Chapter Three

The next morning I get up an hour early. And to make sure I don’t run into Matt, I move fast. After a quick shower, I apply some makeup and pull my flaming red hair into a tight bun. I wish I had black hair like Sammi, but there’s nothing to be done about it. To disguise my face further, I even put on a pair of Clark Kent glasses I borrowed from Michelle. I’m not naïve enough to believe they can fool Matt into believing I’m someone I’m not—that only works in comic books—but he probably won’t be able to tell who I am from a distance.

I hope.

I sigh wistfully. A pair of sunglasses would be better, but I left mine on the plane. I’m ninety-nine percent sure I won’t see them again. I should go buy another pair this afternoon.

And for extra insurance, I slip on my lucky underwear—the lacy barely-there stuff I bought on a shopping excursion with Michelle. She’s of the opinion that the type of underwear you put on in the morning can make or break your day, and although I don’t subscribe to the belief the way she does, a little extra insurance can’t hurt.

I wear a beige fitted top and conservative gray pencil skirt, plus very un-hookerish ballet flats in black. They couldn’t be more different from my Project Lose V-Card outfits. Even my purse is a sedate black Coach I picked up on sale at an outlet store.

By the time I walk out the door, Michelle’s alarm is going off, and Sammi returns from her run, her entire body dripping with sweat. The black Nike tights and workout tank top look sleek on her, and she sucks down some water before saying, “You weren’t kidding about getting up early.”

“Nope.”

She shakes her head. “Way too much work to avoid that prime piece. You should tap that fine ass. There are worse ways to lose your V-Card.” She slips inside, ignoring my face.

Matt’s car—a metallic red BMW convertible—sits in the driveway. Unless I’m mistaken the man’s not up yet. All the curtains and blinds are drawn, and I don’t see any lights inside.

Maybe I’ll get lucky, and it’ll turn out that Matt works at night…although I’m not certain what kind of lawyer works a graveyard shift. But you never know these days, right? The business world doesn’t sleep anymore. He could be working for a giant conglomerate in Beijing or something to iron out some huge deal that will make or break the CEO’s bonus for the year.

And if he doesn’t work eight to five, I can start getting up at my normal time. The lack of sleep—even just one hour—is hitting me hard, and I really need a caffeine boost.

For some reason, there’s no line at the local Starbucks drive-through. Does this mean my luck’s improving?

What goes down must come up. Surely my luck hit rock bottom last night, and today’s going to be one big universe song saying, “Sorry, girl, lemme make it up to you.”

I can totally get behind that.

I get a Grande caramel macchiato with full-fat milk. Normally I get a Venti with skim, but I deserve to splurge for getting up early.

Then…because I feel extra lucky today, I stop by a local gas station and buy a lottery ticket. My chances of winning the jackpot—currently worth more than fifty million bucks—are so slim, a Boeing Triple Seven’s more likely to drop on me first. But hey, a girl can dream, even though I don’t have the slightest clue what I would do if I actually won.

Probably breathe into a paper bag, then put the money away somewhere and go back to work. And attempt One-Night Stand Number Six.

The drive to Sweet Darlings Inc. doesn’t take more than ten minutes. Even during rush hour, it’s only twenty minutes from my house. The headquarters is a beautiful fifteen-story ivory square building located in Sweetridge, a subdivision in Dulles. When my grandmother, Alexandra Darling, started the company, the area was relatively inexpensive and not as developed. She managed to poach plenty of programming talent from AOL and government contractors who wanted to do something more fun and interesting. Over the years, she’s shifted her core business focus from desktop publishing to a sleek mobile app that people can use to share their most treasured memories. Our original, and still the biggest and most responsive, target audience is new parents. On average, each user spends over three hundred dollars a year to preserve and share pictures and videos of their babies. And we have teams dedicated to meet all their wants.

I reach the fourteenth floor and walk toward my desk, which is right outside the corner office of marketing manager David Darling, who also happens to be my cousin. My workstation is modest, with an L-shaped wooden desk and three filing cabinets. Although the company has technically gone paperless, in reality, we still produce a lot of paper in the marketing division. On my desk is a small faux-metal plaque with my name on it: Jan Doe. There’s no title on the bottom, unlike the one on David’s door.

I place my purse in the bottom drawer and lock it, then boot my laptop. An email program launches automatically and downloads emails.

“Good morning, Jan.”

I look up at my grandmother’s serene greeting. She’s dressed fashionably as usual in a light coral sweater dress and nude patent leather flats. Her formerly auburn hair has gone completely steel gray now. Although she refuses to dye it, she indulges in an expensive bob that looks elegant and fluffy around her egg-shaped face. Her thin lips are curved into a small smile that doesn’t show any teeth—she never shows them, although she has all her real teeth—and her pale gray eyes warm as she looks at me.

