[A/N: I told you everything existed for
a reason. And if I recall correctly,
there was a certain reviewer a few chapters ago, who had made some eerily,
almost-accurate guesses regarding my plot.
If you're still reading this, I have to say that you haven't guessed the
exact details, but my plaudits to you, anyways.
And as usual, gracias to all my rad reviewers.
Calista-star: Why in the world are Michael and Mia separated, eh? Well, let's see… Michael's job forced the two
to live two separate lives for at least four years. Michael's horrid judgment at the end of those
four years brought some serious doubt between the two. Time passed with no contact between them, at least
six years. That's a really long while to
keep a long-distance relationship (with absolutely no keeping-in-touch) going,
don't you think? That's the way I've
always thought of it. But the whole
separation thing was just an obstacle.
Now it's my turn to see if I can bring them back together, or not. Hmm.
MelancholicPolarBear: You are unbelievably nice and I love you for it! I know I haven't thanked you before, but you
have been one awesome consistent reader; thanks for rocking my socks off. And yes, I agree that Michael could have made
a bigger effort. Heh.]
[edit] Oy vey. I just reread over this and realized that there was potentially too much cussing in here for my pitiful PG-13 rating. So I cleared it up some. Very sorry if I offended anyone in the first place. [/edit]
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Michael's POV
I hadn't gotten much sleep the past few nights, after that initial meeting with Mia, and I was practically dozing off when my department manager came by to give me a nice smack on the back of my head. (A/N: I'd love to see this in real life. It'd be beyond adorable.) "Wake up, Moscovitz, meeting for all tech guys on TPC in five minutes."
I groaned. The Parker Case, or TPC, as all the computer guys had dubbed the most recent project, had become a flopping failure, as every bit of information which we managed to find (which was definitely not enough) was useless. Morrison Parker seemed to have slipped through the web of cyberspace, and the tracks he left were minimal. It was highly discouraging.
I slumped my way to the round table in the first conference room and found the rest of my coworkers gathered around, looking equally excited. "About time, there, Michael," some of the guys snickered, and I grabbed a seat towards the door, not bothering to counter their slurs.
Our manager thundered in, moments later, looking genuinely thrilled, unlike the rest of us. "Don't thank me, but I've finally figured out why your results have been so unsuccessful." His booming voice resonated throughout the cramped room, and everyone began to raise their eyebrows. The place reeked of skepticism.
"Oh, really?" I yawned, but the manager ignored me.
"You'd be surprised. I need all of you to write this down. Our suspect, Morrison Parker, has cleverly hidden himself in New York for the time being. And that, my computer geek friends, was where we made our mistake. His name's Morrison Parker, yes. But that's not what he goes by these days, and you definitely won't find anything under that. He's scraping by with some alias, and that damn fake name of his has kept him hidden for the last two years."
A handful of jaws scraped the carpeted floor. "You've got to be kidding me," I sputtered, realizing that the last couple days of work had been absolutely worthless. My manager shook his head, a hint of an apologetic look on his face, and he paused to glance down at a notepad in front of him.
"I wish I was. But back to business, fellows. And you too, Moscovitz. Write this down, each and every one of you. He goes by the name of Minge. Conor Minge."
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I arrived at my apartment building in high spirits, internally rejoicing about the leads we had picked up at work that day. Arriving at the rows of mailboxes right outside the main door, I thrust my box key into the lock, and out tumbled my mail collection for the past couple days. Picking up the bills and letters, the junk advertisements, and my Rolling Stone Magazine, I climbed the steps up to the second floor, where I let myself inside my apartment. I threw myself onto the couch, and flipped through everything, and a slightly heavy envelope fell into my lap. Slowly, I picked it up, turning it over so that I could take a look at the return address.
Mia Thermopolis.
I grinned and tore it open immediately. I had been planning on giving her a call after dinner that night, just to see how life was going, and I quickly tried to remember where I had last put my cell phone as I dumped the contents of the letter out. I froze.
