thing, and I'm not interested.
After entering the code into the gate keypad, I climb the stairs and walk toward the house. It's an old Colonial with a wraparound porch. I avoid looking at the porch swing at the front of the house, sparing myself the ache the sight of it causes. No matter how many weekends I've told myself I'd find a drill and take the damn thing down, I've always found a reason not to touch it. Whether it's a new stack of papers to review or a last-minute meeting with a manager, I never manage to face that swing.
Of all my memories of Wondervale, this one is the hardest to bear.
You're so fucking weak. My drunken father's slurred voice echoes in my head.
I yank the door open, letting it hit the wall with a loud bang before slamming it shut behind me. My heavy footsteps echo through the house as I climb the stairs to the bedroom I've claimed as my own. I toss my wallet onto the nightstand, then drop the crumpled note beside it. Before I can stop myself, I grab my phone and add Mira's number to my contacts, just in case I do something stupid like tear up the sticky note.
I can't decide whether I should contact her. I weigh the pros and cons.
I could send her one message. What harm could it do?
What are you planning to talk to her about? The weather?
It's not as though I'm not used to talking to women. Deep down, what worries me is the fierce desire I feel for Mira compared with what I felt for the women I've dated these past few years. They were simple, easy; they had few expectations. But when it comes to Mira, texting her feels more significant. How? I'm not sure yet. But I know I need to proceed with caution.
Maybe Adrian has rubbed off on me more than I realized... He's extremely demanding of Nico and me, ensuring we never look foolish in the public eye. Since we were young, he's drilled into us that our family name has power, and with that power comes the responsibility not to fuck everything up.
And yet you let the Florida heat fry your brain and kissed an employee.
If Mira intended to report me, she would have done it already.
Unless... she's biding her time so she can blackmail you.
I consider that thought for a few seconds. Could that be it? Maybe she wants me to make an even bigger mistake so she can squeeze more money out of me.
Are you always so cynical about other people's intentions? Her soft voice slips into my thoughts as if it belongs there.
Compared with my brothers, I've always been the most reserved and suspicious, even when I was very young. Certain situations magnified those traits, and the hopeful child became a bitter adult: extortion attempts, women poking holes in condoms, men wanting my friendship solely for the benefits attached to my last name...
The list never ends. I learned one universal lesson from it: trust no one.
I decide to go for my usual evening run, hoping it will help calm the storm of my thoughts.
After a few minutes in the humid summer air, my skin grows damp. I settle into a steady pace and focus on the sound of my sneakers hitting the pavement. Despite my efforts to shut off my brain, it doesn't get the memo. By the time I finish my run, I have a list of pros and cons that allows me to reach a reasonable conclusion.
I should text Mira to find out what her true intentions are. There's no way expressing her gratitude is all she wants. No one is that pure, not even Miss Bubbly. Our conversations could be an opportunity to investigate and discover how she really feels about me.
Once I'm home, I shower before stretching out on my bed. I open the Google Voice app on my phone so I can contact her from a fake number and keep her from tracing it back to me.
Me: Hi. Elliot gave me your number.
Okay, not too bad. Simple and direct.
A second later, my phone beeps. How does she type so fast?
Mira: Hi! I'm not going to lie, I didn't expect Elliot to actually do it.
I roll my eyes.
Me: Well, he did.
No shit. You're texting her.
Mira: I'm so glad you reached out!!!
Good God, who uses that many exclamation points? It should be illegal.
Mira: I just wanted to say... 1. Thank you for your help, because I'm completely hopeless at drawing. 2. What can I do to repay you?
What does she mean, she wants to do something for me? That can't really be the reason she wanted to contact the illustrator...
Mira: I'm broke. Do you take Monopoly money?
I seriously need to find out what kind of woodland fairies raised this woman, because there's no way she grew up in the same world I did.
Mira: Or I could take you out to dinner?
Me: No, thank you. I'm not interested in getting food poisoning at a restaurant that accepts Monopoly money.
Oh, no... I reread the message with a grimace.
Being utterly incapable of subtlety, she replies with three laughing emojis.
Mira: No worries.
Mira: I could make you dinner at my place, then, as a thank-you.
It takes me two seconds to respond.
Me: No meeting.
Mira: Okay. You're shy. I get it.
No one has called me shy since I was a child.
Mira: That's fine. Maybe someday.
Me: Are you always this optimistic?
Mira: Yes. Why wouldn't I be?
Me: Because life isn't always sunshine and roses.
Mira: Of course it isn't. But how can you appreciate the sun each morning if you've never experienced darkness?
What kind of drugs is she on?
