Page 23 of The Refusal

“Nah, I’m going to carry on with this problem.” Something is just out of my reach snagging at the back of my mind. I want the satisfaction of some kind of breakthrough: code that doesn’t throw up any errors.

His chair complains loudly as he pushes back too sharply and pulls himself up. He disappears into the living room next door. The screen in front of me has started to turn into squiggles I can’t separate. I blink up to the wall, my eyes wandering to his computer, the crazy Post-it notes he’s got all over the wall reminding him of passwords and things he needs to do. I try to pull my head back into what I was doing, staring down vacantly at the papers lying across the desk, and as I focus on the haphazard pile between the two screens, I almost do a double-take when I see the wordJanuswritten in his curly writing on a piece of paper jutting out from some others.

My brows knit together, and I tip forward, lifting the sheets up gently and scanning the page. A diagram of some sort is scribbled there in Fabian’s distinctive scrawl. As I lean closer, blood starts thundering in my ears.What is this?

Standing, I move the stack off the one I’m interested in and place them face down, so I can put them back exactly as I found them. I hold my breath, listening for a second like a thief. The sound of distant gunfire comes from the living room.

My eyes crawl over the diagram, mind churning. What am I looking at? It’s not dissimilar to the one Jo was drawing in our meeting. Is this oursystem? Nausea bubbles in my gut. Picking it up and studying it closer, I notice access keys all over it.

I put it on the desk and whip out my phone, snapping several photos and closeups, before carefully placing it back with the other papers on top. I cock my head at the pile. Does it look like it did before? A shout suddenly erupts and I whirl around, shoving my phone in my pocket so fast I almost drop it. But the room is empty, and I hear Fabian curse loudly in the distance. Heart hammering, I sink back down into my seat and blink at the floor, unmoving. I pull up my phone and examine the photographs. Why would he have stuff about my system written down? I stare at the mess of papers, hoping they’ll give up their secrets. It makes no sense.

CouldFabianbe our hacker?The idea keeps trying to push itself into my thoughts. But why? Why would he do it?You could just ask him, a little voice says. My stomach lurches. I don’t want to have that conversation immediately; I’ll sound panicked and accusing. I have to get out of here and examine it properly before I do anything.

The door buzzer startles me out of my thoughts. I listen for a beat, two, realizing belatedly that Fabian won’t have heard it with the noise of the game. So I head down the hall, pressing the button to let the delivery guy in, and in minutes we have warm pizza on the kitchen bench, and I am searching for clean plates and beer. I resolutely put whatever that piece of paper was to the back of my mind. I’ll think about it when I’m home.

14

Jo

Sun streams in over the mismatched desks I bought cheaply at an auction house when I had to find an office fast; I paid so much in rental that I shook with the thought of spending money on anything else. You could pretend the space is boho chic if you were high and lacking mental faculties, but, in all honesty, it’s okay, despite the age of the property and the decrepit furniture. The single room runs all the way along one wall of an old downtown office building. Tall windows let the light stream in, and the battered desks, rescued from an old garment factory by the saleroom, are lined up perpendicular to the wall, like soldiers on parade. The only exception is my workspace, where a desk is placed perpendicular to two desks that face each other. A glass meeting room sits behind me, and a breakout area occupies the other end of the room, with tall shelves, a blue slouchy sofa, and bean bags. Next to it is a small kitchen.

I gaze absently over the top of my screen at the dark blue paint that covers the long wall of the office. Des, James, and I decorated it one Saturday night when we were working late and drunk. I can still see the uneven patches. Des’s tight curly blond hair that he wears in a short crop looks white in the sunlight, and he quirks an eyebrow at me over his glasses, snapping me back into the real world. I’ve been gazing at him for ages. I shake my head in apology, giving him a grin. He’s cute, gay, and everything I could hope for in a right-hand man.

“I know I’m gorgeous eye candy, but stop staring at me,” he says, pretending to concentrate on whatever is on his screen, a small smile hovering on his lips.

I grin. “How is that love life? Caught any guys ogling at you recently?”

He wrinkles his nose. “God no, just my boss, and she’s a woman.” He makes a sort of strange screwed-up-being-sick face and I burst out laughing.

“If you must know”—he pauses for effect, pushing his Robert Marc black frames back up his nose—“I’m fed up with it: the hooking up, the thankless boring dates. Why are people so obsessed with their social media? No one has any fun anymore. If anything exciting happens, everyone stops, so they can take pictures and post it.” He sighs theatrically.

James peers over at him from his desk that runs across the end of our two. “Have you had anyone do that while you’ve been …” He tails off making some obscene gesture with his hand.

I snort. This type of thing always makes me want to start a blog about our crazy office conversations, but who wants that kind of exposure and shit; isn’t that Des’s point?

“Don’t be rude, Jimmy-boy.” Des eyes him over his glasses, trying and failing to look offended. “Anyway, what world do you live in? Ofcourseguys want to do that, but I have a no pics rule. I mean can you imagine thetraumaif Uncle Tommy came across a picture on some site?”

“I agree with you actually,” I interrupt, “about the thankless boring dates. I haven’t managed to find anyone I’d even want a one-night stand with.”

Des’s head snaps back to me, the picture of enthusiasm. “You want me to set you up?”

“With agayguy?”

“Of course not, you dolt.” He makes an impatient face while I grin at him. “But I could find you a gorgeous hetero guy.”

“You don’t know any hot straight guys,” I scoff.

“Janus Phillips?” James slyly lobs a grenade into the whole conversation.

Both of them are staring at me expectantly. I roll my eyes at him, glancing down the row of desks behind Des, but only a couple of people are sitting at their screens.

I rub my nose. “What?”

Des throws his hands up in the air. “Come on, girl.”

I lean into my screen. “Shh!”

Des glances around, before leaning forward and lowering his voice. “No one’s here. And all your dates are as dull as ditchwater.”

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