A slender, silver chain came tumbling out, along with a tiny post-it note. The handwriting seemed almost uncertain, scratched out in almost too-precise cursive, the pink paper splotched in one corner… as if it had gotten wet at one point in time. My breathing sped up, and I squinted as my eyes scanned the tiny slip.
"Don't bother," it read.
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Mia's POV
I forced myself to never look back after I dropped the letter in the mailbox.
I wanted, so badly, to erase his number and address in my "cell phonebook", but I couldn't bring myself to do so. It wouldn't be fair. No, what was I saying? My finger hovered over the "delete" button. I clamped my eyes shut, barely noticing the apartment phone ringing in the background, and bit my lip in anticipation. 'Leave it alone, Mia. That's the last bit of Michael that's left in you, and you know that you don't want to let it go.' I turned my phone off instead, and threw it back into my purse as I sprawled out onto my bed.
"I love you, Friday nights," I whispered.
"Mia! Hey, Mia!" I sprung up and craned my neck to look out my open bedroom door. Renee stood at the end of the hall, spatula in hand, and gave me a sly grin. "Conor just called."
I opened my mouth in protest. "Renee! What the crap? Why didn't you hand the phone over?"
She doubled over with laughter. "He told me not to. Because he's coming over in an hour to pick you up for dinner. He's taking you somewhere nice." She pitifully stared at the spatula in her hand. "Oh well, this gives me an excuse to add some meat to the stir fry I was trying to make, and I guess I'll just be forced to invite Rob over. He'll definitely want to drop by."
"Ow, ow, Renee! What's happening with him?"
"My lips are sealed, girl. You better get ready. Chop, chop." She disappeared back into the kitchen, and I flung open the door of my closet, only to face piles of old t-shirts and faded jeans. 'I knew I should've done the laundry yesterday.' Darn it.
It took me a while to find something decent for the type of restaurants Conor tended to take me out to, but I triumphed in the end. Quickly tying my hair into a messy bun of some sort and whipping a layer of gloss across my lips, I grabbed my purse and floated out of my room just as the doorbell rang. I winked at Renee, who was on the phone (no doubt it was Rob), and opened the door for my boyfriend.
"Hey," I said softly, glancing up at his face. "How're you doing?"
Conor tousled my hair slightly and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Things are all right. And you?"
I let out a soft laugh. "Things confuse me sometimes, you know? But I think I'll find my way out in the end. Thanks for dropping by."
He put his arm around me and guided me out into the hall and down the steps. "Completely my pleasure, you know? I'm starving, and I found this great new place over by 38th Street. Shall we go, milady?"
I smiled as he leaned in and gave me a quick kiss on my nose. Yes, this was the way things were meant to be.
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Dinner dates with Conor always went smoothly, and this was no exception. "Care for dessert?" he asked as our plates were quickly cleared away. I opened up the tiny sweets menu and scanned it, but he whisked the lavish silk-covered list away from me. "Not here, I don't like the desserts here. Too much icing. And ridiculous prices. The Coffee Hut's a block away, what do you say?"
I stood up and winked. "I'm all for it. Relive those memories from years past, huh?"
He nodded, grinning, and after he had paid for the meal (in cash, for gosh sakes, one of his most peculiar habits), we left for the cozy café down the street, arm in arm.
Questions began flooding my mind as we strolled down the semi-bustling street. "Conor?"
"Yeah, Mia?"
"What do you have in mind for our… future?" I let it all out, then held my breath, unsure of what he would respond with.
"What do you mean?"
"You know. You think we'll ever get married?"
I looked into his face and I saw him muttering something underneath his breath, his face clouding over. "In all honesty, Mia, not to offend you or anything, but I haven't really… haven't really thought about that…"
I nodded. "Is the whole princesss/royalty thing that's on your mind? You don't like that, do you? I know you don't. I know how much your job means to you…"
He was silent.