My phone vibrates again, as if silence frightens the woman on the other end.
Mira: What's your name? You know, so I can put a name to your face.
I'm living through my own personal hell. It turns out Mira is the type to send a barrage of texts one after another.
Me: Except you don't know my face.
Wow, you're great at stating the obvious. Well done! My joke falls flat. So much for trying. Another reminder of why I usually don't bother with humor.
Mira: No kidding. Fine, for now I'm going to picture you as a young Henry Dean.
Henry Dean? What kind of old stuff does she watch? He's an actor my grandfather used to mention sometimes.
Before I can consider the possible repercussions of having a conversation with her that has nothing to do with work, my thumbs are already moving across the screen.
Me: Remind me, how old are you?
Mira: HAHA.
The thought that I made her laugh fills me with a strange warmth.
Mira: To be fair, my parents are obsessed with retro Americana. When they were young, living here was their dream. Henry Dean is only the tip of the iceberg! Don't get me started on my love of vintage clothes and Elvis Presley.
I can understand that: my grandfather was the same way. Ever since he emigrated from Ireland with nothing but a suitcase and his dream of drawing, he'd been fascinated by American pop culture. My heart tightens at the thought.
Mira: I even taught myself to play the ukulele to impress my parents.
Mira: But I'm absolutely terrible, much to my father's disappointment.
It suddenly hits me that I've entrusted my future to the strangest person I've ever met. Mira is as much a risk as an investment. It's like putting a million dollars into a stock at an all-time low and hoping it doesn't crash in the end.
Mira: ...so, are you planning to tell me your name now, or would you rather I guess?
Mira: I can pull up a baby-name website and work my way through it. We could even make it a game.
Oh, no. Absolutely not! Who knows what kind of messages I'd be opening myself up to?
Me: You can call me Grant.
Grant? What the hell are you doing, man?
I exit the conversation before taking any more risks. I've had enough insanity for one night. Doing something as spontaneous and stupid as inventing an alter ego to talk to a woman is nothing like me. It's truly pathetic.
But that's all you've ever been. A disappointment unworthy of the Vale name.
I roll onto my side and press a pillow over my ear as if that could erase the voice from my past.
That was years ago. You're not that rejected little boy anymore.
Yet no matter how many times I tell myself that, nothing is ever enough in my eyes. Every time I accomplish something difficult, I'm already looking for the next obstacle to conquer, determined to show my father and everyone else who doubted me that I've turned my weaknesses into strengths.
Shy? I choose my words carefully, turning them into feared weapons.
Weak? I've fired thousands of useless employees to improve our bottom line.
Pathetic? I've built my own reputation in the business world, one that has nothing to do with my last name. Even if it isn't pretty, it belongs to me alone, and nothing Malcolm Vale says or does can take it away from me.
I'm no longer a disappointment, and I never will be again.
Only one unresolved question could hurt my productivity and reputation during my time at Wondervale... and I fully intend to keep an eye on her.
The next morning, I check my new messages. I expected maybe one or two texts from Mira, but once again, she surprises me: five messages are waiting.
Mira: Grant. Okay. A little traditional, but I like it.
The next one came ten minutes later.
Mira: I feel like I scared you off. That's okay. According to my mother, if you feed stray cats, they always come back.
Mira: Not that I think you're a stray cat!
She added the facepalm emoji.
Mira: And there it is, I've just revealed my weirdness and the reason dating apps don't work for me! I don't blame you for running away. The only upside to this whole conversation is that I have no idea what you look like. If you ever meet a woman with my name, please pretend you've never heard of me. Thanks!
I find her embarrassment surprisingly entertaining.
Mira sent her final text fourteen minutes after the one before it. Apparently, she was determined to end the conversation on a positive note. She's like a damn ray of sunshine ruining my perfectly gloomy day.
Mira: Have a wonderful life!
The easiest solution would be to ignore all her messages, label her the strangest person I've ever contacted, and never text her again. She's so friendly, so trusting with a stranger that it's sickening.
Who are you to call her strange? You consider ten words or fewer a good conversation!
Yes, but only because I'm the kind of man who prefers to stay in the shadows and let his work speak for him.
Even so, my curiosity about Mira wins the battle against logical reasoning. I decide to send her a reply before moving on to something more worthy of my time.
Me: Is talking to yourself a habit of yours?
The bubbles appear and disappear twice before a new text pops up on the screen. Not that I was waiting impatiently with my eyes glued to my phone or anything...
Mira: All right, let's pretend none of that ever happened. Deal? Deal!
For the first time in a long while, a smile stretches across my face before I have a chance to kill it.