In Pursuit (21 page)

Now I’m lying in bed, staring at my alarm clock, watching the minutes tick by. To be fair, I haven’t tried to get in touch with Harris, either. I stamp away my doubts and reach for my phone. He’s incredibly busy, maybe he just couldn’t get away from clients.

It’s almost midnight, but Harris told me he doesn’t sleep much, so he is probably awake.

Eddie: Since we live in contemporary times and all, I think it is socially acceptable for the fairer gender to request a date of a man she is interested in. Do you have any plans tomorrow evening?

Deep down, I know the message will go unanswered, but I still want to throw out the first hand, in case he was waiting. I guess he wasn’t.

Wednesday goes by without contact from Harris or Claire, and I’m starting to mildly panic. On some level, I know that Claire found out about Harris and me.

Embarrassment rolls through me. Never have I gotten intimate with a guy so quickly. Sure, it’s the twenty-first century, women’s lib, sexual liberation and all that, but I’ve always been skittish. All of those past reservations flew out the back door when Harris came near.

I’m laying on the couch, attempting not to wallow too much. It was a productive day, and my new client referral was a young gay couple that had heard of my blog. Turns out that they are friends with Sean and Luke.

It’s almost six, which is a socially acceptable time to call Sean. Sarah and Greg are gallivanting on a private yacht around Nantucket, so I don’t want to bother them. But I need to talk to someone. I phone my new friend.

“What’s up, cutie?” he greets me.

I sigh in response. Dramatic, but I’m hurting.

“That sounds promising,” he says sarcastically. “What’s going on?”

“Made a mess of things,” I mumble.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you over the self pity.”

A grin cracks my chapped lips. “Funny.”

“Tell me what’s happening.”

I give him all of the details, starting with my freak out on our first date.

“That pathetic excuse for a man held you down?”

“Yes, but honestly, Sean, I’ve talked about this three times over the past several days and just saying the words out loud helps me let go. I never told anyone back home when it all went down, not even Sarah, and now that I have, I feel relieved. Jared and I haven’t talked since it happened.”

“Okay,” he says, though his tone suggests disbelief.

I continue with the story, telling him about the fantastic date Harris and I had, and sleeping over at his house and now the nothingness.

“Do you think it was the blow job?” I ask forlornly.

“You are out of your damn mind. He came in your mouth? That’s signal for best head ever, and I know, I’ve gotten a lot,” he says smugly.

A trickle of laughter filters out.

“Edith.” Nerves tinge his voice. “I have to tell you something, but I don’t want you to get mad that I didn’t tell you earlier. It was stupid of me not to, but I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, and I probably just made everything worse.”

My hand grows sweaty as it grips on my phone. “What is it?”

“Luke, my Luke, is actually, erm, Harris’ personal assistant.”

“What!” I squeak, popping up on the sofa abruptly. “So, this whole time...” I imagine Luke, Sean and Harris having a laugh at my expense.

“Stop picturing the worst case scenario. I had never even met Harris until that day you spilled your water.”

How does he know what I’m thinking?

“Harris hasn’t mentioned you once to Luke. Their relationship reeks of professionalism. It’s actually quite disgusting, their emails and texts are so formal -”

“Skip to the important part, Sean! Like why you didn’t tell me, and how this information might be important.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything to you. Really and truly, Harris has never brought you up to Luke and I didn’t want you to worry that things are happening behind your back. You probably feel that way now, but they aren’t. I swear.”

 “It’s okay, Sean. I understand. Thank you for telling me now.”

“Just – well, there’s one thing you might want to know.” A lengthy pause ensues. He’s nervous again.

“What?”

“Independently, these events seem meaningless, but together...”

“Just tell me!” I plead.

“When Luke got in on Tuesday, Harris had bought him his favorite coffee. Harris rocks as a boss, never takes advantage of Luke or makes him work until all hours of the night, but he’s never brought him an almond milk latte. How did Harris even know that it’s Luke’s favorite?”

“He’s observant,” I say softly, thinking of the hydrangeas. “Then what happened?”

“It was the same studly Harris but he was in the best mood
.
Luke’s worked there for less than a year, but it was the first time he saw Harris smile. But, um, later in the morning Claire shows up in a snit, completely bypasses Luke without saying a word. She slams into Harris’ office. It was so jarring that the liquid jiggled in the coffee cup.”

“I’m familiar with the Grant door slams.”

“Right. You can picture it. She lays into him, screaming obscenities. You haven’t been to the firm yet,”
at this rate I probably never will,
“but it’s completely high end. Thick walls, so Luke couldn’t totally make out the conversation. Ten minutes later, she storms out, ignoring my boyfriend again. Harris spends the rest of his day locked away, except for a couple of meetings, but he didn’t speak to Luke, either. That’s highly irregular.”

The bubble of unease, that’s been brewing since Harris left me in his bed yesterday morning, multiples ten fold. “And then?”

“Since then, he’s been a bull, snarling at anyone who comes in his way. He refused to leave his office for the rest of the day, making all of his meetings reschedule to suit his needs.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I will tell you if he can get any other information, but Luke...”

“Don’t,” I cut in. “I would never ask Luke to compromise his position as Harris’ assistant. You’ve already told me more than you probably should.”

“We’re friends. I want to be there for you,” Sean responds gently.

My lips tremble at the words. He’s right, we are friends, and that feeling is comfort for the fresh wound that the Grant siblings left.

The bang of the front door closing startles me, and I almost drop the phone. “Sean, Claire’s home so I’ll chat with you later?”

He signs off, making me promise to call him if anything evil happens (his words, not mine).

“There you are,” I say hesitantly as Claire rifles through the fridge.

