“That’s right, that was some night. Did you have fun?”
“Yeah, it was good.”
“Weren’t you talking with one of the agency presidents? I forget his name,” she continued. She poured water from a pitcher into her glass.
“You mean Phoenix Walker, from counterAgency?” Orchid asked, startled. She’d been so immersed in the intensity of her feelings, first of hope then fury, it’d escaped her that the party was a public forum.
“Yeah, that’s his name.” The petite woman brightened. “How do you know him?”
“We worked on somepro bonoaccounts, a long time ago.”
“Oh, wow. You’re lucky.”
“Yeah, it was good while it lasted.”
“That was before his accident?”
Orchid blinked. “Accident? What accident?”
She looked confused. “Maybe I’m thinking of someone else. I get mixed up between all those boutique agencies. Maybe it was the guy at Z—”
Orchid interrupted her pondering. “When was the accident?”
“In the summer, I think. Really scary. I didn’t ride the subway for weeks after that. Some homeless guy tripped one of the agency heads onto the subway tracks. Amazing that the guy survived. The train did a number on him, I heard.”
“Really? Then it wasn’t Phoenix, because he looked incredible. Like he always does.” She felt herself blushing.
Her friend shrugged.
A co-worker stepped over and saved her from further embarrassment. “La-dies, meeting’s star-ting,” he pronounced.
That night,Googleyielded a small sensational blurb on the perils of riding New York City subways. A picture of the empty station accompanied the article dated August 1. There was no name of the victim and his or her condition was never updated. Nor was the perpetrator found.
Searching Phoenix’s name as she’d done many times these last months returned the expected pages of interviews, press releases, bios and news of the agency’s accolades.
Nothing connected the two, yet Orchid went to bed with strange new questions swirling.
February inthecity, the frigid temperatures unforgiving, Orchid pulled her coat closer for the trudge home from work. She glanced into windows as she walked. As she passed one eatery, the back of a familiar head caught her eye.
Orchid entered the restaurant and wandered towards the bar where she’d seen the mirage. She rounded the corner to familiar features. She drank in the refined cheekbones, chiseled jawbone and dark brows. As she looked up, she was met with a cold glare. Caleb locked eyes with Orchid. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, collar open to reveal the black leather cord and horn pendant, and tailored black pants. No wonder Orchid had thought it was Phoenix; Caleb was clothed like a stylish ad man tonight.
Orchid asked what she’d tried to forget for the last five months. “How are you? How’s Phoenix?”
Caleb narrowed his eyes. “What do you care?” he asked.
He turned away from her and Orchid caught him by the arm. “Is he still with that girl?”
He glared at her. “Like I said, what do you care?”
“What do I care? Yeah, why should I care?” she asked, jealousy welling as she pictured Phoenix with the slender birdlike woman at the agency holiday party.
This seemed to fuel Caleb’s fury. “That’s right, you don’t care. You left a guy while he was in the hospital. When he could’ve died. You didn’t even come in person. I hope you rot,” he spat, pushing his face inches from hers.
“Hey! I didn’t do anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She stepped back, shaken. “Wait, what do you mean, hospital? What do you mean, he could’ve died?”
“Don’t play dumb with me.”
“Is he okay? Is he hurt?” she asked.
