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YOU NEVER KNOW until it’s too late what might be incubating in your body, metastasizing to become the next name you can’t forget. He coughs in her face. She breathes in, mouth wide, anticipating a few droplets to make it up the bridge of her nose, into the inner sanctum of her body, a wanton new host to incubate. She keeps her eyes closed, but it’s clear that she can barely tolerate the anticipation. Their faces inches from each other, he watches as his own saliva lands on her face, a noticeable streak of phlegm on her right cheek. It’s how they don’t hold each other close, how he clears his throat and coughs a second time that makes it quite clear that what’s happening here is an entirely different sort of transaction. That’s him, Will, who has started to come down with something. She opens her eyes after the second cough, can sense the fluids on her face, yet waits a few moments before wiping them on her sleeve. That’s her, Olivia, who would be, by any sense of the term, healthy, which is enough to make her come out of her own skin.
“Think it’s enough?” she asks.
That razor-sharp scraping sound of the folds of his throat rubbing together, he offers her a third, “Just in case.”
She grins, says nothing more. Eyes once again closed, it’s a delicate sort of intimacy shared. Will once again coughs in her face, and then he spits into his palm, the bright yellow phlegm produced is a telltale sign of something on the horizon.
“Took two days,” he says, as if reading her mind.
“I see,” she says, looking at the drying streak on the sleeve of her hoodie. “I’m forgetting the last time I crashed.”
That gets his attention, balling his fist, the fluids pressed shut against the folds of his palm. “How does it feel?”
“I feel vulnerable,” she confesses. “I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s like everything is…”
Will reaches for the answer like it’s the only thing he’s ever known. “Like it’s too vivid. Like you’re watching TV with the contrast way up.”
“Way way up,” she says, nodding. Olivia digs her nails into her wrist, the anxiety palpable enough to keep her from sitting still. “You said it took two days?”
Their bodies almost touching, depending on the angle of the capture, they could be mistaken for something else. Look closely and you’ll see that they avoid even the accidental touch. His hands rest close to his chest, her arms wrap around her own body. They can feel the heat emanating from each other, yet maybe that’s not actually true. Olivia cocks her head to the side, “Fever?”
He’s quick with the draw, “Checked a half hour ago. 100.1F.”
She bites her lower lip, “Hmm. Seems off.”
That strikes a nerve, causing him to look away. “It’s definitely something. I assure you.”
“I don’t doubt it,” she says, keen to his vulnerability. “But after two days… this is just another Chris. Maybe a Jeff.”
Will exhales, causing him to gag slightly. He lets whatever made the trek up his throat roll off his tongue and drip into his lap. More yellow phlegm, no signs of a reddish speckle. The way he won’t come out and say it proves it all. Whatever he has, it’s nothing more potent than when they dealt with Chris. Ah, Chris. That was at least two weeks ago. Perhaps in line with when they first met. Mild fever, extensive cough, some malaise, nothing spectacular. He made it work though, really laid into it, hoping that it might worsen before the symptoms let up and his body fought Chris off, a thing of the past.
“It can be enough,” he says.
“I hope it can be enough.”
Enough. That’s always changing. Chris offered him four days, maybe five. Chris didn’t even bother with Olivia. There have been plenty of others, all of them conquered, but there’s added pressure between them because since they’ve met, there hasn’t been a name that stuck.
Olivia remembers being bedridden for almost a month. Will thought Lars was going to finally end his life. But it didn’t. Neither succumbed and instead, as they like to call it, they conquered both, and then they went searching and found each other.
“I do feel a little different.” A statement that’s designed to make her feel better. The reality is, this doesn’t feel like anything new. Will’s going to kick this by the end of the weekend. He’ll cough, feel a little lightheaded, ooze phlegm and bile, but there’ll be a swift move for recovery. “I think I’m going to lay down.”
There he goes, standing up and making a show of it, knees aching and his back arching in a manner that’s supposed to read as painful, when really, he feels mostly fine. Just a little dizzy, maybe. The symptoms could be psychosomatic.
