The invitation to keynote the Chicago Toy and Game Fair had been completely unexpected and, to her mind, premature—even despite the popularity of Activate!, Codemaker, and Archi-types. Then again, many people in the gaming industry knew they still had an image problem, so it couldn’t hurt to have a multiracial millennial female pictured prominently at the podium. If her track record wasn’t quite long enough to warrant the invitation, Lark was more than happy to provide a role model for game-loving girls who wanted to join the club, too.
And Larkspur Games was by all measures successful. Who knew parents were so desperate for analog, hands-on games that taught chemistry, coding, and engineering with no batteries required? The hard part had been making them fun, but apparently Lark had balanced seriousness of purpose with enough silliness to please the nine-through-eleven-year-olds who were her target market. There was a steep drop-off at twelve as girls joined their peers and turned to screens, but Lark liked to think she was planting a seed of experience that would flower later. She’d already hired some STEM kids as her little company reached its current size of fifteen employees and expanded into several adjacent offices.
The speech—if not the cheesy opening joke Callie had insisted was necessary—had gone well although her nerves had been so tightly wound that she wished she’d had the martini first.
Unlocking her phone, Lark scrolled past new emails to a very old one she’d saved without sending a response.
Its subject line: Thought you might like to know.
Lark had indeed liked to know. Now, copying the address from the body of the email, she pasted it into the Uber app and, before summoning a ride, savored another sip.
When she opened her eyes, her martini’s identical twin had magically appeared on the low table in front of her.
“From the gentleman at the bar,” said her server discreetly.
“Please send it back,” said Lark, smiling. “Tell him I said thanks, but no.”
She could have held up her phone, mouthed an apology to the man about having a ride already on the way. But she didn’t owe anybody anything. Standing up, she pulled on her coat, called the ride, and walked out of the lobby without even bothering to look at whoever had sent the drink.
The black car joined Lake Shore Drive and headed south, with the driver explaining that the Dan Ryan Expressway was “all red on the app.” Out the window to her right, Trip’s building towered over Millennium Park.
It was impossible to visit Chicago without thinking of him. Even when she was elsewhere, few weeks passed when he didn’t cross her mind. They had been bound together more closely by YouTube, Facebook, and Twitter than they would have been by marriage. Her decision to have Callie livestream her vow of independence had been designed to make him infamous—and it had—but she hadn’t considered the consequences for herself.
Jonathan Mitchell Wright the Third seduced me under the name Trip Mitchell and eventually proposed to me without revealing he was already married to both Holly and Jessica. Both of these brave women are sitting in the front row.
It had been the first time she’d ever seen him lost for words. Ashen, he’d wobbled unsteadily as his shit-eating grin slowly faded into a confused smirk.
Trip, you gave me a head start in business, for which I remain grateful. You told me then, “It’s only weird if we make it weird.” Well, it’s officially weird, and you can take all the credit for that. I’m paying back every cent you spent on my behalf, plus interest. You may need it. I understand you may soon have a cash flow problem.
Putting the envelope full of begged and borrowed money in his hands had been more than a relief: it had made her feel powerful.
To all the guests, I know this isn’t what you expected. There will be no wedding today, but we will have a party. Please join Holly, Jessica, and me as we celebrate our new beginnings. And, Trip, don’t worry—you’re not going home alone. Or without a ring on your hand.
That was when he’d seen the two suit-wearing FBI agents step forward, one of them opening a shiny pair of handcuffs.
Restraints are optional with white-collar criminals, the younger agent had explained with a wink earlier that morning. But I’ll be more than happy to make your special day more memorable.
With her own phone turned off, Lark remained blissfully unaware of the worldwide social media explosion until the party had run its course and, more than a little drunk, she’d shared a ride with Callie back to their apartment. Over the next week, the video had racked up eighteen million views, hundreds of thousands of tweets, and become such a viral phenomenon that every late-night television host had made jokes about it. All but one of them men.
The best line came from the lone woman on late-night TV: Finally, a man willing to change his name for marriage.
Most people lost interest after a week, but articles followed in newspapers and magazines—then a podcast led to a streaming documentary series and a made-for-TV dramatization. Somebody even wrote an opera and staged it in a storefront theater. Each flare-up stung Lark, but then again, longevity had been exactly the idea: that Trip’s falsehoods would be forever in view, just a quick internet search away for every woman he bought a drink. Social media shitstorms lasted a week, and they also lasted forever.
Who knew? Maybe her keynote invitation had something to do with her social media celebrity, too. She wasn’t going to lose sleep over it. Everything that had happened was just a part of who she was now.
So.
Eventually, the driver left Lake Shore Drive and took them through a rough-looking neighborhood into a depopulated area bordered by decaying industrial hulks on one side and a windswept marsh on the other.
“Are you sure we’re going
