Now she laughed. “You’re too much.”
“Actually, I’m not enough. That’s why we’ll both appreciate Alonso. He’s a nice guy. And he’ll take care of everything I can’t.”
“If you say so.”
He better. “He will. And he’s waiting for you, so…”
“Yeah.”
Despite that, she didn’t budge. I wasn’t sure if she was scared to move forward or sad to leave me behind. I assumed it was both. I hoped it was just the latter. I think it’s time to admit that with Harmony, my foothold was weak. She could move me to good or bad places. But somehow I’d managed to tell myself that given the weight of this assignment, anyone in Harmony’s role would have the same emotional leverage over me. I reminded myself that for all the good things about her, she was still just a nineteen-year-old kid with a cracked skull.
“You know what I noticed about you, Scott?”
“What did you notice about me?”
“You never really touch anyone. I mean most people when they talk, they like hold an arm or pat a back. Hell, even Hunta did that shit with me yesterday and he knows what I’m about to do to him. And when I was crying today…I don’t know. I ain’t criticizing you. I think that’s just a part of being you. All I’m saying is I noticed. That’s all.”
I didn’t take it as criticism at all. I held my left hand up to her, as if I were making a pledge. Catching my drift, she pressed her right palm to mine and then closed her grip. Her hand was tiny, like a child’s. And dark. Never in my life had I seen such dark fingers contrasted against the back of my hand. It was fascinating to look at, like a complex variation of the yin-yang.
I tightened my grip. “This is your last day of being anonymous. Tomorrow there are going to be a lot of people whispering your name. By Thursday you’ll hear it from every direction. By Friday you’ll need a hat and glasses to go to the store. And by Monday you won’t be able to go to the store.”
Demurely, she looked down at her knees but squeezed my hand harder.
“You and I are going to conquer the world,” I said. “You better be ready.”
“You better be with me.”
“I won’t let you down.”
“You better not.”
It would be all too easy for the audience to make a big deal about the brief and feather-light kiss that Harmony and I shared. It would be all too convenient to pan the camera, add a soundtrack, and frame our exchange in some broad romantic context. It would also be a mistake. This wasn’t romance, despite the appearance. This wasn’t even attraction, in a physical sense. This was all energy. We were two ends of the same battery, positive and negative, bound together in a symbiotic quest for power and glory. When our hands clasped tight, we were simply sealing the casing. When our lips touched, we were only sharing the spark of ambition. It was electric, dynamic, and utterly fantastic. We might as well have been kissing the Bitch.
The whole transaction, three seconds at best, was neither hot or cold. It was merely sweet. It was one of the sweetest moments of my adult life. How it looked to others, how it played in the theater, was not my concern.
Still blushing, Harmony undid her seat belt and opened the door.
“I’m gonna miss this car,” she joked.
“I’m going to miss the smell of smoke in here,” I teased back. “Someday.”
With a mischievous sneer, she pulled a cigarette from her shirt pocket and stashed it behind my right ear. She stepped outside.
“He’s on the eleventh floor,” I reminded her. “Alonso Lever.”
She closed the door and peeked in through the window. “I know.”
As she turned around, I called after her. “Hey!”
With a roll of her neck, Harmony indulged me with a final glance.
“You holla?”
She smirked. “I holla.”
With that, she walked away for good. I tossed the cigarette, raised the window, and then called Alonso from my new cellular.
“She’s on her way up.”
“Excellent,” he declared. “I can’t wait. And have no fear. My staff and I will treat her like royalty.”
“Just be up front with her, okay? She’s going to hear enough bullshit. She won’t need more.”
“I’ll be her oasis of honesty.”
“Okay. Good. But at the same time, don’t refer to her final move as a confession. It’ll only freak her out. Just call it a retraction. Or better yet, it’s ‘clearing Hunta’s name.’ I know I’m splitting hairs—”
“I’m a lawyer, my friend. I’ve split finer hairs than that.”
“I’m sure. Now tonight or tomorrow, you should be getting a call from Gail Steiner from the Times. And probably Andy Cronin from the Associated—”
“We went over this already. It’s all under control.”
I pressed my temple. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just being anal.”
“Scott, you’ve done a man’s job. You designed and built this machine in record time. But a body can only work so hard. Go home. Take a hot bath. You deserve it.”
Holy shit. He was right. After four days of running around like a maniac, I had finally finished off my massive task list. I had dotted every “I,” crossed every “T,” planted every seed. Now I had absolutely nothing to do but stare at the ground and wait for sprouts.
“Just be good to her, Alonso.”
“Go home.”
I should. It was already 3:30. By the time I’d get back to Brentwood, Madison will have been waiting outside my door for almost an hour. I didn’t have much of a choice, but all the same, she wouldn’t take the abandonment well. Congratulations, Slick. You just fucked your intern.
I sped home, spending most of the drive thinking about Harmony. She had kissed me in the way a woman would kiss the plastic surgeon who was about to make her beautiful. And the surgeon? Well, if he loved his job as much as I loved mine, maybe he was just as grateful. Maybe he was simply kissing the woman who was about to become his greatest work. His landmark achievement.
His death ray?
Screw that. I had finally earned some real downtime. I wasn’t going to waste it on self-analysis. Besides, I was already late for my next drama. I didn’t mind dealing with it. Truth be told, I could use the distraction.
13. STORIES FOR KIDS
The first time I’d returned home from Alonso’s office, on Monday night, it was 1:10 in the morning. I was hysterically tired. On the ride back, I had read aloud excerpts from Godsend, the futuristic love story with a spiritual bent. Doug and I were lost in a fit of red-faced guffaws, like a pair of stoned teenagers. Doug was laughing at the prose, which, like the author, brimmed with vainglorious eloquence. I, on the other hand, was simply laughing at Doug’s laugh: a high-pitched, whistle throated wheeze that could have come straight from the mouth of a cartoon dog. It was a silly trip, and I was thankful when it ended.
A normal person would have gone straight to the toothbrush, then to bed. But I have this thing about e-mail. It’s a sick compulsion with me, as inexplicable as it is incurable. I knew that if I didn’t scratch the itch, my laptop would moan at me all night. So on it went.
I had only one new item. The message was short, cute, and increasingly bizarre. Like the author.
Dear Scott,
I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the term “pod person,” so I’ll explain. A pod person is a humanoid replica produced by an alien plantform (or pod, if you will), designed to replace the man or woman on which it was copied. Although physically indistinguishable from the original body-snatched human, these pod people are recognizable by their sudden cheerful attitude, tireless energy, and extremely goal-oriented behavior.