"And the publicity? That's on your mind, too, I bet. I know you hate publicity, you hate showing your name or face in public, you'd much rather stay anonymous. I'm so sorry, Conor, I'm sorry that so many strings come attached with getting to know me…"
He grabbed my shoulders and stopped walking, and silenced me with the most passionate kiss between us in the last two years. We stood there, in the middle of the sidewalk, for what seemed like an eternity, until neither of us could breathe and he gazed into my face. "It's not that, Mia, don't take it that way," he whispered. "Yeah, the publicity makes me nervous and all, but I really do love you. Things are just complicated with me right now, and I'm going to need to sort things out first. You know? I love you, Mia, remember that, all right? Regardless of anything, I'm always thinking about you…"
His voice trailed off, and I could tell something serious was on his mind, but I didn't bother to ask.
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Michael's POV
I was stunned. "Don't bother?" I yelled at the top of my lungs. "Don't bother?!"
I rummaged through my coat pockets, and pulled out my cell phone. In a most hasty manner, I speed-dialed her cell phone first. Nothing. I cussed underneath my breath as I realized that she must've turned it off. I furiously punched in the number to her apartment.
"Hello?" It was a female that answered the phone, but most definitely not Mia.
"I need to talk to Mia," I sputtered. Manners were of the least importance at the moment.
"Who is this?"
"This is Michael… fuck, just let me talk to Mia!"
The voice on the other end seemed startled. "She's not home right now, can I take a message?"
"Where the hell is she?"
"She's gone out for dinner with her boyfriend," the voice stated, almost matter-of-factly.
Caught completely off guard, I shook my head, and stuttered into the phone, "I'll call later, thanks." With that, I immediately hung up, my thoughts firing into overdrive.
"Crap," I said to no one in particular. Was this all a joke to you, Mia? Don't I count for anything these days?
Things were not going the way I had planned, and I slowly shut my eyes. Chill down, Moscovitz. Breathe. It'll all work out. But for the time being, I needed time to cool down, time to think. I needed caffeine. Without a second thought, I gathered up my files for work, grabbed my coat, and headed out the door to pay a visit to The Coffee Hut.
Because I deserved it.
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"A mug of black coffee with one sugar cube, please."
A girl with jet-black hair and honey almond eyes took my order and rang it up. I grabbed the cup as soon as she set it down, almost startling her, and gulped it down. I felt the scalding liquid burn my mouth and throat, felt the tingle it sent through my body. When I couldn't take any more, I stopped drinking, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. (A/N: Quick author's note. More like a warning. Michael gets a tad bit sappy. Please excuse him. He's not feeling too well. Har har.)
"Next, please," the cashier-girl timidly called out. She looked at me. "Excuse me, sir…"
I backed away from the counter, my cheeks burning, and slumped over to a table in the back. I stared out the glass windows, into the sunset, laughing at my pitiful self. "What a screwed up life this is."
It was insane how Mia distracted me so much. She's just a girl, Moscovitz. Why all the fuss?
"She's not just any girl, dammit! She's Mia! She's beyond amazingly special!" I buried my head in my arms, feeling like I could write a trashy pop song that Mia would tend to listen to. Something Felix would get a kick out of. What the crap. This was worse than that fateful hangover back in Hawaii. I needed sleep. Cold water. More coffee.
It was obvious. I needed Mia.
A group of teenagers sat at a table near mine, and I heard them repressing giggles and deep-throated laughs. "Estranged dude in a midlife crisis," one of them muttered, which sent the entire group into another fit of giggles. I rolled my eyes and shut them out of my system. If only you knew.
In the back of my conscious mind, I heard the door to the café open, and almost instinctively, I whipped my head around and tiredly glanced at the bubbly couple that had stepped through the doors. My eyes clouded over, and I cringed. Young love in all its finest.
