My fight-or-flight response kicks in, and Greg’s voice pops into my head, saying,Dude seems like he’d talk to you for twenty minutes about the texture of his business cards.
I’m staring at all the names of the women who received this contract before me, and on a whim, I toggle over to the browser to google them.
But…oh my God. In the browser, he’s—I bite my finger to keep from screaming—still logged in to his bank account.There’s the landing page with all his account information, like he left in a frenzy.
My first thought is:Holy fuck that’s a lot of money!
And my second thought is:Huh. That’s weird.
There’s the same amount, recurring, over and over. So many transactions for $9,999.Nearly ten thousand dollars!An eye-popping sum to me, on its own.
A bunch of those transactions are deposits into his account—all from the weirdly named LLCs I stumbled across the other day.GERBO I LLC, GERBO II LLC, GERBO III LLC,on and on. And shortly afterward—a couple days, usually, it looks like—there’s an outgoing wire transfer in the same amount, $9,999.
With trembling hands, I lift my phone to take a picture—and I manage to get it before I hear the garage door rumble below.Shit, shit!
I move the windows on his screen so they’re the way I found them, clear the search from his email, put the computer to sleep, and race up the stairs, diving into bed, heart beating so loud I’m convinced he’ll hear it from the ground floor.
I lie there rigid as Mark Winterson’s footsteps come up the stairs, and as he shuffles around, getting undressed again. My heart rate has slowed by the time the bed dips and he climbs in. He edges closer, curling up around me, and tosses an arm over my stomach as I focus on taking slow, steady, sleeping-person-sounding breaths.
Of all times, why does he want to spoon now? Maybe a little corporate malfeasance makes a guy needy.
After a while, I carefully slide out from under his arm, moving slowly so I don’t wake him. I gather up my clothes, creep downstairs, and get dressed. And I grab a pen and hover over a block of Post-its on the counter, trying to invent somethingthat will keep him from getting mad or suspecting anything is wrong.
Headed out to an early workout class! See you later.
xoxo,
Ruby
And then I slip out the front door and run to my car, driving home as fast as my 2002 Honda Civic will take me.
Chapter
36
I need to break up with Mark Winterson. Sure, maybe there’s a chance, gnawing at my gut, that some new relationship milestone would be the thing to help Mom move on. And I don’t 100 percent understand what I saw in his bank account, but between all the weird things that have happened since we started dating, I can’t stay in this relationship. I have to bail.
Unfortunately the goddamn contract specifies that the relationshipcannot be terminated by electronic means,including phone calls. At the time, when I skimmed over it, I thought,Good, he won’t be able to dump me with a text.That’s happened to me a couple times before, and I wasn’t exactly a fan.
But I didn’t imagine I’d be lurking in the stairwell, hoping to intercept him. Or that I’d be constantly texting him asking to meet up and getting evasive replies.Hey this project is crazy, I’m probably not going to make it home at all tonight,orI’m at an offsite and won’t be back till late.I even wait outside his place in my car one evening, but when midnight approaches and he still hasn’t shown up, I throw in the towel and head home. Who knew breaking up with him would be this much work?
Days pass, and now it’s Thursday evening, and I’m the last one at the office, finishing a research memo Erica asked for. I’m going through it with a fine-tooth comb, making sure there’s nary a comma out of place. I’ve been staring at the screen for so long—I need to look at something else for a few minutes, so I get up and pace around the empty eighth floor.
Some new flowers on Sarah’s desk catch my eye, and after double-checking that no one else is around, I lean into her empty cubicle. There’s a tiny heart-shaped card dangling from the bouquet, this time with a handwritten note inside:
Picked these ones myself!
Happy two months
Love, G
But that’s not Greg’s handwriting? It’s too neat and looping, where his is more of a scrawl.
I hurry back to my desk. Maybe it’s time to get out of here.
I’m so antsy on the drive home, fingers tapping the wheel as I pass by the high school, by Sterling Field, by the boba place I used to go to with Greg. And—
Wait. There’s Greg?
