The Futures(88)

I kept waiting for the SEC to come knocking, to ask the question I’d never answered. What did you mean, you didn’t keep it a secret? I had blurted it out without thinking, and they treated it like a throwaway. A pathetic, confused, nonsense lie. But it was the truth; I hadn’t kept it a secret. I was the whole reason the SEC was there, shining a bright light on the dirty deal. No one ever asked about the leak. Maybe they always assumed it was me, the young analyst gone nervous and blabby, or maybe they just didn’t care. It was a paltry defense in any case. I had told somebody, but not the right somebody.

One day in March I lay down for a nap after lunch, intending to sleep off another hangover. When I woke up, it was late—past 8:00 p.m. I’d slept for almost five hours. On my way to the elevator, I passed the other analysts, gathered near Roger’s desk.

“Steve’s riding you that hard?” one of them was saying to him.

“Go without me,” Roger said. “I’ve got at least six hours left here.”

Roger’s face was puffy and pale, exhaustion and caffeine lending a nervous twitch to his features. But when he noticed me approach, he grinned like his old self. “Look,” he said. “Peck can take my place. Make him pick up the tab. He’s rich.”

Everyone had heard about the $20,000. They knew I had to turn it over, but it was fodder nonetheless. Roger laughed. “Still can’t take a joke, huh, Peck?”

“You can come along if you want,” one of the other analysts mumbled, a residual politeness kicking in. The group walked slow, including but not quite acknowledging my presence. No one knew what to say to me. I glanced back over my shoulder at Roger. He was staring so closely at his screen that it looked like he was going to tip over. Just as I must have looked, so many nights during the previous year. It was like coming across a photograph of myself that I didn’t remember being taken.

When had I become so invisible? I thought as the elevator descended and the analysts traded stories I knew nothing about. When had I become an afterthought? Other people made mistakes and were forgiven. I didn’t know how much longer I could endure this. I knew it was fucked up, but I missed Michael. Or maybe it was more that I missed the way Michael made me feel. Like I was part of something bigger.

The neon sign for McGuigan’s glowed ahead of us in the darkness. It was the same as always—the stale beer smell, the jukebox, the crack of cue against billiard ball, the rattle of ice. But before I could follow my coworkers to the usual booth in the back, my eye caught another familiar sight.

“Evan?” she said. Her eyes wide, uncertain. Almost regretting it.

Then she smiled.

I nursed my Guinness. It wasn’t until late, long after my coworkers had gone, leaving bills stuck to the damp table, that Maria came and sat next to me.

“Do you want another?” she asked, pointing at my empty glass.

“I’m okay.” For the first time in a while, I didn’t feel like getting drunk.

“Sorry. I meant to come over earlier. It was a crazy night. How are things?”

“Good, I guess.”

Good? I missed the way things had been between us in the fall, but I didn’t know how to go back to that. I doubted it was possible.

“I have to say something,” Maria said at last. “I should have said this a long time ago. I’m sorry things got kind of weird when I started dating Wyeth. That was bitchy, bringing him in like that. I should have told you.”

“Oh,” I said. “That. That’s fine. You didn’t owe me an explanation.”

“That’s not true. I really liked you, Evan.” Her voice wavered. “I just—I kept waiting. You know? I kept waiting for you to make a move or do something or say something. Eventually it seemed like you didn’t want anything like that. And Wyeth was cute, and he asked me out. So I said yes.”

She shrugged. “You seemed pissed afterward. Then you didn’t come around for a long time. But you’re back now, and—I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I don’t know what’s going on in your life or why you’re back, but I want us to be friends again. I’d like that. If you want to.”

I stared down at the bar, blinking, willing the seams to hold together.

“Are you okay?” she asked in a soft voice.

I shook my head. “God, Maria. I’m sorry. I’m a jerk.”

“No, Evan. I shouldn’t have put you in that position. I—”

“No. I’m an asshole. I didn’t make a move last year because I had a girlfriend.”

“A girlfriend?”

“I should have said something. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, my God. That makes so much sense. A girlfriend!” She laughed, then stopped. “Wait. Did you say ‘had’?”

“Yeah. We broke up a while ago.”

“Oh.”

“It was complicated. It’s better that it’s over.” Was that true? Was that what I really thought? “It had been dragging itself out for a long time.”

“What happened?”

“Well,” I said. “How much time do you have?”

The next morning, as I passed Roger’s desk, I noticed that he was wearing the same clothes as the day before. Shirt wrinkled, tie stained with oil, smelling and looking like he hadn’t slept in days. It was the first morning in a long time that I had woken without a hangover. I’d picked up breakfast, which I never did, the toasted bagel radiating heat through the white bag. I stopped next to Roger’s desk.