"So, what'll it be, princess?" The guy was overly flattering, his deep voice a tad bit too loud, and he swept into a bow as she scanned the choices in front of her.
"I don't know, Conor, anything you can recommend for dessert? And stop calling me that."
"The chocolate mousse cake. Just a slice. With a dabble of whipped cream. You'd love it." The girl laughed, almost musically, throwing her head back. "Yes, sir." They stood there, for a quiet second, and she broke the silence. "You can order now, you know."
It was the guy's turn to laugh, and he saluted the girl that stood next to him. "Yes, Princess Mia. Your wish is my command."
She punched his arm, playfully, and retorted, "Stop it, Mr. Conor Minge."
I felt my eyes widening, to the extent where I felt they might pop out of their sockets, and everything instantly seemed to clear up. The room came into focus, and the burning sensation in my mouth was temporarily forgotten. It was a crystal clear image before me: Mia Thermopolis, having the time of her life (looking quite stunning, as usual), with her boyfriend. A boyfriend that had given her an exorbitant ring. A boyfriend that seemed better than myself.
A boyfriend whose name was Conor Minge.
Conor Minge.
It was as if the clock stopped running. This was not possible. Out of all things, out of all the choices in the world, this was not how things were supposed to go. I quickly turned back to the half-empty mug on my table, unable to observe their antics, unable to be in this room at this exact moment with the very knowledge and connections that my brain was making. I scooped up my coffee, tossing it into a garbage can and slipped out into the cool evening, taking one quick glance back at the "happy couple".
I found myself heading back to work, sorely hoping that the building wasn't locked up for the night, and I gratefully slipped in through the front doors, scanned my ID into the slot by the doors to the offices, and rushed over to my computer. I whispered a quick 'thank you' to nobody in particular and flopped into my chair.
I pounded in a simple search on the system's database for four keywords, "stock", "market", "Conor", and "Minge" and sat back as the results popped onto the screen before me. My hand tightly gripped the mouse, and I randomly clicked on a few of the results, scanning the tidbits of information, reading more and more about his alleged crimes. My head spun, but I gritted my teeth and charged forward.
"Stock market suspect… moneymaking fiend… here we go." I paused, eyeing the document before me, before reading on. "Physical description… blue eyes and brown hair, roughly 5'11"… no plastic surgery done, retains original physique…"
No plastic surgery? I held back a scornful laugh; one of the biggest financial frauds had escaped the clutch of the authority without bothering to alter his physical looks. It was embarrassing to my industry, but it was still something odd to think about.
The scene back at The Coffee Hut played through in my mind. Mia, arm draped over a rather tall man, with brown hair and piercing blue eyes… the two laughing… ready to order some chocolate cake. "Stop it, Mr. Conor Minge," her liquid voice had mocked.
Mr. Conor Minge.
I bit my lip, as the blatant facts came tumbling into place with no room for an alternate explanation. It can't be, it can't be. This isn't right. Mia couldn't have possibly replaced me with the highly wanted stock market suspect of the decade. She wouldn't have. She'd never choose wrong over right. Somebody as wonderful as Mia Thermopolis couldn't have been close friends with this scumbag. I couldn't understand. Unless…
There was no way Minge would have told Mia about his background.
It suddenly made so much sense. I had occasionally wondered why Mia's new relationship hadn't surfaced in the media, as ours had back in the day. Of course it couldn't have. He would have refused to share his juicy past, and Mia, being the respecting and trusting person she was born to be, wouldn't have pushed it farther.
It was him. I had seen Conor Minge with my own eyes tonight, and I was now this close to getting him into the office for questioning. Victory for Michael Moscovitz. My manager would be so darn proud, and this month's paycheck would show it. But amidst my joy and rapture, another image popped into my head, forcing my heart to plummet into my stomach.
A late-night dinner date, culminating at The Coffee Hut for dessert. Mia Thermopolis, laughing and enjoying herself with her boyfriend. Her boyfriend named Conor Minge.
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