Page 37 of Best Offer Wins
An automatic bounce-back, identical to the one Erika got, populates at the top of my inbox, letting me know the account no longer exists.
But there is at least one more thing I can try.
I text Erika again:Hey, thanks so much for that email. Any chance your IT dept can trace the IP address?
Some IP addresses are impossible to track, but I know for a fact that thePost’s IT desk can at least attempt this. I had them do it for me once, not long after I’d been promoted to reporter. There’d been a kidnapping in northern Virginia that was all over the news, andI’d gotten a tip from someone claiming they’d seen the little boy that very morning, playing in a front yard in rural North Carolina. It could’ve been the story of a lifetime. But the IP address showed the email was a hoax—it had come from Honolulu.
Erika’s response lights up my phone:I guess… this is really only about a restaurant?
Yes, long story. You would be doing me a huge favor. I’ll owe you big time.
The three dots materialize, fade away, then appear again. She can’t figure out what to type.
Finally, she sends:Don’t worry about it. I’ll let you know what they say.
I reply:THANK YOU!
13
Natalie is twenty minutes late, not that I have anywhere else to rush off to.
I’m perched on one of the last two available barstools at Jane Jane. My work bag reserves the one next to me—pretty obviously, I think, but three people have asked if the seat is taken. I’m dying to hear back from Erika, which is why my stomach lurches at the sound of my phone vibrating on the bar.
But it’s only Ian.Hey babe, are we eating together?
Translation:Are you making dinner?
I think we’re eating here, I text back.Order whatever takeout you want.
For all the worried looks and prolonged hugs he gave me before I left this morning, I barely heard from my Very Concerned Husband all day. I took myself to the movies as a distraction while I waited for word from Erika—some arty mess that’s getting Oscar buzz. The movie wasn’t the point anyway. I mainly wanted to disappear into the cold, black void of an empty theater, and stuff my face with fake-buttered popcorn and Junior Mints.
It was after five o’clock by the time the movie ended, so I figured I was in the clear to go home. But then Natalie texted about gettingdrinks, and even she sounds like a better hang than Ian right now so I told him I was going to happy hour with work people. (Good for you!he replied.)
I see her by the door and wave her over. She’s wearing those leggings that look like leather from far away, but up close, they’re really just shiny black spandex.
“Hey, girl!” She leans in to hug me. “Nice job getting a spot.”
She surveys the room while she peels off her jean jacket—no doubt hoping to catch someone checking her out.
“Yeah, I got lucky and grabbed the last two.” (We made these plans too last-minute for me to call in a favor for a table.) “What’s up?”
“Oh, not a lot. Sorry I’m late, I was all the way in Southwest, down on the waterfront, and it took forever to get an Uber.”
I’m pretty sure I know the answer but I ask the question anyway: “What was in Southwest?”
She giggles. Here we go.
“Just a girl I met at the bar last night. Very little chill—she texted me first thing this morning.”
“Ah, something new and different for you.”
She laughs, loudly enough that a few heads turn our way, definitely the goal. The bartender also notices and comes over to take our order. The spicy mezcal thing is on the menu now, so we get a round of those.
“Want any food?” I ask Natalie.
“Oh, no, I’m stuffed. She lives at the Wharf so we ate a late lunch down there.”
I make a face at the mention of DC’s douchiest neighborhood. “She’s not some self-loathing head case, is she?”
