No, it asked me for a password
But look! I also found this
Another document pops up in the channel: password_reminders.docx.
This fool!
I open it, and it’s not a list of plaintext passwords—it’s a series of cryptic hints to jog his memory, little riddles only Mark Winterson would understand.
GERBO doc: Dad motto first two + first deal Erickson told you about + heartbreak year four digits
Man, this guy is more sentimental than you’d think.
I can’t exactly just come out and ask him any of this—I’m going to have to back into it somehow. And how am I going to figure out the first deal Erickson ever told him about? There’s not exactly a casual way to go fishing for that.
For a second, I think wistfully about breaking up with him. But then I’d never be able to live with myself when he lays everyone off.
Amid all my failures and all the ways I feel helpless in my own life, here, finally, is a problem I have a chance of fixing. And as things spiral more out of control around me, I need to cling to the things I can actually change. Didn’t I see an inspirational Instagram post once that said something like that?
I come back out, and Mark Winterson slips a bottle of Tums out of his leather briefcase.
“You’re suffering, huh?” he says, depositing a few chalky tablets in my palm.
“Oh, I’ll live.” I pop them in my mouth and chew dutifully. “Always had a weak stomach.”
He wraps his arms around me, hugging me from behind, and whispers in my ear: “Hope you’re feeling better by this weekend.”
Chapter
42
“Charming little bed-and-breakfast,” I say as we enter our hotel room on the ground floor of a converted Craftsman home in Napa Valley. It’s Memorial Day weekend, and Zack’s wedding festivities stretch over three days: rehearsal dinner tonight, ceremony tomorrow, brunch Monday morning before we drive back.
I sit on the four-poster bed and bounce, soaking in the cool from the central air after the long drive.
“It’s a boutique inn, technically,” Mark Winterson corrects, sitting next to me.
I give him a stink-eye to rival Mom’s, and he laughs at himself.
“Sorry, I’m insufferable.” He pushes my hair back and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Amazing that you put up with me.”
Why does he have to make my life harder by being self-aware?
But a little part of me is relieved he’s warming to me again, after the chilly drive up here. I kept trying to ask him about his relationships with his dad, with Erickson—with his cousin, just for variety—but his answers were evasive bordering onannoyed, and he was driving so fast the whole way, it made me queasy. Eventually he put on an audiobook about the history of IBM and we sat there for hours listening to it in tense silence.
“How’s your stomach doing?” he adds.
I asked him to pull over a few times on the drive so I could use the bathroom—setting the stage to explain why I’m not up for doing much on this romantic getaway. I’ve been trying to bemore sparingwith physical intimacy, ever since I decided I was going to stab him in the back. And I’ve actually managed to avoid sex entirely since then, given how work is consuming his life lately. Even when I come over, he’ll be falling asleep or have to leave suddenly. If I still legitimately wanted a relationship with him, I might even be sad about that.
Part of me hopes, in a far-off way, that he’ll naturally lose interest. After all, if his inbox is any indication, he’s a short-term serial monogamist to the point of absurdity. None of his relationships last longer than six weeks, and if he sticks to his usual pattern, we’re cruising to the end.
The company retreat is happening in a few days; I’ll break up with him after. And that means this weekend is my last, best chance to get his password. The pressure of it weighs on me, and that stomachache is becoming genuine.
He must notice I look ill, because he asks: “Need me to get you anything from the pharmacy?”
“I think I’ll manage,” I say with a weak smile.
“Maybe you should see a specialist when we get home.” He pats me lightly on the back, like he’s burping a baby. “Let’s get dinner, then? If you feel up to it.”
