I Have Lost My Way(40)

But here he is, possibly participating in a crime. What if he gets arrested? What would people think? What would his parents say? Would they still love him?



* * *



— — —

The file is too big. It won’t let her email it. Freya knows you’re supposed to compress the file or something, but she doesn’t remember how.

Harun is just staring at her.

“Are you going to help me or not?” she asks.



* * *



— — —

Harun pictures Abu coming to the police station to fetch him, the felony arrest on his record. The shame in his father’s eyes.

Though if he got arrested, he wouldn’t be able to leave tomorrow. He’d have an excuse not to get on that plane.

As mentioned, a coward.



* * *



— — —

Freya is growing frustrated. She tries to attach the file to an email again. When it doesn’t work, she smacks the machine.

“Shit,” she says.



* * *



— — —

Harun watches Freya, knowing it won’t work; the file is too large, and anyway, there will be a copy in the sent folder, and even if she thinks to delete that, the digital footprint will remain on the server.

His insides are itchy with frustration and impatience, and seeing Freya’s expression, he understands that he’s feeling exactly as she is. He’s feeling it on behalf of her, as if for one moment he has stepped out of his own problems and into someone else’s, and frankly, it’s a relief. Particularly when this is a problem he can solve.

Freya tries once again to attach the enormous file. This time, Harun steps between her and the computer.

“You must do things the proper way,” he says, pulling out his keychain, which contains his house keys, his school ID fob, and the small flash drive he purchased expressly to store photographs, texts, and emails from James in a safe place. But he never did. He was too scared he’d be found out, so the drive remains empty.

He inserts the drive into the port. The sound of laughter—Nathaniel’s laughter, intermingled with the assistant’s—flutes out from the lobby through the closed door.

“Sounds like he’s flirting well,” Harun says.

Freya frowns, and Harun feels bad. Now that he has stepped out of himself for five seconds, he realizes something has been crackling between those two all day. “Don’t worry,” Harun adds. “He likes you too.”

“You think?” Freya asks, and the yearning in her eyes is so familiar, he’s no longer sure if it’s her yearning or his pumping through his veins.

A phone rings: Hayden’s office extension, as well as the assistant’s desk. Freya glances at the caller ID.

“It’s Hayden’s cell,” she whispers.

“If the assistant doesn’t know we’re here, neither does he,” Harun says, suddenly full of smooth confidence.

“I wouldn’t count on that. Hayden sees everything,” she says.

“No one sees everything.” He pauses for a minute. “Except maybe God.”

“Hayden is God.” The line on the phone blinks. “Hurry.”



* * *



— — —

While the assistant is on the phone, Nathaniel hears her mention Freya. “Been and gone.” She looks at Nathaniel a little suspiciously, and he lets loose his brightest smile yet.

“No, she didn’t say what she wanted.” A pause. “She left without waiting. I don’t control her.” A defensive whine in her voice. “All right, all right. I’ll get her back.” She hangs up the phone and peers up at Nathaniel, not smiling anymore.

“Where did Freya go?” she asks him.

He may be a bad flirt, but he’s an expert liar. “Not sure.” He pulls out his phone. “Let me call her.” He excuses himself to the waiting area and calls the only number stored in his phone.

“Tell me something good,” his dad says.

“Hey, it’s me,” he says. He speaks to the void, as he’s done so often these past few weeks. Only it doesn’t feel like the ghost of his father he’s talking to. Because in his mind, he’s talking to Freya and Harun.



* * *



— — —

    “How much longer?” Freya asks.

“Not long. Transferring the file.”

Freya watches the progress, itchy with suspense: 10 percent, 18 percent.

26 percent.

Her hearts starts to speed up.

43 percent.

“Hurry,” she says to the heedless computer.

The office phone line goes dark, then lights up again.

68 percent.

“Come on,” she urges.

“It’s a computer,” Harun says. “It can’t understand you.”

The computer ticks to 73 percent and just stops.

“What happened?” Freya asks. “Is it stuck?”

“It’s not stuck. It’s just processing,” Harun says.

“Make it process faster,” Freya cries, giving the computer a good whack.

“You must do things the proper way,” he says again.