What if I undid what Miranda did?
I thanked Miranda for her warning. Exchanged pleasantries. Said I would make sure I told her I was okay in a week or two and then started laying my trap.
I called Graham back a couple of days later, in the middle of the night.
I let his name linger the way you would an egg on a hot grill you have no intention of flipping over easy before you eat it.
“Yes,” the knowing expectation in Graham’s answer made my skin crawl.
“Where are you, really?” I asked.
“What about the New England tour?”
“It was one night outside of Boston. I’m back. I stretched the idea of the word ‘tour,’ is all. What’s up?”
“Too many drinks.”
A creepy little laugh leaked over the line.
“Yeah, I can get behind that,” Graham said. “Where at?”
“Your office. You can get in after hours, right?”
Another creepy laugh.
“I guess. I can bring a couple bottles. I might have to strip search you to make sure you don’t have any recording devices though.”
“You already drunk?” I asked.
“I was in pretty deep a few hours ago when I fell asleep, feel it a little bit now,” Graham answered.
“Take a few drinks before we meet up. Outside your office building good?” I asked.
“Hear ya loud and clear,” Graham said before we hung up.