“Not the actual dying of course,” Ilena says flatly, as blunt as ever, and it’s more reassuring than anything. “But the choosing.” Ilena’s phone buzzes again, and this time, she rounds the island to retrieve it.
Mallory sips for courage, not sure if she’s fully ready to voice her fears out loud, even to Ilena. “What if it’s more than that? What if those crackers we cleaned up in his kitchen were from my emergency snack bag, which shouldn’t be possible, but I don’t know what other explanation there could be. You know he’d never have had them in his house.”
Ilena’s hand wraps around her phone. “But it could have still been an accident. Maybe he took them while you were in the bathroom or something.”
“Maybe.” Mallory sips. “Or maybe I put them out while he was.”
“Mallory—”
“I wanted to throttle him. I truly did. Maybe I don’t remember because I can’t let myself remember because—”
“Mallory.”
“Because, I mean, maybe I was actually starting to fall—”
“Mallory!”
“What?”
Ilena holds up her phone just as the pocket door slides open. Aubrey, cheeks sagging and pale, walks toward them, gripping her own phone. With a flash of apricot, Harley scurries in behind her, landing himself beside Mallory’s feet and licking her toes.
Ilena and Aubrey share an anxious look, and Mallory’s jealous of being out of the loop.
Mallory tilts her head. “What’s going—” But Ilena and Aubrey simply hold up their phones. Mallory squints to see, her eyes shifting from one screen to the other, confirming the same logo for the Cambridge police. Her heart pounds with fear, but she manages to say, “This might be a good time to mention that I met my dad.”
32
Mallory
A YearBeforethe Outing
“Is DILF still a thing?” Mallory asked at the DIY craft cocktails pop-up that was exorbitantly expensive despite having no bartenders. You mixed the drinks yourself watching YouTube tutorials. “There’s not a single one here.”
“Not exactly our demographic,” Ilena said.
“Isn’t that sexist?”
“Numbers aren’t sexist. We’re not exactly going after the DILF market with our featuring of celebs like Reese and Shonda.”
“But cocktails are universal. Besides, one can still hope.” Hope for some no-strings-attached-adequate-don’t-spend-the-night sex.
“But I hear Grayson Fields is coming.”
“To check on his investment.”
“Right, that’s why.”
Mallory ignored Ilena and watched a young woman wearing a neon pink tee that said “My parents gave me climate change without a gift receipt and now I’m stuck with it” snap a selfie with her rosemary-infused tonic. One of countless attendees shaking organic raw eggs and drinking out of straws made from cactus leavesand touting their love of AIM. A love that led to this, the coveted, see-and-be-seen launch party for “How Wide’s My Smile.”
It was the challenge that did it: “Seven Days to Your Resting Beach Face!” It had been designed as a one-time thing. Users earned points for self-attesting to the completion of certain behaviors like hitting ten thousand steps or bullet journaling or pleasuring oneself without guilt. Like “Dry January” but with strategically placed ads from their sponsors. Today they celebrated a hundred thousand new subscribers and a new beginning for AIM. The challenge was over, but the points were staying, morphing into their own community-driven channel: “How Wide’s My Smile.”
All indicators pointed to it eclipsing the rest of AIM’s features. That was why Grayson was coming. And why she was having dinner with him after, not that Ilena needed to know that. It was time to explore taking AIM public. Aubrey wasn’t the problem—Aubrey was never the problem in that way—but Ilena would take some convincing. Grayson was the start.
“Hey, y’all!” Noreen bounded over and handed them each a highball with perfect layers of blue, green, and orange liquid. “I’m a big DIY-er, so I made you these.”
“And you just became my best friend.” Mallory took a sip, and her eyes widened at the sweet but savory, citrus-y but herbal concoction. “In fact, you became better than that. I’m in need of a new assistant. Interested?”
Noreen placed a hand to her chest. “Gosh, that’s an offer, isn’t it? But, Ms. Miller—”
