Page 92 of All These Beautiful Strangers

“Standard, I think,” the receptionist said, flipping on the office light.

“Standard, eh?” Greyson said. I could tell by the sound of his voice that he had come closer and was standing in the doorway. He hesitated a moment, probably sweeping the room with his eyes, looking for me.

I saw the receptionist from the waist down as she walked around behind the desk and I scooted farther back into the desk’s kneehole hugging my legs to my chest.

“I’m sorry, I have to get this,” the receptionist said.

“Sure, sure,” Greyson said. “I’ll, uh, just go take care of my business then.”

I heard the bathroom door across the hall close and then the receptionist leaned over the desk and picked up the phone.

“Now, where did you say you’d left it?” she asked.

I swallowed and tried to quiet the sound of my breathing. I was painfully aware of the loud thumping of my heart in my ears, of the sound my breath made as I drew it in through my nose and then let it out again. Was my breathing always this loud?

Then, I saw it—a stray photograph. It was about an inch from the toe of the receptionist’s right shoe. If she looked down and saw it, my cover was blown. Maybe I could lean forward very slowly, reach out my hand, and grab it before she could see it. But what if that drew her attention?

“Sure, I’ll get this out today,” she said. “Take care. And tell Nancy to use sunscreen this time. We don’t want a repeat of the Florida Keys trip.”

The receptionist laughed and set the phone down and I sat very still, staring at that photograph. I willed her not to look down. Don’t see it, don’t see it, don’t see it, I thought.

She seemed to stand there for an immeasurably long moment, and then she moved away from the desk. The light went out and I heard the door close behind her. I exhaled loudly and grabbed for the lone photo.

I tucked the file against my chest underneath my jacket and stuffed the photos in my front jacket pockets. I slid out of the office quickly and shut the door behind me quietly. The bathroom door across the hall was still closed and I could see the light on underneath.

As I came around the receptionist’s desk, I kept my hands stuffed in my jacket pockets, praying she wouldn’t notice the bulge there.

“Are you all set, dear?” she asked me, looking up. “Do I need to set a follow-up appointment with Mr. Hindsberg when he gets back?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “I got everything I needed.”

“All right then,” she said. “Your friend just went to the restroom.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, seeming very concerned. “Are you sure he’s quite all right?” she asked.

Before I could answer, I heard the toilet flush and the bathroom door flew open. Greyson came out. He looked relieved when he saw me.

“We should go,” Greyson said. “I’m not feeling well.”

He grabbed me by the arm and steered me toward the door.

“I wouldn’t go in there,” Greyson told the receptionist over his shoulder. “Give it at least half an hour, to be safe.”

And we made a beeline for his car, leaving the startled receptionist in our wake.

Twenty-Four

Alistair Calloway

Summer 1997

Margot opened the door on the first knock. She was wearing sweatpants, her hair up in a loose bun. She had her reading glasses on, which I took to mean she was studying, but when I walked into the apartment, I saw the seating arrangements for our wedding scattered across the kitchen table, not textbooks.

“I just made some tea, do you want some?” Margot asked as she padded into the kitchen.

I had my hands in my pockets, but that was a sign of weakness, of nerves. So, I took them out, folded them across my chest. No, that wasn’t natural either. Shit, what should I do with my hands?

“Alistair?” Margot called from the kitchen.

“Hmm?”