“Okay,” Olivia says, watching him walk into the other room.
This apartment is big enough for them both, though he did tell her that he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to afford it. Move in. It’s better than living at home. There wasn’t much more to it than that. Olivia walked into this apartment with a bag. It’s over there, on one of the dining chairs. Will closes the bedroom door, though doesn’t lock it. Olivia seems to think about it. What are the chances that they stay close, but not touching, never touching?
Instead, she remains there on the floor, cross-legged, staring at the streak on her sleeve.
Breathing through her mouth, she whispers, “I hope so.”
Forcing a cough, it comes out flimsy, obviously fake.
Olivia rests her head in her hands. Once again, shutting her eyes. She snaps into motion, instantly defiant of her initial choice to remain in the common area. On her feet, she paces around the apartment, eventually finding her perch near one of the kitchen windows.
When they first met… that’s an entire story, one that begins with loss and goes from there. Her nails finally draw blood from her wrist. It takes her a minute to notice. When she does, she examines how the blood drips down her hand, in between her fingers. It reminds her of Will, the first time they tried. A little cut, nothing more, and take it in. It tastes familiar, slightly metallic. It looks harmless, sending her into a frenzy.
Olivia goes into the medicine cabinet, retrieving a thermometer.
Pressing the reset button, it beeps. She doesn’t bother cleaning it before placing it in her mouth and she waits, the entire time staring back at her reflection in the mirror, never once breaking contact.
The thing about Will is that he always had one foot in and one foot out the door. Going to school for business, which then ended up with him majoring in accounting. He went along with every recommendation made that would position him for a higher tax bracket. Where did it get him? It got him a job as a financial advisor for a Fortune 500 company, a job that he obtained because of the various opportunities that go along with attending a prestigious school with an excellent reputation.
There’s a whole lot that happens between graduation and his ninth year at the company, mere days after he turned 31, when it all came to light
A different kind of light. Think of it more like a burdensome blow. Will’s the bored, restless, anxious type. He spends his workdays in a partial daze produced by medications he takes for anxiety. When those don’t work, he has other pills to combat his paranoia. All through his tenure at the company, a company that he prefers to forget, never again to hear its name even whispered in passing, Will works hard, but never hard enough; he makes the cut, but never goes for the kill. It’s all he can do to keep up what he's really doing, the scam that inflicted that heavy blow.
It goes something like this, based entirely on what little is left to be remembered, what little has been recorded. Most of the documents have been discarded, though Will’s termination remains on record, something he can’t duck, not now and not in another nine years.
“Hello?” It’s a phone call from the secretary directing a call from the CFO. Odd because everyone in the company prefers email or text. “Uhh sure.”
The CFO starts things off abruptly, making it clear that they both know what this is about. “I’m finding it hard to believe that you even thought you’d get away with this.”
Will should feel something. He probably did feel something, the weight of the blow landing sudden and fierce. They know. They all know. Six figures redirected to a “mysterious” account. Money that wasn’t his strategically stolen. All that money, perhaps thought to be put to better use, swiped, and used for, well, nothing much really.
Could it be that Will simply wanted the rush, the thrill of the take?
Why did you do it?
The CFO never bothers to ask. Instead, it’s all by the book. The amount stolen, “It’s upwards of $250k. Wow. I don’t even know how…” After the sticker shock wears off, and it wears off quickly, the CFO paints the next 24 hours, the next 48, and then finally the rest of his life. “You can do some real jail time for this.”
There is no version of this story where Will doesn’t buckle and beg, and yet there’s nothing he can do. He’s in this alone.
Why isn’t Chase, his confidant, the very same guy that conceived the loophole and worked with Will night and day, often chatting fondly about anything over the phone while he did his side of the transaction, Chase from the opposite coast, both at work during odd hours to make it all work… yeah, that Chase: Why isn’t he mentioned?
