The Elizas: A Novel(50)

“Oh, the pain!” Desmond wails.

My gaze darts to the desk. There is a computer monitor, an appointment book, a bodybuilding magazine, some forms. I spy an Android phone sitting near a dirty black messenger bag that’s covered with patches for a bunch of eco-conscious action groups. I reach over the desk and grab it.

The screen is still lit up from Leonidas’s use, which is a boon because that means I don’t have to guess at a passcode. I stare at a line of apps. Fingers shaking, I press the phone icon and navigate to Received Calls. Names pop up on the screen with corresponding dates and times. First I look at his calls made and received on Saturday night, when I was in Palm Springs, and even on Sunday, when I was in the hospital. There are a few of them, but it’s hard to know where Leonidas was when they were made. It’s something I hadn’t quite worked out in my head when making this plan. This phone isn’t going to just give up the information. I’d need access to wireless towers, and I had no idea how the hell to get that sort of data.

“You tripped over your shoe?” Leonidas is saying in the hallway.

Then I try to remember the exact time I’d seen Leonidas at the Cat Show on Wednesday. Morning? Early afternoon? I scroll back. Numbers swim before my eyes. Some of Leonidas’s callers are names he’d keyed into his contacts—Mom, Dad, someone named Burt. Other entries are just numbers. I fumble for my own phone and take a picture of the whole screen of numbers, cringing at the fake “click” sound when the camera snaps. I do the same thing with his Outgoing calls—he’d made quite a few of those, too.

“Let’s see if you can stand on it,” Leonidas is bellowing to Desmond.

“I’ll never walk again,” Desmond is saying. “I’m done for.”

There’s scuffling in the hallway. Grunts. “Up we go,” Leonidas says.

I drop his phone and hurry out from behind the desk. I’m out of the office by the time he and Desmond emerge around the corner. In the silent hall, my heart is a loud drumbeat in my ears. I breathe slowly, willing it to settle down, but it rockets on and on and on.

A few moments later, the door opens. “I can call an ambulance,” Leonidas is saying.

“Oh, I’ll make do,” Desmond says weakly.

“Really. It’s no troub—” Leonidas starts to say, but Desmond shuts the door in his face.

He turns to me with an expression I can’t quite decipher; it almost seems like he might throw up. “Let’s go.” He grabs my hand and we hurry down the hall into the stairwell. Our shoes clonk noisily down the metal stairs. In the landing, we cock our heads to listen for the door above to make sure Leonidas isn’t following us. All I hear is a small dog barking somewhere in the distance.

In the parking lot, Desmond bends at the waist. “I just can’t believe I did that. That poor kid. I lied to him. He’s probably worried about me now. He’s probably going to call an ambulance.”

“It’s fine. You’re fine.”

“And I said I was getting calf implants.” His voice is rising. “What if something happens to my calves as a sort of karmic revenge?”

“What, like you get calf cancer?” I ask. Desmond looks horrified. I pet his arm. “Don’t worry. Calf cancer isn’t actually a thing.”

Sweat is pouring down his face. “That just felt so wrong.”

“Get a grip. You’re the one who wanted to come, and I gave you an out. I thought you’d be braver about all of this, considering you’re a knight or whatever.”

“A Caesar.” Desmond sounds miserable. And then, to himself: “I can’t believe I lied!”

We walk back to the Whole Foods parking lot in silence. I’m such an asshole for dragging him into this. Desmond unlocks the Batmobile with a shaky hand. “You don’t have to drive me home,” I tell him.

His head sweeps up. “But how will you get where you need to go?”

I show him the Uber app. “I’ll be okay.”

Desmond places his hands in his pockets. An ambulance siren whoops in the distance, and I can tell he’s getting worried that Leonidas is the one who’s called for it.

He laughs, wearily. “I guess I’m just not cut out for undercover work, huh?”

“Nah, you did great.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. I got what I needed.”

“Ah. Well, that’s what I was here for.”

We look at each other. With a hopeful smile on his face, he almost looks cute. If he shaved and had a haircut and plucked those eyebrows, the raw material is there. I don’t even mind his shortness, really. And his hands, though little, are well made. Pretty, even. There’s something sort of endearing about his extreme worry about calf cancer. It’s the sort of thing I’d worry about, too.

I’m keenly aware, suddenly, of the hair whipping in my face, of how it feels like my nostrils are flaring like a bull’s, and that my bra can be seen through my sweater. I can almost imagine walking over to him and wrapping my arms around his shoulders. Maybe I should.

A honk cuts through the air, and we jump. “Anyway,” I say quietly, lowering my eyes. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Desmond bows. “Let me know if you uncover any interesting information from the phone calls.”