“You’re in early,” I say.

“I’m always in around this time.”

“Oh.” That’s news to me. I always assumed she got in when she got in, since she’s the CEO and chairperson of Sweet Darlings Inc., not to mention she’ll be sixty-five in less than a week. Who’s going to give her a hard time about coming in after nine?

“You, on the other hand, are early,” she says. “Nice glasses.”

“I have some things to catch up on,” I fib. There’s no way I’m telling her about my One-Night Stand Number Five. I clear my throat. “Thank you.”

“I hope you can spare a moment, though.”

“Of course.” My grandmother or not, Alexandra is the head of the company. She doesn’t give anyone any slack, not even her own children. It prevents others from feeling resentful.

She leans on the edge of my desk. “I’m not sure if you saw, but we have openings on the app development team and some managerial tracks.”

“I read the email last week.” HR sends opening announcements to all employees.

“Are you going to apply?”

“Um. I haven’t given it any thought.” No.

“You should. They’re great opportunities for you.”

“I’m sure they are.”

She regards me steadily. “You aren’t going to do it.”

“I’m really busy these days, and the applications take a while.”

“It’s a worthwhile effort. Many positions are entry level, and you’re eminently qualified.”

“I didn’t know that. I thought they wanted someone with more experience,” I lie. “I’ll check the listings again later today.”

“Please do.” Alexandra straightens. “I see great potential in you, my dear.”

“Thank you.” But I don’t call her “grandma.” Sometimes I’m not sure which Alexandra Darling I’m talking to.

“And don’t forget the party on Saturday. You can bring a date if you want. And then take the boxes afterward.”

“I won’t forget.” The party is to celebrate her upcoming birthday, and everyone in the family is required to attend. “And I will, if I find anybody suitable.” I make no comment about the boxes of Mom’s stuff in Alexandra’s attic because I don’t want to get into it first thing in the morning.

She tilts her head and looks at me as though she’s worried. She shouldn’t be. “Have a productive day.”

“You, too.”

Alexandra leaves, and I turn to my laptop and click through my messy inbox. The email from HR catches my attention, probably because of my chat with Grandma. The app dev position looks über-interesting. The team’s very small and dedicated to leveraging our free users by serving them ads that they find relevant and meaningful. The entire point of our free app is that we don’t spam or bother our users with intrusive junk that nobody wants, but still manage to monetize them.

If interested, apply here the big yellow button says. My mouse cursor hovers over it…but then I sigh and click on an email regarding a new campaign David’s team’s working on instead. Alexandra’s been trying to steer me away from administrative positions, but I don’t want to squeak onto the team because of her desire to see me do something more important than keep David’s schedule or make photocopies for meetings. All of my uncles and aunts and cousins are in management, but they were born for that kind of stuff.

What about me, you ask?

Well, I’m not even really wanted by the Darling family. They didn’t know I existed until my mom died in a car crash when I was ten, and they had to take me in. But I know my place. I’m the kid who shouldn’t have been conceived, because without me, my mom might’ve gone back home and not died like that. Nobody in the Darling family is crude or ungracious enough to say it out loud, but I can put two and two together. Mom was the youngest of Alexandra’s five children—and the only girl to boot. She ran off with my dad when she was eighteen, against Alexandra’s explicit orders to stay away from him. Apparently it was infatuation at first sight. Then she got pregnant with his child—me.

She never revealed who he was, and she never married him. I don’t know if they split while she was pregnant or not. She told me he was a great man, but then it’s in all moms’ job descriptions to say stuff like that to their kids. I’m not stupid enough to think anything my mom did with my dad was for love, though, because on my birth certificate she wrote down “John Doe” for father. If she loved him, she would’ve told him or his family, and I would’ve met my paternal grandparents. She also pretended like she had no family, although she never lacked for money, as she had a modest trust from her late father. (I found out about the trust only after I turned twenty-one, and Alexandra gave me the house she bought with the fund as an investment.)

As for me? I’m supposed to be Jane Doe—I’m certain of it—but Mom never bothered to correct the clerical error, so I’m just Jan.

My throat suddenly dries, and I take a big gulp of my macchiato. I shouldn’t be that upset about my mom being lazy. Just imagine the kind of ridicule I would’ve suffered growing up if my name had been Jane Doe.

Jan Doe is a great name. Mom was being considerate by letting the error stand. I take another sip of my drink and start to attack the daunting number of emails in my inbox. I’m not going to feel sorry for myself, not when I have a house, a job and great friends.