Chase is never named because he is the one that reveals the details, framing Will, a petty little thing that wasn’t anything more than Chase suddenly understanding the magnitude of the backlash and needing out fast.
When everything is on paper and reads of obvious deceit, Will is escorted by security guards into a conference room where he meets with people he’s never met before, agents there to interrogate, cross-examine, and inevitably procure the full worth of this revelation.
“I don’t know,” he says,
when they ask him why he did it.
After a few minutes of continued pressure, Will comes up with a better answer, “It seemed like a waste not to give it a try.” Piques their interest, and it leads the investigation beyond what will become of Will and into the fatal security flaw that he (and Chase) had exploited to pilfer all those funds. By the conclusion of a single day, Will is washed up, though mysteriously given a pardon. No charges pressed, no jail time.
Afterwards he would wonder why. He’ll never work again, not for any major company. They saw to that. When every job application begins with references, Will has only the one, and they would willingly sum up his character as “fraud, treason.”
He won’t ever fully know why he didn’t end up in jail, and some days, especially as his savings continue to dwindle, he’ll wish he had ended up behind bars. They used the information, the fatal flaw, to their advantage. Will all washed up, unable to show his face, his world shrinks from the office and the nightly happy hour at that bar down the street to his one-bedroom apartment and a steady diet of movies. That is, until he comes across Gerry, which leaves him so consumed and preoccupied, full body spasms and relentless shivers, painful vomiting and decimating lethargy. He doesn’t come to, fully conquered, for over a month. When he does, it’s like he’s awakened from a nightmare, the world and everything in it suddenly quieter, less menacing.
He can only describe it as feeling “light,” and it becomes the only thing he ever wants to feel ever again.
The thing about Olivia is that she never really had a chance. At age 25, she’s never been able to be herself, going from parents that seemingly directed her every move, to a partner that had been initially so supportive, the love of her life, only to become a possessive and manipulative menace, effectively making her life a living hell.
There’s so much that goes on behind closed doors, but all that can be discovered of her story is stripped from social media, discovered through old blog entries written mostly to herself.
They go as far back as age 15, entries that can only be retrieved using the Wayback Machine. Olivia describes herself as shy, but really, she just wants “to have friends that I can care about and that can care about me!” There’s a lot of talk about being an artist but when she attempts to go to school as an English major, her parents forbid the path. “My mom says I’ll be homeless in a day if I do what I want. She says that what I want is wrong. She slapped me across the face when I tried to explain to her how passionate I am about literature, maybe becoming a teacher. She tells me that I’m not talented enough. She says that I should study what I need to study. Life is about doing what you need to do to support yourself, not doing what you want.”
Olivia’s relationship with her mother is strained, but her interactions with her father are even worse. “I thought dad might understand because he taught history for like, I don’t know how many years. Instead, he closed the door, told me to show him my writing. I was so nervous and didn’t know what to show, but I had a few short stories that
I had been working on. I chose to show him those. They need work yeah, I’m still learning, but he tosses them aside after a few pages laughing and then doesn’t even care that I’m crying when he starts lecturing me about how tough the world is. Everyone’s better than you, he tells me. Then he makes it personal and says that he didn’t raise a failure and refuses to let his daughter descend into mediocrity. I try to defend myself, saying that it’s my life and my dream. He sees it as me talking back to him and pushes me off my chair. I still have a big bruise on my left thigh.”
Raised by strict principles passed down from generations of cutthroat parenting, Olivia grows up an only child and the sole obsession of her parents, every single iota of respect, as parents, coming from how well she does in school and in every extracurricular activity. So when she goes to school for computer science, struggling to pass any of her classes, Olivia decides that she’ll go home for the holidays. Her body takes a few months to fully recover after the beating she receives from her father for not one but three Ds and an F. No amount of explanation saves her from physical punishment. Her second semester, the blogs become infrequent and really there’s only one where she talks about how much of a rush it was skipping class. ...
