Chapter 10 Marcus

"Do you think she did it on purpose?" asked Dr. Jensen.

I reached over and scratched Frank behind the ears, which elicited a sigh from him. His chin rested on my thigh, drool seeping from his lips onto my slacks. I loved him too much to care. He looked up at me in that innocent, corgi way—eyes wide and unassuming.

"No," I admitted. I shifted the phone in my hand and stared out the window adjacent to my armchair. "I really don't."

On the other end of the line, Dr. Jensen murmured, "Mhmm. So, your mind went there for some reason and you reacted to her because you thought she was being deliberate. Is that right?"

"Yeah," I agreed. I breathed out slowly and Frank did the same. "That's right."

He paused briefly. Over the years, I had noticed he did that whenever he was preparing to go down a line of questioning that would bring me to some revelation. Some days I needed that; other days it was downright tedious. Today was one of those days where a revelation would have been welcome though.

Dr. Jensen cleared his throat. "Well, I want to ask you: Did you deliberately mess up those files you gave to her?"

It was my turn to pause. I wondered if there was any way for me to say yes without sounding like a complete psychopath. My fingers wrapped around a loose thread in my leather chair, tugging on the thick string. When my silence carried on for too long, Dr. Jensen repeated the question.

"I did. I regret it now."

"And why do you regret it?"

"Because a few hours later, I nearly lost it on Alex because I felt like he was just leaving messes for me to clean up with no regard for how much work that would take from me. So, I guess that makes me a hypocrite."

"I know you don't like to call yourself that," Dr. Jensen noted. I could practically see him leaning forward and staring at me, his gaze sympathetic. "What else can you say instead of ‘hypocrite'?"

"Not sure."

"What I've always appreciated about you, Marcus, is that you're empathetic. It's part of the reason why you're so good at what you do: You've been through enough complicated and messy situations that you have a predisposition to try to keep other people from having to go through that. I've always believed that's an asset, but it makes it hard for you to move forward when you have these uncomfortable interactions with your friends and your colleagues, doesn't it?"

"Yep," I confirmed, grateful he knew me so well. I didn't have the emotional bandwidth to rehash this on my own today.

"Alex loves you. He thinks of you as a brother. And today wasn't about making your life difficult—it was about Alex trying to position himself as a thought leader and an iconoclast. It's frustrating, but it's part of what has made him successful, so I'm not surprised he looks for opportunities like this. It's fair for you to be frustrated, but just remember he's not doing it to hurt you—he's doing it to make himself feel good. Does that make sense?"

"I hear you. It's not deliberate; I just end up being collateral damage."

"Right. So, give it a couple days—take some space. And on Monday, tell him how you feel. Does that work?"

"That works," I agreed while I gave Frank's belly a scratch. He loved that; he rolled onto his back asking me to keep going. I smiled down at him, wishing all relationships could be this straightforward.

"As for Cassandra. Or Cassie, rather."

"Cassie."

"As for Cassie, I think she said something interesting today. Something you should consider taking to heart."

"Go on."

"She said she's changed in the last ten years," he commented. "Just like you have. Has it occurred to you that if you got to know her, you might find she's telling the truth?"

I drew in a heavy breath, loudly enough that Dr. Jensen could hear it on the other end of the line. "So I should get to know her?" I asked, my stomach lurching at the thought. "Like, I should invite her to lunch or something?"

"Not necessarily. Just talk to her. See if you have things in common. See what you learn about her. It sounds like you've both resolved to work together through due diligence. Why not try to make that easier for each other instead of making it harder? Cut the games. Cut the banter. Just focus on being professionals. You're not eighteen anymore. You don't have to pick up right where you left off."

"I see," I murmured. I turned to look out the window, watching the hazy sunset fall in the distance. City lights had started to emerge in the coming darkness, illuminating through the clouds. Energy had started to purr outside my window as New York awoke for the weekend.

"It doesn't sound like you were happy about the conversation you had this afternoon. Why is that?"

"No clue," I admitted as Frank rotated in my lap back onto his stomach. "I'm just not a person who embarrasses people like that."

"I agree. That's not who you are. And deep down, I don't think you want to be that person, nor do you want to be a person who derails someone's career just because he can."

When he said the words, the last two weeks felt shameful to me. He was right: I hadn't been acting like myself. The real Marcus Fitz wasn't petty or vengeful like this.

"I think I owe her an apology. A real one."

