The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken (40 page)

“All set, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

“Because we’ll need to seal off the apartment and wait for the judge to issue a search warrant.”

This can’t be real. My world can’t possibly be imploding again. How many times can this happen? My karma can’t be that horrendous.

The pair I presumed to be detectives turn out to be FBI agents. We sit down on Oscar’s kitchen stools, where I first allowed myself to consider the possibility that he might be the man of my dreams, and they ask me all the same questions I’ve already answered for Max. After we go through all that, they ask detailed questions about what transpired tonight. They’ve already procured the security tape from downstairs. It’s after five when they decide I don’t know anything else of interest and put me in a taxi.

I can’t decide if I’m wide awake or utterly exhausted by the time I let myself into my apartment. Maybe I’m not totally out of it, because the first thing I notice is that my plants could use some water. I realize that while I won’t be able to sleep, there’s no way I’ll ever be able to do anything at work today but damage my career. I’ve never, even after my break up with Brendan, taken a true mental health day, and I don’t feel the slightest bit guilty as I dial Carol’s assistant, but by the time I hear the beep, I’ve decided I’ll just go in late.

After leaving the message, I see seven missed calls from Angela. The last time she tried, at quarter to one, she left a voicemail. “Hey it’s me,” her familiar voice chirps. “I have big news. Call me. I’ll be up at six.” She sounds upbeat, like it’s good news.

Six o’clock is only ten minutes away. I have to admire Angela’s stamina. From what little I understand, most pregnant women would not be able to be stay up after midnight and then haul themselves out of bed in time to hit the first spin class of the day.

Suddenly I feel really icky. I undress and pour myself into the shower, and try to relax under the steam and almost-too-hot water. After pulling on my favorite flannel pajamas and poodle slippers, I glance at my watch and decide it’s safe to call Angela back. She sounds surprisingly chipper and properly caffeinated when she answers on the second ring.

“I got your message,” I say. “You won’t believe the night I had.”

“You won’t believe the night I had, either.” She’s talking fast, to make sure she gets to share her news first. Maybe it’s fair, since she’s the one who was stalking me all night. But she can’t possibly have anything as big as the nightmare that is now my life.

“I got a marriage proposal, and I promised to think about it and let him know today.”

“What do you mean,
you’re thinking it over
? I thought he made your heart do cart wheels. Maybe you do love him. And isn’t a marriage proposal usually one of those questions you answer on the spot? Didn’t you say the other day that Claudio is your ideal guy, or something to that effect? Are you sure this isn’t some kind of conspiracy by your pregnancy hormones to torpedo your happiness?” I don’t mean to push her, but I’m seriously, and I believe legitimately, worried that Angela’s instinct to run from commitment is not serving her well in this particular moment. Once I start peppering her with questions, I can’t seem to stop myself until she cuts me off.

“Claudio didn’t ask me. Kevin did.”

“Excuse me?” The world turns under my feet and I almost drop the phone as I grab the kitchen counter for support. “Why would Kevin ask you to marry him?”

“I know, shocking, right? He said because we’re friends who could get along well enough, because my baby should have a father in its life, and because you’ll never have him anyway.”

This sounds so unlike either Kevin or Angela that I have to suppress the urge to scream that aliens have taken away my friends. Instead I ask, with as little trepidation in my voice as I can manage, “Was he drunk?”

“A little, but Zoë, seriously,
don’t
worry about it. What seemed like a plausible idea at one in the morning sounds preposterous now that I’m talking about it with you. It’s my hormones. They’re making me a lunatic.”

“Well, that’s good, at least. I mean the part about seeing clearly now, not about pregnancy making you nuts.” I realize I’ve been holding my breath. “So you’re not marrying Kevin. What about Claudio?”

“That’s what brought on the whole Kevin side-drama. Now that Claudio’s had a few days to digest the news, he thinks he’s happy, but he keeps saying that his family will be scandalized. I got the vibe that part of him wants to stick around, but just as large a part of him feels the urge to bolt.”

