With all the company, and all the work, Lincoln didn’t have a chance to obsess over the WebFence folder or hang around the newsroom. He didn’t even take a real dinner break until Thursday. (T-minus twenty-seven hours.) Doris was thrilled to see him, and even more thrilled to see that he’d brought chocolate cake.
“Your mother told you about my cabinet, right? You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Of course I don’t mind,” Lincoln said, unwrapping the cake. “Just tell me when.”
“That’s just what your mom said. Boy, is she a character. A real dynamo, I could tell, on top of being a good cook. I’ll bet she’s pretty, too. Why didn’t she ever get remarried?”
“I’m not sure,” he said.
He couldn’t imagine his mother married, even though he knew that she had been, briefly, to Eve’s dad. He’d seen a photo of her at the wedding, wearing a white lace minidress and her hair in a blond bubble. Lincoln couldn’t even imagine his mother going out on a date. Eve said it was different before he was born. She remembered men and parties and strangers at breakfast …
“I couldn’t think about dating for the first few years after my Paul died,” Doris said. “But then I realized that I could live another forty years. That’s longer than Paul and I were together. I don’t think he’d want me moping around for forty years. I know he wouldn’t.”
“So you started dating?”
“Sure I did,” Doris said. “I have a couple of gentlemen I see on a regular basis. Nothing serious yet, but you never know.”
Lincoln was starting to wonder if he was having dinner with Doris just to be nice, or if it was the other way around.
“My mom said to tell you not to worry about your blood pressure,” he said, handing Doris a plastic fork. “She made this with olive oil.”
“Olive oil in a cake?” Doris said. “Is it green?”
“It’s good,” Lincoln said. “I’ve already had three pieces.”
Doris took a big bite. “Oh my,” she said with a mouth full of crumbs, “that is good. So moist. And the frosting—do you think she uses olive oil in that, too?”
“I think the frosting’s made with butter,” he said.
“Oh, well.”
A woman walked into the break room and stepped up to the snack machine behind them. She was young, Lincoln’s age, and tall. Her hair was pulled up into a thick dark bun, and she had a sweep of freckles across her face. Pretty …
“Hi, Doris,” she said.
“Hey there, honey,” Doris said, “working late?”
The woman, the girl, smiled at Doris and nodded, then smiled at Lincoln. She had broad shoulders and a high, heavy chest. Lincoln’s throat tightened. He smiled back. She turned to the snack machine. He’d never seen her before, had he? She leaned over to get something out of the machine. Pieces of hair were escaping in soft coils at the back of her neck. She walked briskly toward the door. She was wearing a fitted white shirt and strawberry pink corduroy trousers. Smallish waist. Widish hips. A soft curve at the small of her back. So pretty.
“Too bad that one’s got a boyfriend,” Doris said as the door closed behind the woman. “She’s a nice girl …and about your size, too. You wouldn’t have to break your back kissing her good night.”
Lincoln could feel his cheeks and neck turning red. Doris giggled.
“On that note,” he said, standing up, “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Thanks for the cake, kiddo,” she said.
Lincoln walked tentatively through the newsroom on his way back to the IT office.
Maybe it was her. The girl. Beth. Maybe. Maybe this was the night, his night, to talk to her. On the eve of the eve of the new millennium. She’d smiled at him. Well, she was probably smiling at Doris, but she’d looked at him while she was still smiling.
Maybe it was her. His her.
And maybe she’d be sitting at her desk tonight, and Lincoln would stop to say hello—the way men all over the world stop and say hello to women all the time. Wake up new, he told himself firmly, as the knot in his stomach tightened.
He didn’t get to Beth’s cubicle.
The girl from the break room was sitting at the city desk, next to the police scanner, talking on the phone. She was probably the new police reporter, Megan something; he’d seen her byline. Not Beth. Still no Beth.
He let himself look at the girl for a moment or two, even though she wasn’t the one. She was so pretty, this girl. So more than pretty. He thought about her hair falling down from her bun. He thought about her smile.
CHAPTER 59
From: Beth Fremont
To: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder
Sent: Fri, 12/31/1999 4:05 PM
Subject: Yawn 2K
That’s my entry for the front-page headline contest, what do you think?
>
[email protected] it. That’s so much better than mine—Meh-llennium.
> Are you kidding? “Meh-llennium” is excellent. Derek entered, “New Year? Old hat,” which is worse than no headline at all.
Is it wrong to admit that I’m actually kind of disappointed that nothing terrible has happened yet?
> No, I know! It’s such a letdown. I feel like all the countries ahead of us are ruining the suspense.
> CNN should have “spoiler alert” on its crawl.
> It’s actually less exciting than a regular New Year’s Eve. I’m not even staying up for it.
> I’ll stay up, I have to work. None of the special Y2K shifts have been canceled. Plus, I’m hoping to spend most of the night in the break room.
> The break room—does this have something to do with Your Cute Guy?
> Uh …uh-huh.
Remember when I said that, if I ever ran into McG, I wouldn’t talk to him? Because that would make me a floozy or some such nonsense?
> Vividly.
