Page 63 of Best Offer Wins
“The paper that he copied.”
“Oh…”
She chews her bottom lip. I press the flat side of my knife against a garlic clove and feel the satisfying split of its skin.
“Yeah,” she says finally. “I have the email, too, from when I turned it in. That’s what proves my paper came before the book.”
A whole fireworks display is going off in my mind, but I keep my face neutral while I slice the garlic. I don’t want to scare her off.
“Would you be willing to share it?” I ask coolly, my eyes focused on the blade.
She’s silent again as I open a can of olives and pour off the liquid. Then I scoop two tablespoons of capers from a jar and dump them onto my cutting board. My knife hitting wood and Haim on the speakers—another favorite among the youths in my office—are the only sounds.
“I guess I still need to think about it.” Dottie’s voice wavers. “I’m not sure it would be good for me to get dragged back into all that.”
“I get that.” I check the burner under the pot to make sure it’s turned all the way up. “I’m sure I could keep your name out of it, though. Just the existence of the paper, and the fact that someone other than Professor Bradshaw wrote it, would probably be enough.”
I pull a second bottle of wine from the fridge. Another half glass should be enough to wash away the guilt that’s started to nag at me, one more asshole taking advantage of Dottie. I wish I could tell her the truth, I really do. But she’d never understand.
I rinse off a bunch of parsley and set it down on a paper towel. Then I scroll through Ian’s selfies again, to remind myself why this is all worth it.
No house, no baby. No house, no family. No house, no life.
I’m here to protect my dream. Nothing is more important.
22
I see it the second I walk in the door.
Small. Smooth. Black.
A foreign object on the kitchen counter. A thing that doesn’t belong.
I put my keys on the shelf and drop my bags in the entryway, my eyes never leaving it. Two steps more and the word comes into view:Nokia.
It’s a flip phone. Did it time-travel here from 2003?
“Ian?” I call out.
No response. I got on the road early enough that I thought he still might be asleep, but the bedroom door is wide open and the apartment is quiet. He must already be out with Fritter on a morning walk.
I hold the phone in my palm. I don’t think I’ve seen one like this since college. When I flip it open, the screen reveals itself, no passcode required. A piece of technology from a simpler time.
There’s one unread text message. I tap on it before remembering that’s not how these work. When I finally access it, I realize this isn’t a phone after all.
It’s a fucking grenade.
Wish you were still in this bed. Loved meeting Fritter. XO.
It’s from a phone number only—no name attached. It arrived at 8:29 a.m. Fourteen minutes ago.
The phone clatters against the quartz. A sound like microphone feedback fills my head; my hands shake uncontrollably, the epicenter of an earthquake that’s now rolling through the rest of my body. I crouch down on the vinyl plank floors, my breathing fast and shallow. Is this how it feels to hyperventilate? Am I having a panic attack? I force myself to focus on the fake wood grain. Ripples and lines, ripples and lines. A plasticky imitation of nature.
I really do hate these cheap fucking floors.
But they’re helping me now. As I count how many times the grain pattern repeats on each board, the high-pitched ringing dulls, the shaking starts to subside, my breathing steadies.
I tentatively rise to my feet, holding onto the edge of the counter for support. I stare—and stare, and stare—at the phone. What am I supposed to do with it now? It’s a tumor, possibly lethal. But I don’t think I can resist the urge to prod at it and see what kind of ugliness oozes out, no matter how much it might hurt.