“So what does that have to do with Kevin?” Claudio’s behavior doesn’t sound like a complete disaster to me, especially considering they’re not what you’d call a longstanding couple. But now Angela sounds nearly despondent. I should be more sympathetic. Her life has suddenly disregarded all her carefully laid plans and she’s having to adjust at light speed. Still, I’m thrown by the whole threatening to marry Kevin thing. Which she’s not going to do, so I need to get over it. And quickly. It was his drunken stupidity, combined with her crazy hormones, and it means nothing.

“I told Claudio to let me know when he’s sure he’s happy.”

“Don’t you think that’s kind of harsh? You just totally changed the guy’s life. Whether he stays with you or not, he’ll have this little kid here in New York. And if he decides he’s going to be involved, he’ll have to kiss his carefree bachelor existence goodbye.”

“My life is changing way more than his,” Angela says, suddenly sounding irritated. “I’ve checked with a lawyer, and even though Claudio has that huge trust fund, if he decides to leave the country, I have virtually no chance of seeing a penny in terms of child support. NYU might not be enough to hold him here if he gets the impulse to bolt.”

“But if he thinks the baby is good news, though unexpected, maybe he’s not about to disappear.”

“We’ll see. I wonder if I’ll hear from him today. Anyway, when he said he had to leave after dinner, I felt so lost and
empty
. Like nothing I’ve ever felt before. When you didn’t answer, I went over to Kevin’s. After he tossed back five beers while watching me sip herbal tea, he threw out the crazy idea of us getting hitched. And I laughed at him, but in the scary hours of the morning, it started to seem less frightening than single motherhood. You know I’ve had the recurring single mom nightmare since college. But I’m going to tell him no. Today. As soon as we hang up. So please don’t freak out. Claudio might still come around and when and if he does, I’ll face a tougher question.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m scared of doing it alone, but I’m also scared of tying myself down to him so fast. It’s been a wonderful couple of months, but that’s all it’s been. We haven’t had a chance to see what happens after the honeymoon phase.”

“Well, maybe it’s good that babies take nine months to make.”

“Right. Can you believe it’s almost 6:30? I’m sorry to drone on and on. It’s like I can’t stop myself lately. What happened with Oscar anyway? I feel like the world’s biggest heel for not asking sooner.”

I can’t help myself. As soon as Angela’s up to date on the drama in my life, and I’m dressed and somewhat caffeinated, I march across the hall and bang on Kevin’s door. I have no idea what I should be feeling. The Oscar disaster alone would be enough to overwhelm me and send me into a tailspin, but the news of Kevin’s proposal to Angela is almost too much to take. There’s an icky, selfish thought shoved into the far recesses of my brain and it’s becoming more persistent. I don’t want anyone else—and
especially
not my best friend—to have Kevin, because I’m not totally clear on how I feel about him.

I knock again. A muffled but grumpy “I’m coming” emanates from within. Kevin appears seconds later in flannel pants and a Princeton sweatshirt. His hair shoots in seven different directions. “I haven’t slept at all, so you’d better have coffee.”

“I just made some. I’ll get you a cup.”

“Black, please.” He rubs at his eyes.

“I know.” I disappear back into my apartment and return with two mugs to find Kevin starting his own coffee maker.

“I’ll need more than one,” he explains, as if it wasn’t perfectly obvious. He downs about half the cup I brought before facing me. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Really? Because I’m thinking you’ve lost your mind.”

“Yup. That’s pretty much what I figured. See? I know you better than you think.” He laughs nervously.

“Insanity seems like the only plausible explanation. First, you go out of your way to try to sabotage my fledgling relationship, and then you tell me you love me, and a couple of short weeks later, you’re
proposing
to Angela.”

“I regretted it as soon as I heard myself say it. If she’d said yes, I would have had to back out.”

“Obviously.” I’m suddenly sick of standing, hovering in each other’s space. I cross the room and settle into one of his big leather armchairs and curl my legs underneath me. He follows and plops down on the couch. We stare at each other for a moment, and sip our coffees.