She’s practically teeming with energy, her movements rapid and jerky. She yanks out a new bottle of white wine – it must be the housekeeper who keeps replacing them, because it’s surely not me ̶ and pulls out an opener from a drawer.

“Hi,” she says, so coldly I almost need to pull my hooded sweatshirt tighter to keep me warm. With a deep sniffle, she scrubs the back of her hand around her red nose and begins opening the bottle.

“Claire, I – are you feeling okay?”

She scowls. “I’m fine, it’s
allergies
. Don’t they have pollen out east?” Her eyes dart back and forth between me and the wine.

Cocaine,
I realize gloomily.

“Yes. Claire, I wanted to talk to you about something -” before I can finish, she hastily interrupts me.

“Don’t worry about it, little mouse. I’m handling it.”

“
Handling what?”

She barrels on as if I didn’t speak, throwing a cork stopper on the counter. Then she pulls two glasses from the cupboard. “I’m going out tonight, and from the looks of it, you’re staying in.”

“Claire, what’s going on?”

“So, yeah, I am pissed as fuck,” she snaps the word at me, making me recoil at the spite in her tone. Aggressively, she pours the wine.
Good thing she hasn’t started chugging her wine yet.
“But by tomorrow it will be over.”

 “Oh, um, okay.”

With two stemless wine glasses in her hands, she forces one to me. “Get some rest, you look like you need it.”

Then she stalks out of the room with a flourish, closing her door noisily behind her.

Without drinking the wine, I scurry into my bedroom so I can hide. I am frozen, my back pressed to my door, breath heaving in and out. The hairs on my arms are standing at attention and it has nothing to do with the air conditioning.

My phone taunts me from my bed. No messages from Harris.

Screw this.

I bound over to my bed and give it one more shot.

Eddie: I’m here Harris, if you want to talk

O
n Saturday, I rise from bed with a mission to punish myself for being caught in a funk over the past few days.

Enough,
I tell myself angrily as I strip off my nightgown and dress in my running gear.
Feeling sorry for yourself because Harris disappeared isn’t helping.

One look at the temperature on my phone tells me the weather wants to show its anger, too. It’s going to be a sweltering ninety-five degrees today, with a dose of thick humidity. I forgo a top, and stick to a pink sports bra and revealing pair of black running shorts. I strap my phone to the velcro case on my upper arm, and then make the journey outside.

The weather application was correct. It’s barely eight in the morning, and the air reminds me of swampy Washington, DC. I turn the music up on my workout playlist, and begin to jog. When I hit the path along Lake Michigan, I head due north until I reach Diversey Harbor. My muscles cry out in protest, but I do not heed their complaints. I run to forget, to push my longing for Harris aside, because he hasn’t contacted me at all.

When I get off the lakeside trail and start walking back toward my home, I’m damp with sweat and breathing heavily. Running on an empty stomach and with little water, other than a few breaks at nasty public water fountains, leaves me spent.

It happens when I’m waiting on the corner of Chicago and Rush. A very expensive convertible cruises to a stop next to me. The car gets my attention because it’s a Bentley; one that my dad pointed out to me on the rare occasion that we ate dinner together outside of our home. It was a balmy, early summer night and we were eating burgers before my dad’s shift. It just happened that we ran into each other on the street, he invited me to join him to eat. A seductive purr of an engine captured our attention, and when the sleek black car drove by, dad mentioned that it could cost a cool two hundred grand for that fine automobile. At the time, I appreciated its splendor and moved on, just happy to dine with dad.

Now, I notice the car again. First, because it’s just as eye-catching as before, but also because of who is inside, staring back at me.

Harris.

Wayfarers mask his eyes, so I’m unable to read his mood. One hand rests lazily on the top steering wheel, the other one hidden in the car. He’s not alone. Wavy hair pulled in a high ponytail, she’s in workout gear, a tight tank top, and drinking from a water bottle.

In that moment I feel nothing but a strange, unfamiliar pain squeeze my chest. The crippling hurt makes me want to drop to my knees and sob.

I have no idea who this woman is, but by their familiarity they could be dating. She grins at him, but I notice he doesn’t smile back, probably angry that his cover blew up. Even though he’s looking at me, I feel like he’s staring right through me because he doesn’t acknowledge my presence.

Get out of here, get out of here, don’t do this to yourself.
Fight or flight instinct kicks in instructing me to fly. I listen. 

The street is clear of cars and I take off, turning down Rush, in the opposite direction of his car. 

When I feel like I’m safe from his vision, I stop jogging and do something that I haven’t done in the last three weeks. I peel my phone out of its protective casing. My fingers do the work for me and I dial.

“Hello?” Groggy, that’s how he sounds.

“Dad,” I whisper into the phone. I walk another half a block, then collapse onto a random staircase outside of some office building.

“Ed?”  He’s confused to hear my voice, but covers it quickly. “How are you?”

If we were together now, he’d be pushing back his already receding hairline with nerves. The thought makes me
want
to smile, but I can’t. I feel too sick from seeing Harris with the woman.

 “I don’t know if it was a good idea to move here,” I blurt out, blinking away the river of tears that form in my eyes.

“Do you need money?”

That manages to build a dam to the liquid quickly rimming my eyes with redness. It’s a nice offer, but I wish he had faith in my career.

“No, Dad, I’m actually doing really well professionally.”
            “Then, uh, is something else bothering you?”

Using my hand to block the glare of the sun, I stare up into the cloudless blue sky.

“I’m in over my head socially,” I mumble.

And then it’s silent, the only noises I hear are his steady breaths and the noise pollution of the city blocks surrounding me.