The Fine Print: Chapter 13

I stop at a trash bin near the entrance of the warehouse. Accepting Zahra’s stupid note was only meant to appease her and save me the awkwardness of denying her.

Right. Because you care so much about making others happy all of a sudden. 

I linger by the bin, staring down at the hot pink note like it holds my fate. Look who’s believing in destiny now, you broody, hypocritical asshole. 

Zahra’s dainty cursive handwriting sticks out to me.

I’d love to say thank you if you are willing to text me (that is if Rowan wasn’t annoying enough to throw this out before you got it). -Zahra Gulian

The sticky note crumples beneath my fist. What’s so damn difficult about throwing this away? She would never find out. I covered my bases and made sure she understood that the Animator values his privacy and that he’s busy, which is the truth.

You could find someone to work with her with a snap of your fingers. A good solution as any, yet the idea leaves a bitter taste in my mouth for some unknown reason.

I pocket the sticky note and step away from the trash can. The walk through the Catacombs is a decent trek. Fewer and fewer employees pass by me as I near the underground gated tunnel entrance to Grandpa’s old house. When I was a kid, I thought it was the coolest thing to explore the tunnels with my brothers at night. Our father would make it into a game, with Mom and him making spooky noises. It was their failed attempt to scare us into never doing it again, but it only worked until the next time we visited Dreamland.

I let out a shaky breath, trying to ease the pressing weight against my lungs. Reminiscing only leads to one thing and I’m not interested.

I enter the gate code, walk up the stairs and toward the house. It’s an old colonial-style home with a wraparound porch. I divert my eyes away from the porch swing to avoid the pinching sensation in my chest. No matter how many weekends I’ve told myself I’m going to grab a drill and take down the damn thing, I always find a reason to leave it up. Whether it’s a new pile of papers to sift through or a last-minute meeting with a manager, I’m never able to confront the swing.

Out of all the Dreamland memories, I hate that one the most.

You’re so fucking weak. My father’s slurred voice booms through my head.

I jam my key into the lock and open the door. It smacks against the wall with a bang before I slam it shut. My heavy footsteps echo through the house as I walk up the stairs toward one of the master bedrooms I’ve taken over as my own. I throw my wallet on my nightstand before dumping the crumpled note next to it. Before I think to stop myself, I grab my phone and add Zahra’s number to my contacts before I do something idiotic like rip up the note.

My brain battles it out, going through the positives and negatives of reaching out to her.

What’s the harm in one text message? 

What do you plan on talking about? The weather?

It’s not like I haven’t had practice speaking to women. I’m warier about the burning desire I feel toward Zahra compared to my lackluster dates over the years. They were simple and easy, with few expectations. But with Zahra, the idea of texting feels like more. More what, I’m not sure of yet. But I know it’s something I should be cautious of.

Maybe Declan rubbed off on me in more ways than one. My brother holds us to the highest standard, ensuring we never look stupid to the public. He ingrained in us since a young age that our name carries power and with power comes a responsibility not to fuck up.

Yet you kissed your employee because the Florida heat killed all your working brain cells.

If Zahra planned on reporting me, she would have done it already.

Well…unless she’s biding her time to extort money out of you. 

The thought makes me pause. Could that be the case? Or maybe she wants me to make an even bigger mistake so she can get a bigger payout in the end.

Are you always this cynical about people’s intentions? Her soft voice enters my thoughts like it belongs there.

Compared to my brothers, I’ve always been the most reserved and untrusting, ever since I was a young child. Situations in my life amplified the feeling, turning a hopeful kid into a bitter adult.

Poked holes in condoms. Failed attempts at extortion. People wanting to be my friend with the sole purpose of reaping the benefits associated with my last name.

The list is endless with one universal lesson. Trust no one. 

I throw my phone on the bed. Hoping for a moment to gather my thoughts and solidify my reasoning against reaching out to Zahra, I go on an evening run.

My skin dampens after a few minutes thanks to the humid summer air. I set an even pace and focus on the sound of my sneakers slamming into the pavement. Despite my best efforts to shut off my brain, it doesn’t get the memo. By the time I’m done with my run, I’ve developed a mental pros and cons list about texting Zahra that helps me come to one reasonable conclusion.

