INVISIBLE || E. Dockery

12

WE ARE walking, Books and I, along Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest, past where D'Acqua used to be— our place, if any place was our place, selecting dinner from the fresh catch of the day on the iced display in the dining room and sipping white wine, or sitting outside and looking over the fountains of Navy Memorial. A bit froufrou for both of our tastes, but it was our indulgence. It was our Friday night date.
But things change. The restaurant's business lost steam, and so did our relationship.
“This is only happening because your a man,” I say to Books.
Books appears to consider that seriously and gives a curt nod. “That's one possibility,” he concedes, his brow furrowed. “Or maybe...” He strokes his chin like he's Sherlock Holmes puzzling over a riddle. “Maybe it's because I'm considered to be sane by a few people in the building, and you aren't.”He snaps his finger's, like that sounds right to him.
“No it's a gender thing. It's because I'm a woman.”
“A woman with sanity issues.”

“Books,” I say, but then he stops cold just outside of FBI headquarters.
“You wanted this, not me,” he snaps. “ I'm trying to get you something you want. Why can't you just be happy about it without analyzing it to death?”
Yowza. That's a little more hostility than I would have expected. He brushes past me. We give our names in the lobby. There was a time when each of us could flash a badge and walk on through. Now we're visitors, Books by design and me against my will.
“Just a moment,” says the woman at reception. Books clasps his hands behind his back. It's always little things that bring back memories. He always held himself that way when he was on the job, always the formality. Get him alone and he could have me in stitches, but to work with him, you'd think he was a typical humorless agent, Joe Friday, just the facts, ma'am. I used to make fun of him, in happier days, clasping my hands like him, walking like a robot and saying, Yes, ma'am, no, sir.
“Remeber, Emmy, this is my meeting.” Books turns and looks at me.
“ I'll be good. Pinkie promise.”
“ I'm not a girl . So I don't know what the hell that means.”
“But you do have a pinkie, don't you?”
He sighs. “ it better mean that we do this my way.”
“ That's what it means. I wouldn't have it any other way, Books.”
He lets out an exasperated grunt that tells me he doesn't believe me. He knows how high-maintenance I can be.

“ You're the big man,” I tell him. “ I'm the little girl carrying your bag.”
“ You're not carrying my bag.”
“ But I will, if you want.”
We get our visitor badges from the receptionist, our bags are thoroughly checked, and we head to the elevators.
“ You're full of vinegar today,” Books says. He's right. I'm hyped up, anxious, and this is how I'm compensating. This is the most important meeting I've ever had, so much is at stake, and here I am cracking wise.
“ You understand that even getting this meeting is a favor,” Books says.
“ I do.”
Books shoots me a look before we step into the elevator. He won't speak, not a word, as we rise.
It's one of his rules, his super-secret-spy mind-set. No discussing business Infront of strangers.
But I know what he wants to say. I strung those two words together again: I do.
In my defense, I did break it off three months in advance. We got back the deposit on the banquet hall and the invitations hadn't gone out yet. I wonder if Books would consider that consolation? I'm guessing... Not.
We give our name to some woman, and she shows us down the hall to one of the big conference rooms used by FBI director William Moriarty.
I can see Books tense up as we approach the room. This is the first time he's returned since he handed in his papers— over the director's objection— the first time he's roamed these galls with the thin carpeting and cheap artwork and the air of intensity, the thrilling whiff of the chase, hunting bad guys and keeping the nation safe. This can't be easy for him. I've asked for alot from him, not that I deserve any courtesy from him whatsoever after what I did to him. Mental note: Books is good people.
I mean, he not only got a meeting, he got one with the top dog. He managed to bypass my boss, the Dick, who clearly would have shot it down if he had the chance. I'm glad he won't be in this meeting.
The door opens. Standing at the end of a long table is Director Moriarty, flanked on his left by his chief of staff, Nancy Parmaggiore.
And to his right, the executive assistant director for the Criminal, Cube, Response, and Services Branch. Also known as Julius Dickinson. Also known as the Dick.
“Shit,” I whisper, as Books gently shoves an elbow into me.