Tuesday Morning
Five DaysAfterthe Outing
As the first pellets rattle against the bowl bearing his name, Harley scampers toward Mallory, the routine already ingrained. She bought the dry food at the store in Harvard Square. She couldn’t stomach the raw chicken nuggets. (Not to mention opening a freezer.) The way Harley rears up on his hind legs in greedy anticipation seems a sure sign that he doesn’t miss them.
Not in the way he appears to miss Grayson. The swivel of his head at the jangle of keys, the slight whimper at a deep male voice, the energy that never seems to completely settle down even when she lets him curl up against her, which she’s done more and more each night as she wills herself to fall asleep. To shut all of this out.
She ran from the police. And her father made it okay. Well, not okay, but he bought her time. Grief, he’d said, at his slip of Grayson being dead. He used the thing she’s feeling, the thing she wouldn’t label herself, to reschedule the police interview for Friday, for the day after AIM goes public—a scheduling courtesy often doled out to the wealthy and connected, thelatter of which Mallory has thanks to her dad. From what she’s seen, he’d do anything for her—even go on the run with her. She’s not even sure Ilena would do that.
For now, all she can do is wait. She’s living in limbo. She’s never lived in limbo, not once in the life she can remember, but she’s out of ideas and exhausted.
Mallory ups the volume on the TV as a solemn Shandy Shane in a short-sleeved black sweater and black pants addresses the camera with the gleam of having an exclusive in her eye.
“This morning, I greet you with some grave news.”Shandy brings a hand to her throat. She pats, twice, before, slowly, refocusing on the camera.“Apologies. But it is a shock, still, as I am sure it will be to you at home. Grayson Fields, the devilishly handsome, brilliant entrepreneur with the start-up Midas touch, was to sit here, right beside me—”she glances to her right, swallowing audibly“—in a mere two days. After his beloved AIM went public. I am sorry to say we will not get to meet Grayson Fields because Grayson Fields... is dead.”
A photograph of Grayson in a black tux. His smile radiates through the screen, and Mallory goes numb.
“You heard that right.But,and this is the kick in your hot pants, folks. We have learned that a police investigation is underway. Lips are tight regarding any foul play or suspects, but we know one place that police are taking aim.”
Air quotes. She actually uses air quotes with “aim.”
A still of Mallory outside her office yesterday takes over the screen. She looks terrified. She looks guilty.
“Deemed an informational interview, officially, caught on film only byThe Shandy Shane Show.”
The image widens to include Aubrey and Ella and Noreen with Mallory’s dad, Officer Middlebury, and the younger male officer in the background.
“I’m sure we’re all wondering how this bombshell will affect the multibillion-dollar valuation of the Wall Street darling AIM. Whichup until now has managed to elude the scandals and greed turning tech into blech.”
Another photograph appears. Mallory in that grape jumpsuit, arms around a very alive Grayson. At the bottom of the photo is a tag from a social media influencer. In the background is a path of crushed oyster shells and a giant Jenga. The summer outing, so similar to the one in her world. Except here, the embrace she and Grayson are in appears warm, loving even, with none of the animosity burning in her gut.
“Whatever happens you can be sure that today, at AIM, no one is smiling, wide or otherwise.”
Mallory shuts off the TV, leaving the only sound the scraping of Harley’s snout against his dish as he searches for crumbs—a sound she no longer minds. She’s not going to work today, marking the first day she’s not gone into AIM in three years. No vacations, no sick days, no mental health days to frolic in the ocean that’s frigid even in August. Her mental health has always been maintained perfectly fine by going to work.
Her phone rings, lighting up with a photograph of her father. She has his chin. If she’d never been brought here, she’d have never known. Maybe he’s calling because he saw the news story or maybe he’s calling to warn her of an impending arrest. Mallory declines the call.
She falls into the couch, not modern and firm like the one the exorbitant designer she’d hired had picked out, but soft and lumpy and teal and furry like a goddamn Muppet with too many pillows. Mallory can’t get comfortable in it. She can’t get comfortable here. She has a childhood home not bordering the subway, a papa bear blind to her faults, a company seemingly honestly valued at more than two billion dollars with nary a glitch in sight, a best friend pregnant with the child she’s long wanted, another not bereft from her fiancé’s death. This Mallory’s life is better. (Save for the whole possibly being a murderer thing.)
She doesn’t care. She wantsherlife. And not because of the whole possibly being a murderer thing. (Well, perhaps notonlybecause of the whole possibly being a murderer thing.)
She wants it because she wouldn’t be who she is without it. The good (Ilena, Aubrey, AIM), the bad (lying to Ilena, to Aubrey, to everyone about AIM), and everything in between (swearing off lavender panties and then buying nothing but lavender; building a business on four hours of sleep; suffering through disastrous pitch meeting after disastrous pitch meeting until she could nail them on no sleep; innuendos and wads of cash from investors; breaking the glass ceiling with little regard to where the shards fell because they led to a hundred employees and partnerships with the likes of Reese Witherspoon and Michelle Obama; believing she could be something and becoming that something alongside Ilena and Aubrey).
This Mallory might have done some of that, maybe all of it, but not the way Mallory did for a million reasons and one—one that Mallory could actually try to understand. She grabs her phone and returns the missed call.
“Oh, MallieMoo,” her father says, infusing every syllable with worry. “This is all just... why is ‘pickle sandwich’ the only thing I can think of?”
Because you are the human equivalent of Harley.
He exhales a heavy breath. “I’m sorry. How’s that? I’m terribly sorry that all this is happening.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Listen, we’ll sort through it, piece by piece, work it out—”
Could he be any more cliché?
This is on her. Did she honestly think he would have some answer to what the universe has done to her? “Right, sure. Sounds—”