I should text her and find out what her true intentions are. There’s absolutely no way she’s only interested in messaging me to express her gratitude. No one is that pure—not even Little Miss Bubbly. I can use our conversations as an opportunity to probe around and find out how she really feels about me.

I go back home, shower, and drop onto my bed. I open the Google voice app on my phone because I want to use a fake number that she can’t trace back to me.

Okay. Not too bad. It’s simple and to the point. 

My phone beeps a second later. How the hell does she type so damn fast? 

I roll my eyes.

No shit. You’re texting her. I run a hand down my face.

Who in God’s name uses that many exclamation points? It should be considered illegal.

She wants to repay me? That can’t be the true reason she was interested in texting me.

I officially need to find out what kind of woodland fairies raised this woman because there’s no way she’s a product of the real world. 

Oh God. I reread the joke and cringe.

She follows up with three laughing emojis because she lacks subtly.

My response takes two seconds.

I haven’t been called shy since I was a kid.

What kind of drugs does she take? 

My phone buzzes again as if the silence scares her.

I’m experiencing my personal hell. Turns out Zahra is a back-to-back serial texter.

Good job stating the obvious. My poor attempt at a joke falls flat, and I’m reminded yet again why I don’t bother with them to begin with.

James fucking Dean? What kind of old-school shit does Zahra watch? James Dean was someone my grandpa used to talk about.

My fingers fly across the screen before I consider the repercussions of having a conversation that has nothing to do with work.

I’m filled with some kind of warmth at the idea of making her laugh. I frown at the sensation.

That’s something I can relate to. My grandpa was the same way about American pop culture. He was always obsessed since he immigrated here from Ireland with nothing but a single suitcase and a dream to draw.

My chest pinches and I shove the memory out of my mind.

I come to the realization I’m entrusting my livelihood in the hands of someone who happens to be the most bizarre person I’ve ever met. Zahra is a risk as much as she’s an investment. Like putting a million dollars into penny stocks and hoping I don’t get fucked over in the end.

God, no. Who knows what kind of messages I would open myself up to? 

Scott? What the fuck are you doing?

I exit the conversation before I have a chance to say anything else. That was enough crazy for me. I’m not the kind of person who does something as spontaneous and asinine as creating an alter ego to speak to someone. Talk about pathetic.

But that’s all you’ve ever been. A disappointment who doesn’t deserve the Kane name in the first place.  

I roll over and shove a pillow over my ear as if that can erase the voice from my past.

It’s been years. You’re not that same rejected kid anymore. 

But no matter how many times I tell myself that, nothing is good enough in my eyes. Every time I accomplish a difficult task, I’m already searching for the next obstacle to overcome. To show my father and anyone who doubted me that I turned my weaknesses into strengths.

Shy? I choose my words wisely, turning them into a feared weapon.

Weak? I let thousands of useless employees go to improve our bottom line.

Pathetic? I built my own reputation in the corporate world that has nothing to do with my last name. It might not be a pretty one but it’s exclusively mine, and nothing my father says or does can take that away from me.

I’m not a disappointment anymore. Not today and certainly not ever again.

There’s only one loose end getting in my way of ensuring my time at Dreamland is smooth and scandal-free. And I plan on keeping a close eye on her.

I check my messages in the morning. I expected maybe one or two messages from Zahra but she surprised me again with a total of five.

The next text was sent ten minutes after the previous one.

She includes a facepalm emoji next.

I find her embarrassment strangely entertaining.

Her last message came in fourteen minutes after the other one. It’s like she wanted to end everything on a positive note because she’s a damn ray of sunshine ruining my perfectly dreary day.

I consider my situation. The easy option would be to ignore all her messages and label her as the strangest person I’ve ever contacted. She’s disgustingly friendly and trusting with someone she’s never even met before.

Who are you to call her strange? You count ten words or fewer as a successful conversation. 

Only because I’m the guy who prefers to stand in the shadows, letting my work speak for itself.

My curiosity about Zahra’s hidden side wins over my sensible rationale. I type up a response before I back out and do something worthy of my time.

The bubbles appear and disappear twice before a new message pops up on my phone. Not that I was waiting around and staring at my phone or anything.

For the first time in a long time, a smile spreads across my face before I have an opportunity to kill it.