"You do," he agreed. "But like I said, give it a couple of days. Talk to her on Monday. Take the weekend and just relax—do something fun. Do you have any plans?"

There was that annoying question again—another opportunity for me to confront my reality: Fun was off the table for me and had been off the table for the last six or seven years.

"Not really."

Dr. Jensen clicked his tongue. "Look, I know there are all these rules and things you have to follow…but give yourself a break. You're twenty-eight. You may run a successful company, but you can't be a COO all the time."

"I don't know, Dr. J. I signed a lot of paperwork and contracts stating that as long as I was in this position, I would be a paragon of virtue." I inhaled through my teeth. "Are you telling me to go back on my contract?"

He chuckled. "I'm just saying, if I were you I would pick out a low-key place where nobody is going to recognize me, and I would just have fun for once. You've had a hell of a day in the middle of a hell of a week. Do yourself a favor. For once."

A few minutes later when we ended our emergency session, I hung up the call and checked out my messages. I had a few texts from Alex, telling me he was having people over for drinks and he wanted me to come by. This was his indirect way of extending an olive branch, I knew, but I didn't respond. Instead, I poured myself a shot of tequila from my bar and downed it while I stared out the window at the city lights. Immediately, the liquor took the edge off, but I was far from settled.

First Alex and then Cassie. What a shit show of a day. And for the past couple of days, I thought the problem was Cassie. God knows I'd been blaming her all week. There was just something about her type that pushed my buttons, ever since I was a kid. It was the tightly-wound, holier than thou, condescending attitude from these spoiled rich girls. They were always the ones giggling behind the jocks and preps who mocked me on the schoolyard until my moms finally acquiesced and sent me to a public school, where the kids just ignored me.

The great irony of the situation was that in my adulthood, I'd been forced into countless dates with women like this over the years. Apparently, they were the only kind of women I was allowed to be with. They're the ones people expect you to date , our PR firm Lilac told me years ago. People expect Lex to date a runway model and they expect you to date a woman of substance. Pedigree. Accomplished .

I took another shot—aggressive for a night in.

A few days ago, blaming Cassie made sense. It was almost logical. But now that I knew she was no longer the trust fund brat she once was, I didn't even know what to think of her. She was right—I didn't know anything about her.

So of course, I did what every twenty-something would when he wanted to learn about another twenty-something: I went on Instagram.

When I searched for Cassie Pierson, nothing came up—not even a private profile. I was surprised, but undeterred. I tried a couple of different configurations: Cassandra Pierson, C Pierson, Cassie P, etc. No dice.

By the time I was feeding Sammy and Frank their dinners, I'd tried out ten different versions of her name, and came up short every single time.

"Interesting," I muttered. I looked over at Sammy, who was allowed to eat her dinner on the kitchen counter—otherwise, Frank would have inhaled it like dessert. "Thoughts?"

Sammy, of course, ignored me because she was a cat.

"Cool, good talk," I replied as I ran my hand over her shiny black coat. "Okay, let's be creative. I've got a lot of money, a lot of connections, and I work in tech. How do I find the only twenty-eight-year-old woman in the city who doesn't have social media?"

At my feet, Frank finished his dinner and immediately trotted off towards my living room for his usual evening nap. I followed him past my grand piano and took a seat on the white shearling couches surrounding my coffee table. I leaned back and gazed up at the high ceilings, fixing my eyes on the inset lighting above me.

"Who do I know who knows everyone?" I murmured, just as Sammy leapt over and landed on my stomach, forcing a grunt from me.

The answer was clear to me, but I kept avoiding it—dodging it like a caltrop.

"Whatever," I said. "I'll just talk to her on Monday. Tonight, we'll just—"

I paused, my upper back raised off my couch as I reached for the television remote on my coffee table. I was a few minutes away from putting on Netflix with both of my pets snuggling up next to me, just like Alex said I would be.

Fucker .

"Fine," I snapped, letting my head fall back on the cushion. I pulled up Alex's number and he picked up on the second ring.

"We good?" he asked without saying hello.

"Maybe."

I could hear him chuckling on the other end. "When are you coming over? What are you doing?"

"I think I'm going to go out," I lied.

Silence. Then after a pregnant pause, Alex said, "That's hilarious. When are you coming over?"

"I'm serious. I'm going to go out."

"Oh fuck yeah," he murmured. "Hey, Marcus is going out!" he called out. In the background, I heard the faint sound of cheers.