> Yeah …I was wrong about that. If I were ever to run into him, I would definitely talk to him. I might even stand there, smiling my best come-hither smile and hoping he didn’t notice that I was sucking in my stomach.
> Floozy. Did you follow him again?
> Only to the break room.
I saw him walk out of an office on the first floor, the one with the extra card reader. He must work in security, after all. Which explains why he works nights. And why I’ve seen him in different departments. And his tremendous size. (It doesn’t actually explain his size, but his size explains why he would be hired to work security. I feel more secure just standing across the room from him.) I wonder why he doesn’t wear a uniform like the guards at the front desk. Do you think he’s a plainclothes officer? A detective? Like Serpico?
> Wasn’t Serpico a drug dealer?
> I think you’re thinking Scarface.
Anyway. I followed him to the break room, then I walked up and down the hall a dozen times, trying to decide if I should go in there and what I would do with myself if I did. And then I finally decided to throw caution to the wind.
> Caution and fidelity. Floozy.
> I walked in all casual, like, “Don’t mind me, I’m just here for the vending machines,” and there he was, sitting with Doris. They were both eating chocolate cake. I was all, “Hi, Doris.” I smiled at them both, made eye contact with them both, gave one of them the serious come-hither, bought a piece of beef jerky and walked away.
> Beef jerky?
> I was just randomly punching buttons at that point. And, like I said, sucking in my stomach.
> Were there fireworks when your eyes met?
> On my end? Capital Yes. Roman candles. On his end? Well, he looked at me in a very pleasant way, as if to say, “Any friend of Doris’s is a frie
nd of mine.”
> They were both eating chocolate cake? Were they sharing a fork?
> Don’t be silly.
> Oh, I’m being silly. Right. I thought you were giving up Cute-Guy hunting because you realized it would be awkward if he actually noticed and tried to talk to you.
> I can’t give him up. What would I have to look forward to?
> I refuse to talk about this anymore. It just encourages you.
Mitch just called me to gloat. I tried to talk him into going to Sam’s Club last night to buy stuff for our millennium stockpile, but he refused to go. He said that he preferred Armageddon to Sam’s Club.
Did you stock up on anything?
> God no. If civilization comes crashing down at midnight, the last thing I’d want is to be stuck in my apartment, living off bottled water and canned beans.
CHAPTER 60
WHEN LINCOLN GOT up to the newsroom—because that’s where he went, that’s where he had to go, as soon as he’d read the words “tremendous” and “Roman candles” and “I can’t give him up”—the room was full and buzzing. Most of the reporters must have special Y2K shifts. They were hanging out in clumps around the newsroom, laughing and talking. Lincoln took a deep breath, the air felt like champagne in his lungs.
She was there. The girl from the break room. Beth. She was there, at her desk. Her hair was down, her glasses were pushed up over her forehead, and she was talking on the phone, twisting the cord around her fingers. There she was. Lincoln was going to say hello.
No, he was going to wait until she was off the phone. And then say hello.
No, and then he was going to kiss her.
No, he was just going to kiss her. He wasn’t going to wait. She’d kiss him back. He was absolutely certain that she would kiss him back.
And then he’d tell her that he loved her.
And then he’d tell her his name.
And then and then and then …what?
“If everything goes to hell at midnight, I want you to join my savage gang of looters.”
“What?” Lincoln turned around. Chuck was standing behind him. He had a blue marker in his mouth, and he was looking at a pie graph.
“Do these percentages make sense?” Chuck said, holding out the graph.
“I don’t know,” Lincoln said.
“I’m asking you to check them.”
“Did you say something about looting?”
“Yeah,” Chuck said. “But that was more of an invitation. If things get Mad Max around here later, I want you on my team. Don’t ask me what’s in it for you. I haven’t worked that out yet.”
“I can’t do this right now,” Lincoln said, pushing the paper away.
“Why not?”
“I …I have to leave.”
“Are you okay?”
“No.” Lincoln looked up at Beth again and started backing away from Chuck. Away from the newsroom. “I have to go.”
“Do you know something about the power grid that we don’t?” Chuck called after him. “What are the machines telling you?”
“I HAVE TO go home,” Lincoln said when he got back to the IT office.
“You look terrible,” Greg said. “But you can’t go home. We’re on the cusp of a new age.”
“I feel terrible. I have to leave.”
“If you leave,” Greg asked, “who’s going to lead the Strike Force through zero hour?”
Lincoln looked at the television on Greg’s desk. People were celebrating in London. Midnight had already arrived with an anticlimactic thud in Paris and Moscow and Beijing. Even Wolf Blitzer looked bored. The members of the Strike Force were shamelessly playing Doom.
“All right … ,” Greg said, frowning. “But you’re going to miss out. We’re ordering pizza.”
Lincoln shut down his computer quickly and hurried out of the building to his car. He didn’t even buckle his seat belt until he was on the freeway. Didn’t even know where he was going until he got there. Justin’s apartment. Lincoln had driven Justin home a few times, but he’d never been inside. Maybe Justin would still be there. Maybe Lincoln could still get in on the millennial debauchery.
