Chapter Twenty-Nine

Vix knew nothing about it.

"Maybe it was a hoax," she suggested. Unhelpfully. "You didn't give them your social security number or banking information, did you?"

"Do I look like a jackass?" I demanded, while simultaneously going through every second of the very brief conversation with Whoever Perot to make sure that I hadn't done anything that stupid. "And no, just my email address. He already had my phone number."

"Hmm." The clatter of a keyboard. "Ben Perot? If it is a hoax, they did pick a real person who works at Sports Now to impersonate."

"Just so we're on the same page here ... are we thinking this isn't a hoax? Because if not, then ... what the fuck, Vix?" The only alternative was that I'd actually gotten a call from Sports Now , they were actually going to publish me, and only Orion could have made that happen. I sat on my bed, hunched over my phone like it was a fire at which I was warming myself, waiting for Vix to say something that would make all this either real or ... a very elaborate joke.

"You know, I'm not sure yet," she said, in the distracted voice of someone who was actively googling. "Let me make some calls. Just don't give anyone your social or banking info."

"I'm a digital native, old lady—I grew up knowing not to do that!"

"Riiiiiight, that's how you kids keep getting caught up in these naked texting things, because you're all so smart. Just sit tight."

So I sat tight.

For hours.

The rest of the day.

And the next day. At least it was a game day, so I stayed after my shift to watch the end of the game (we lost) in the hopes it would be a distraction, which, to be fair, it was.

Still nothing from Vix.

Marlo summoned me to her office the following day, did not invite me to sit, and just stared at me for an uncomfortably long time.

"Are you firing me?" I asked, when I couldn't take it any longer.

"Firing you?" She tapped her fingers together like a comic villain in a bad movie. "I thought you'd be in here demanding more money."

"Uhh. I mean. I wouldn't turn down more money, but ... why?"

"Because you're a hotshot writer with a feature in Sports Now , obviously."

I blinked. My heart stopped, then started again. "Am I?"

She laughed her startling smoker's laugh. "You sure as hell are, bud. See, Vix told me you weren't the one who submitted your article, and I didn't believe her. I thought you'd managed to pull the wool over, but now I see she's right. So what really happened here, pal?"

"Would you ... believe I have no idea?"

"Nope."

Right. "I guess I'm not totally sure. But I did. I mean. If it's ... what I think it is? Which I guess it must be."

"Yes?"

I could feel blood rising to my face. "I sent it to Orion Broderick. By, uh, courier. Because I didn't want to risk ... it falling into the wrong hands."

Marlo's twisted viper-smile was so much more villainous than Vix ever managed, but I could see how they'd been together back in the day. "Oh yeah? The wrong hands being ...?"

"Uhh. The press? I guess?"

"Ah yes. You didn't want it to land in the hands of the press. It definitely follows on from that why I just got a call asking to verify whether you work for me."

"Wait. You did?"

"Didn't know that, either, hmm? You know, Cleary, most people are a lot better informed about the things happening in their lives than you seem to be."

As much as I wanted to argue, I really couldn't. "That is not inaccurate."

She grinned. "I told them you clean toilets for us."

I exhaled. "Good. That's good. Also not inaccurate." Another, more horrifying thought occurred to me. "You didn't read it, did you?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "Not yet. Why?"

"Oh. Just. It's sort of ... private." I winced. "I mean. Personal. Uhh."

"Personal, private, and soon to be published by a major periodical. By the major sports periodical."

"I guess so." Oh my god. Oh my god . "You couldn't give me a phone number for Orion Broderick, by any chance, could you?"

" Could I? Yep. Do I plan to?" That guttural laugh, followed by her musical voice. "Not on your life, my friend." Something changed in her face, sharpened. "Ah. You sent it to him, and now ..." A sort of magician's poof hand gesture.

Could I say that for sure? I considered Ben Perot and his ease-of-fact-checking. Who else would he have called besides Orion? And Orion could have squashed the whole thing with a flat denial, if he'd wanted. Which of course he wouldn't, because he was the one who'd sent it to them.

I nodded miserably. "He's the only one I showed. Except for the bit I excerpted for Vix."

She leaned all the way back. "The man whose life you overturned by printing an article about his intimate connections has now gone behind your back to publish another article you've written, but this time about your own intimate connections."

"Or lack thereof," I mumbled.

"Oh, Des. If that's not poetic, I don't know what is." She paused. "Of course you could just tell them not to run it. There must be a contract."

There was. Ben Perot had sent it along. I'd signed it and sent it back immediately. "Uhh. It turns out I ... kind of want to be published by Sports Now more than I want to maintain any sense of human dignity?"

She laughed. "In that case, I can't wait to read it. Now tell me about the TikTok and what we're doing with it. One of our"—cue aggressive air quotes—"‘stakeholders' sent me an email demanding to know whether I was going to ‘crack down' on this ‘negative development.'"

"‘Negative development'?" I asked.

"He says that about everything invented after 1959. Sit. Talk. Give me some good language to combat the ignorant with."

I sat, feeling slightly more at ease, and started outlining my two-pronged social media approach. Marlo listened with rapt, even flattering attention.

At least one of us thought I knew what I was doing. It was obscurely encouraging.

I lasted two more days before my nerve broke and I called the Wash and Brew.

"Hello?" Was it the woman I'd seen working there? I couldn't tell by her voice.

"Hi, um, is there any chance that Orion Broderick is in?" I'd considered a lot of openings, but this one seemed strongest. Which just went to show how terrible the other options were.