“I don’t know what to say,” we finally say, in unison.

“So, really, Kevin, what was going through your mind?”

“A drunken, over-heightened urge to help a friend. She seems so scared and, I don’t know, lonesome and overwhelmed, that I impulsively tried to make it better, and of course, only managed to make it awkward.”

“She’ll get over it. There’s not much Angela can’t get past, and I suppose she was flattered.”

“That’s good, at least. I don’t know, Zoë. It’s not like my parents were the best role models for healthy relationships. My dad has always treated my mom like part trophy, part staff. She’s scared of him to this day. So there was this nagging feeling in my mind, that if the great love of my life is unattainable, maybe I should settle for a great friendship. I told myself a good partnership could grow out of it.”

I have no idea what to make of the love of his life comment. Wow. I wonder if he truly believes that. I do the cowardly thing and ignore it. “Don’t you think we’re all way too young to settle for less than the real deal? And did you think for a second Angela, of all people, would be the settling type, even in the midst of her baby crisis?”

“When you put it that way, I feel like even more of a jackass.” He stares blankly into his coffee. He looks so defeated, and I don’t know—embarrassed, that I feel a surge of pity. I hoist myself out of the armchair and sit next to him on the couch.

“Well, I’m a jackass, too, if it makes you feel better. It seems your bad feeling about Oscar was right.”

I try to sneak into the office sometime not too long after ten, without drawing attention to myself, but it’s hopeless. The online version of the
New York Post
has a short piece on Oscar’s arrest and everyone’s buzzing about it. Marvin and Jessica swarm me before I can get my coat off, and New Girl hangs back behind them, eager to be included in the drama, but unsure of how to insert herself. Mercifully, Carol is out at meetings until lunchtime.

Marvin has thrown caution to the wind and printed the piece. He’s reading from it with all the ardor of a revival tent evangelist. “Takamura Brothers rising star Oscar Thornton, once one of
New York Magazine
’s ‘Forty to Watch Under Forty,’ was arrested by federal agents early this morning for his alleged part in an international human trafficking ring, in which Mayor-elect O’Malley’s fundraising chief, Burton Smealey, 53, has already been implicated. Authorities believe Thornton, 42, played a pivotal role in managing the finances of the syndicate, which bought underage girls, some as young as seven, from contacts in Eastern Europe and Southeast Asia, and sold them into sexual slavery in the U.S. Many of the girls were lured with promises of lucrative restaurant jobs, and instead found themselves making adult films or working as prostitutes in cities including New York, Los Angeles and Chicago. The FBI alleges that Thornton, who holds an M.B.A. from Columbia University, was responsible for the collection and distribution of profits through an intricate network of offshore accounts, located mostly in the Caribbean. They also contend that Thornton played a key role in facilitating the syndicate’s expansion into Southeast Asia, by setting up a network of front companies to facilitate both trafficking girls and laundering profits. The details remain hazy, but law enforcement believes that each of the fronts was semi-autonomously managed, but owned by various off-shore subsidiaries of a larger shell corporation started by Smealey. The ring’s management apparently used an anonymous email account to communicate on day to day matters, by storing unsent messages in the drafts folder. Thornton, Smealey, and their key contacts abroad could log into the account, review the contents, and reply to each other without sending a single message.”

Disgusting, but clever.

“Why?” Jessica wonders aloud. Her brow wrinkles in confusion. “Why would a gorgeous hot shot like him risk it all to get involved in something so seedy?”

“Arrogance and greed,” I say quietly, but loudly enough that my co-workers hear me. There’s no other logical explanation. He thought he was smarter than the police. He thought he’d get away with it, especially with his tidy cover story about making his fortune in a friend’s hedge fund. And if I know Oscar at all, I bet he was able to convince himself that his role wasn’t so bad. He wasn’t personally perpetrating physical harm on these girls. Just setting up the infrastructure and reaping the profits. My stomach turns with disgust at my own blindness, which was at least partially willful.