Page 50 of Loss and Damages

She has just enough time to run back to her cubicle and type it up before the paper goes to bed. The photographer she brought with her takes a picture of us in Wilkins’s office, shaking hands over the deal.

Wilkins and I won’t trust each other overnight. We’ve both done things that have turned us into despicable human beings, but in my mind, my money has always excused me. I’ve always felt above him, but that’s going to have to change. Even with my billions, I’m no better than anyone else.

He asks me to go out and celebrate, but I decline. “I need to do some damage control.”

“Good luck,” he says, and his handlers hustle him through the rain into a waiting car at the sidewalk. He’ll find other ways to celebrate, that may or may not include his wife. I don’t know, and I don’t care. My own love life is in shambles, and I’m not one to preach.

My father’s office is as empty as the sidewalk outside our building, the storm forcing away the protesters.

The executive floor is quiet, and restless, I wander the hallways.

I don’t belong here anymore. My office feels foreign, uncomfortable.

I haven’t chased a woman around this desk, but I’ve let my father influence me and tell me to do things I didn’t want to do.

I can’t blame him for everything. I could have stood up to him a long time ago, but the craving for his approval was stronger than any druggie’s desperation for his next hit and the obsessive need for his love and acceptance was dangerous and deadly.

Had that shooter’s aim been true, I wouldn’t be standing here.

I drift down the hallway to Leo’s office, but it was never his.

He never claimed it because he didn’t want it.

The room is spotless, the cleaning crew dusting the desk’s surface and the bookshelves every evening.

The computer sits unused, the monitor black.

Just for the hell of it, I turn it on and boot it up.

Now that he’s gone, I’ll have IT disable the authorizations.

Leo never used it, but he was given all the permissions on the off chance he ever wanted to work on a project.

The MMD welcome screen greets me, the cursor blinking in the password field.

Thrumming my fingers on the outdated blotter, I search my brain for what my brother could have used.

I try our mother’s name, but that isn’t successful.

I type in our mother’s full name and an exclamation point, but that doesn’t yield results.

I try his birthdate, mine, though I would have had a heart attack if that had worked.

Jemma’s name, but surprisingly, that doesn’t let me in.

I may not be able to rifle through his computer after all.

As a last resort, I try Password_1234!, the generic password that would have been assigned to his computer, and scoff as the screen fades to Leo’s desktop. His email icon indicates he has over five thousand unread messages. I open his inbox.

The most recent is a newsletter Jemma sent out about her gallery.

I click on it, and it’s June’s monthly wrap-up.

She explains the death of a beloved artist (she holds true to Leo’s secret, never revealing his name), and that she can no longer sell his work.

She welcomes a new artist and writes a little about her.

She also lets her subscribers know about the break-in, how almost everything in the gallery was destroyed but that it hadn’t stopped her from reopening as quickly as possible.

At the end, she showcases several pieces of her own work that are for sale.

I close out of the message and scan the contents of Leo’s inbox.

There’s a newsletter for every month since he met her last year, most unopened, of course.

He’d know firsthand news about her gallery.

I’m curious why he gave her his business email instead of his personal one, but maybe he hadn’t known her well enough to trust her yet.

Jemma could have been anyone out to exploit him, but I doubt he needed long to realize she was the real thing.

I knew it when I saw her at Leo’s wake, and I hadn’t even spoken to her.

There’s nothing more to see, though I’m not sure what I was looking for, and I move the cursor to close out of the email app when the (1) next to Drafts catches my eye. My curiosity is piqued, and I click on the saved draft.

The email opens, and the beginning starts,

Mick —

I stop reading and blink back tears. Leo hadn’t called me that in a long time, maybe not since he was old enough to properly say my name.

Filled with excitement, he would chase after me, too young to pronounce all the syllables, and the only thing that came out halfway recognizable would be, “Mick, Mick!” I pretended to be aggravated by the attention, but deep down I was pleased, until Mama would swoop in and cuddle him to her and say, “Don’t bother your brother, he doesn’t like it. ”

Forlorn, he would look over Mama’s shoulder, waving a chubby little hand in goodbye.

Eventually, Leo stopped seeking me out, and I never started.

I go back to the email.

—I met the most wonderful woman. She’s so vibrant and real, nothing like the women in the city, and talking to her is such a pleasure.

Her name is Jemma Ferrell, and she owns a gallery in Hollow Lake.

You probably want to know what I’m doing out there, but this isn’t about that.

I’ve known Jemma for a few months now, I spend time with her whenever I can, but, and you’d call me crazy, I think she’s perfect for you.

I stop reading and turn toward the window. The rain is still falling, beating against the glass, the storm clouds darkening the sky into premature nighttime.

Leo thought of me. When he spent time with Jemma, he thought of me.

He didn’t take her to bed because he was saving her for me. That’s why he wanted to ask her to the fundraiser. He wasn’t going to propose. He was going to introduce her to me.

I want to ask you if you’d consider going out to Hollow Lake and meeting her.

I know you’re unhappy, and it hurts me so much to see you this way.

You’ll never be good enough for Dad. I know I’m not, and I made peace with it a long time ago.

You’re his favorite, but Mick, can’t you see he’s using you?

He’s using you to do the shit parts of the business, letting you take the fall for the dirty deals, letting you shoulder the bad reputation.

I think if you met Jemma, she’d show you there’s more to life than money, more to life than Dad’s contingent approval.

We aren’t close, I know we’re not, but if you give me one thing in this life, let me drive you out to meet her. I’ll never ask you for another favor.

You’re my brother and I love you. Please believe me when I say the business isn’t worth it.

When I look at Jemma, I see family, I see a future, but that future doesn’t belong to me.

It belongs to you. Please, think about it.

Here’s a picture I took of her the other night.

I know you won’t believe me when I say I’ve never had her in bed, but I haven’t.

She’s not a plaything, not a pawn in a game, and I can’t ‘give’ her to you any more than you can give one person to another, but she’s not mine.

I know that deep in my heart. Do this for me, if my happiness means anything to you at all.

Love, Leo.

Below the text is a picture of Jemma, taken last fall, sitting in front of a firepit, a blanket in her lap.

Her blue eyes are electricity in the flames and her black hair glitters like coal in the light.

A glass half full of red wine sparkles in her hand.

I can almost hear the laughter coming from the photo because I’ve heard it myself, in person.

The love of my life, this little girl. Never settling for the man I was when she knew I could be so much more.

He didn’t send the email. He had a change of heart, perhaps, or thought he’d do better foisting her on me in public where I couldn’t shake her off.

The fundraiser had been romantic, the music and champagne, the opulence of the ballroom.

Not that I needed such things to fall in love with her.

All I’d needed was her kindness, her sympathy and compassion, her gentle touch, to fall hard enough to break my heart.

The email presented more questions than answers, but it eases my heart he would have approved of us. He would have been happy I made my way to her without his help.

Some would call that Fate. Some would call it luck.

I simply call it a miracle.

And she’s waiting for me.