Dena answered the door. She was wearing her work uniform, a pink smock with little white teeth printed on it. Whole teeth, roots and all. They were supposed to be cute, but he found teeth without gums disconcerting.
“Hey, Lincoln.”
“Hey. Is Justin here?”
“Not yet. He had to work late. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I was just thinking I’d go to the concert with you guys. If that’s all right. If the offer still stands.”
“Yeah, of course,” she said. “Justin will be here soon. Have a seat.” He did. In the only chair in Justin’s living room, a giant leather recliner. “Can I get you something? A beer?”
“That’d be great.”
She handed him a Mickey’s big mouth. Beer, malt liquor, same difference.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.
“Completely.”
“I was just going to go get ready.”
“Yeah. Definitely. Go ahead. Don’t mind me, I’ll watch TV.”
“Okay,” Dena said. She hesitated a moment, then walked away.
Lincoln was pretty sure that it was a mistake, coming here. But he couldn’t have stayed at work. Knowing Beth was there, that she might be thinking about him. Knowing that he couldn’t talk to her. That he didn’t have the guts, was that it? Or was it that he knew it was wrong, that even talking to her would be like trading with insider information?
Or maybe he was just afraid to do something real.
It was worse now that he knew what she looked like. It was already worse. Now that his wandering thoughts and warm feelings had a face. And freckles. And snug strawberry corduroys. It was unbearable to think of that face searching him out in the hallways. Lighting up when she saw him. Watching him.
Maybe she was still there. At her desk. Maybe he could still catch her and kiss her and tell her …tell her what?
When Justin walked in, Lincoln wasn’t sure whether he’d been waiting in the living room for a few minutes or an hour. Probably an hour. He’d finished three Mickeys. Three Mickeys on an empty stomach. He wasn’t drunk exactly, but he was fuzzy.
“What’re you doing here?” Justin said happily. “I thought you had to work.”
“I did. And then I didn’t.”
“Did something happen?”
He thought of Beth and her long brown hair and the phone cord winding around her fingers. He thought of himself standing like a moron against the wall. “No,” he said, “nothing ever happens. I had to get out of there.”
“Well, all right. Let me change into something I can afford for Dena to puke on, and then we’ll get this motherfucker started.”
Lincoln held up his empty bottle. “Cheers,” he said.
Dena came to sit with Lincoln while Justin got dressed. She’d changed into going-out clothes. Tight black jeans and stacked-heel boots. She’d put on makeup that would look fine at the bar, but looked too bright and shiny in the overhead light.
“We’re meeting a few of my friends at Friday’s first,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
“Sure,” he said. “That sounds great.”
“They’re all single,” she said.
“Single girls on New Year’s,” Justin shouted from the bedroom. “Double down.”
“My friend Lisa will be there,” Dena said. “Do you remember her? From The Steel Guitar?”
Lincoln remembered. He could still taste the licorice. Justin held out another Mickey’s on the way to the door, and Lincoln took it.
T.G.I. FRIDAY’S WAS a blur. He entertained Dena’s friends by ordering whatever they did, drinks with whipped cream and cherries and blinking plastic ice cubes. Even Lincoln’s steak had whiskey in it. He was more than tipsy when they got t
o the Ranch Bowl. Do guys get tipsy, he wondered, or, if you’re a guy, are there just different degrees of drunk? How many degrees of drunk was he? What would happen if he stopped drinking now? Would he feel better or worse?
They’d timed their arrival perfectly. Sacajawea was just taking the stage. Justin used Lincoln as a wedge to make room at the bar.
“Are you okay, big guy? Lincoln? Hey.” Dena was talking to him.
Lincoln nodded. He was okay. He was fine.
The first song started with a guitar solo. All Sacajawea’s songs started with guitar solos. Justin whooped, and the girls around them screamed. “Oh my God, look at him,” said someone at Lincoln’s elbow. “He’s so hot.”
Lincoln looked at Chris. Shimmering. Slithering at the edge of the stage. This wasn’t a good idea. Coming here. Look at him, Lincoln thought. She’s his. That beautiful girl. That girl I think about when I’m not thinking about anything else. When I can’t think about anything else. Look at him. That magical girl. That light. His. The women in the room, the women around Lincoln, were swaying along with Chris’s guitar, reaching out to him with open palms. All these girls who weren’t the girl. All these girls who weren’t the only girl who mattered. Lincoln imagined himself pushing his way through them to get to Chris. Imagined how heavy his fist would fall on Chris’s delicate face.
“This song is just as good as ‘Stairway,’” Justin said emotionally. He and Dena were standing right in front of Lincoln, close enough that he felt like he was standing behind them in a class photo. Dena wasn’t watching Chris. She was watching Justin. Lincoln noticed Justin’s hand on Dena’s waist, his fingers just under her shirt, in the small of her back.
And then Lincoln stopped noticing anything at all.
THEY WERE HELPING him up stairs.
“We should have just left him in the car,” Justin said.
“It’s freezing outside,” Dena said.
“Would’ve woken him up. Jesus Christ, it’s like dragging a horse.”