"No one by that name works here," she said with finality.

"Pleasedon'thangup!" I yelped. "Please. Just." Fuck, fuck, fuck. "Okay, listen, I've been to the Wash and Brew. I had a really good cheese braid, which I didn't know was a thing. And I actually know Orion, so I'm not some psycho, or how else would I think to call there for him, right? I know he sometimes picks up a shift. And sometimes he dances with ballerinas after their ballet practice. I swear, I'm not a creeper."

Silence, but I sensed a listening silence.

"It's just that I really, really need to talk to him, and I don't have his number, and I'm not even sure what his address is, though I've been to the cabin, and I'd just ... really, really like to talk to him."

More silence, but she was there. I could hear dishes and dryers in the background.

"Please," I said. Begged.

"He's been busy lately." Her tone was measured. Not unfriendly, but not friendly either. "Are you the one who crashed into his garage?"

"Well. Yeah. I mean. I wasn't trying to. Also, I told him he could send me the bill; I wasn't an asshole about it. I just don't know how to drive in snow." I sounded defensive AF, which was probably the wrong approach.

But when she spoke again, she sounded very slightly amused. "Orion is off doing this campaign, hon. I can give him a message the next time I see him, if you want."

I slumped. "Could you just ... I don't know. Can you maybe just ask him to call Des? D-E-S , not z ; it just sounds like a z ."

"Does he have your number?"

"I mean, he must, since he gave it to a magazine."

Now she sounded outright entertained. "Oh yeah? Well, then. We don't expect him back for another few weeks, so it'll be sometime after that when I can get in touch with him."

"Okay." Boo. "Thank you."

"Sure thing, Des-with-an- s ." Click.

Cool, I was the laughingstock of Bakers Mine, no biggie. And like, she didn't have the man's phone number? Obviously she must; she could call him to ask him to work, right? But I had to wait until he, what, stopped in for not-coffee?

I knew I had zero right to demand a conversation. I absolutely could have vetoed the story, and he would have known that when he ... did whatever he did to get someone over at Sports Now to look at it.

What had he done? Had he gone through his publicist? Did he have an agent of some kind? Or did he just know people with that air of assurance, like Marlo saying she could give me his number, because in her world, that was a normal thing to have, Orion Broderick's phone number. Marlo had it, the lady at the Wash and Brew had it, but me? No. Nope. Not a thing. He had not deigned to forward me that information.

I couldn't decide whether I was angry or frustrated or merely annoyed. Orion Goddamn Broderick: the wellspring of all my confusion. I'd have to save that line for the next essay.

It took me two entire days to twig to the fact that she, the lady at the Wash and Brew, whose name Orion had definitely mentioned and I'd definitely forgotten, had provided me with a timeline.

We don't expect him back for another few weeks.

I did some basic digging online, and, yep, it seemed like he was currently at an event in Las Vegas, where he was cutting the ribbon on a new soccer field for the youth rec league, after which he was due in LA for one of those press conferences that's trying to act like a soiree but everyone's just giving their preplanned speech fifty times in a row over free hors d'oeuvres.

A couple of other things sprinkled throughout most of the next month, then nothing on his public calendar until mid-September.

We don't expect him back for another few weeks. The words bounced around in my head. That had been two days ago. So roughly two or three weeks from now, the lady at the Wash and Brew thought she might see Orion.

My heart beat a bit faster at the idea of it. Of him. In person. In a real place where he was just a normal person, the way I had known him in the cabin. Not a famous former soccer star doing a ribbon cutting, or the face of a campaign, or an anonymous rich dude who only served as a figure in my grand plan to liberate the soccer gays.

Just a dude. Some guy.

Dammit.

A few weeks. How long would he be home? What was my schedule? How long was the drive from Conquistos to Bakers Mine?

Was I seriously considering driving to Orion's cabin, uninvited, again , in the hopes of ... what? Talking to him? Being told off by him? Maybe just seeing him, not on a screen, not his public face, just him.

It was a terrible idea. Naturally, I researched it, just in case I exhibited the kind of seriously bad judgment that would be necessary to actually do such a daft fucking thing.

Four and a half hours, without traffic.

I had my schedule, which was dictated by the stadium schedule and therefore planned out through the end of the season. I didn't have two days off in a row the week the Wash and Brew lady thought Orion might be back.

But I had days off . I could drive four and a half hours up, see Orion, and drive back in time to get a few hours of sleep before my shift. Technically. With enough coffee to do the job.

Suddenly I remembered his lectures about the evils of caffeine, then his eventual confession that he took it seriously because he'd been hooked on coffee for years and only stopped because he felt it was bad for him. Had I felt clearer after my caffeine intake had diminished? Or maybe I hadn't cut it down for a long enough time. I should try again. What would he say if I told him I was off caffeine? Would he laugh? Would he assume it was a lie? Maybe I should do it just to see what he said.

Or maybe I just missed him and wanted something, some invisible thread, to tie us together.

Impulsivity couldn't carry me through this decision the way it had when I'd sent the thumb drive. Or at least, the way I'd told myself it was doing, even though I could have stopped anytime.

But having weeks in which to think, anticipate, plan, strategize ...

Was it a blessing or a curse? I wasn't sure. But I was increasingly certain that, foolish or not, in three weeks I was going to get in my car and drive east. I added Get oil change, no really, actually do it this time to my mental list of Stuff to Do Before Driving to See Orion.

No, not good enough. Not for this.

I pulled out a notebook and made a real list. On paper. Of Stuff to Do Before Driving to See Orion.