"Who are you with?"

"Just a bunch of beautiful people," he exclaimed, which incited more cheers from whatever troupe of socialites he was plying with alcohol tonight. "Where do you want to go? We'll swing by, grab you, and we can all go together."

"No, I'm just doing something low key," I insisted, running my hand over Sammy's tail as I spoke. "I can't bring you along. You attract too much attention."

"That's not true."

"You were on TMZ last week," I reminded him, "making out with that woman from the Real Housewives who is fourteen years older than you, by the way."

"Truly don't remember that," he responded, nonchalant as usual. "But if you're not going to let me come out with you, why are you calling me?"

"I need a favor."

"Ah."

"I need a favor, and you owe me for killing that story and saving this deal with Davenport-Ridgeway. I'm calling it in now."

"Fine. What do you want?"

"I want the password to your Instagram account for fifteen minutes."

"Really? That's it?"

"Just fifteen minutes. I'm trying to find someone, and you know everyone, so…"

"Who are you trying to find?" I hated how much this amused him. "You haven't expressed interest in a woman in, like, four years."

Not interested in her . Not anymore .

"Can I have the password or not?"

He sighed. "Fine, cagey. I'll text it to you. But we're good, right? You mean it?"

"We're good, Alex," I assured him. "We always are."

Seconds later, the password to Alex's Instagram account arrived in my text messages: SexLar$on420 . I was tempted to ask him if it was a joke, but sure enough—I used the password to log into his account, and it worked.

Alex had 1.8 million Instagram followers, compared to my measly 120K. That was fine with me. I only had one because our PR firm told me I needed to post pictures of my rescue pets and how much I loved my job and my mothers—which was all fine and true, but I couldn't have cared less if anyone else got to see it.

I'd never actually been on an Instagram account with so many followers, and I immediately concluded it was nightmarish. His direct messages were literally filled with women trying to message him, sending him private photos of themselves doing things I would have probably recommended against documenting. Knowing Alex, he loved this though.

But I wasn't there to delve into the depraved depths of his direct messages or to read some of the borderline disturbing comments on his photos. I simply wanted to search through the list of people he followed—and sure enough, when I typed in Pierson, the following name came up: @casspierson25.

Cass .

She and Alex followed each other, which meant he was able to see the photos on her private account. To my surprise, there wasn't much there. Most girls like Cassie had accounts chock full of photos of them luxury traveling, wearing couture outfits with their friends, and drinking expensive champagne. Cassie only had a dozen or so, and they were mostly grainy city pictures.

I clicked on one of a black and white graffiti wall, and the caption read, That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.

Instantly, I recognized the quote. It was from Stephen King, who I quoted in my college applications. In fact, I had a copy of every single one of his books in my home office, lined up neatly on the shelf by my armchair. I was surprised to see his words here, on Cassie's Instagram feed.

I spent a few more minutes scrolling through her pictures. She was only in a couple of them: one where she was holding up her MBA from Harvard with the caption, Done , and another one of her standing outside of a bar with two heavily tattooed guys. The caption on this one was simply an emoji of a house, and the photo was tagged at a location called Shelf Atlas.

I clicked on the location and discovered that Shelf Atlas was a bar and nightclub in Brooklyn. It had honestly been years since I had made the trek out to Brooklyn. My contract basically made it a no-fly zone for me. On the rare nights when I went out, I usually tagged along with Alex to the overpriced bars where the finance bros and tech douches swarmed. Based on the photos tagged at that location, it was exactly what you would expect: overflowing with hipsters and not a button-down or Patagonia in sight.

Frankly, I couldn't imagine Cassie there either. Not Cassie with her pearl earrings, chiffon blouses, and starchy skirts.

"Mysterious—right, guys?" I asked, glancing between Sammy and Frank. Sammy was fast asleep, purring on my chest, and Frank was drooling on my shin.

Typical .

"What do you think? Should we go to Brooklyn? It's kind of what the doctor ordered."

Like clockwork, a text message from Alex arrived. It was a picture of him with a stunning woman sitting on his lap—and I realized I recognized her from a Calvin Klein ad. His message said, You sure you don't want me to come out with you?

Grinning, I typed out a response. You'd hate it.

Alex: Where are you going?

Me: Brooklyn.

Alex: Yeah, I don't want to do that…have fun though. Do something I wouldn't do.

The notion was ludicrous; there was very little I could come up with that Alex wouldn't do.