“Henry’s death shortly after the war presented a problem. No longer within the ambit of power, I needed to find a new patron. Luckily, I found two.”

The plan should have been a simple one to execute. Beatrice had cyber- and regular-stalked Frankie to such an extent that we had her daily routine down to a science. She worked at a social media marketing firm in midtown, got lunch from the same salad place every day across the street, got coffee from the same third-wave coffee shop every day at 3:30, spun three times a week at a studio redundantly called Velo Bike, worked out in her building’s gym the other days and frequented a number of different bars after work. One thing we hadn’t learned though was where the actual tattoo was, it being the beginning of December and all. So it was decided that our best chance at completing the Raid was to sign up for the same spin class as Frankie and isolate her in the locker room afterward.

But, unfortunately, we both underestimated the power of spin.

Picture trying to buy tickets to Phish but replace the potheads with status-obsessed women whose worth increases ever so slightly depending on where their spin bike is located and who reorganize their lives so that they are in front of a computer on Monday at 11:59 a.m. If I was more entrepreneurial, I’d build a bot that automatically signed people up for the most desirable bikes. Then I would charge $10/class for access and make a killing. Maybe after my Zelda speedrunning comeback crashes and burns.

I had met Beatrice in the park on a Wednesday morning, so we had one more chance to catch Frankie that week. That was, if we could even get bikes. From Beatrice’s research, we learned that Frankie only took classes with Lanie, who had over 90,000 Instagram followers and whose classes were booked up for the rest of the week.

Ugh. Maybe I should have written that bot.

We failed to get in off the waitlist for Thursday, which meant enduring the Russian roulette of the Monday noon sign-up. But as I told Beatrice a few minutes before go-time, our saving grace would be my fast finger and mouse movement, honed by years of speedrunning and coding.

Or so I thought. The clock struck noon and by 12:02, my defeat was sealed, as Lanie’s classes were completely booked. Not even the back corner was available. I nervously called Beatrice back to explain my failure and was greeted with a barrage of screaming. It took me a moment to realize though that she was yelling at her kid, not me. But after that tirade ended and I calmly explained that I had failed to sign us up for any class for the entire week, the line went completely silent. After repeating Beatrice’s name several times to see if she was still there, she finally responded:

“Fix it.”

Great, so nice to finally have a manager who leads by example.

My first back-up plan failed fast. I went down to Velo Bike an hour before Lanie’s 8 a.m. class to sweet talk our way in. It was snowing and cold and windy outside, but inside the spin studio, the bright green walls and lilac-scented air freshener painted a picture of spring.

I brushed the gray slush off my jacket and strode up to a receptionist wearing a matching bright green tank top. Even if we only got one spot in the class, I could still just hang out in the locker room until the end of the class. Or so I had hoped.

But the spinning gods had aligned against me in more ways than one.

First, the receptionist tritely explained that the waiting list was three figures deep, and owing to the equally three-figure cancellation fee, there was a better chance of someone discovering the Fountain of Youth than Beatrice getting into the class, let alone both of us.

I still had my back-up to the back-up plan though: sneaking into the locker room and ambushing Frankie. But that plan too went up in flames, when I realized that the locker room was inconveniently locked and the only way to gain access was through green key cards that all the regulars had.

Crap. Well, maybe I would get lucky and Frankie would just waltz into the studio without an overcoat and I would easily spot the tattoo. So I plopped myself down on one of the comfy green chairs and waited. And waited. And waited. The minutes seemed to drag on forever and I resisted the urge to stare at the time on my phone every five seconds. But finally, at 7:40, in walked Francesca “Frankie” Lewis.

She was sporting a full-length parka with a fur-lined hood and her red hair was done up in a high ponytail. I wanted to make up an excuse to go say hi to her, but quickly nixed that idea. Better to remain inconspicuous until it was absolutely necessary to initiate contact. Frankie waved to the receptionist, unlocked the locker room with her card, and then strode out of sight, leaving me to play the waiting game again.

Another hour passed, until finally the 8 a.m. spinners began streaming back out of the locker room. Finally, it was Frankie’s turn, but much to my consternation, she re-appeared wearing that same stupid parka, leaving any possibility of tattoo interception lost to me. I stared at her, hoping that my mind would come up with a crazy plan to complete the Raid, but all I could do was watch as she left the studio and walked into the squall outside.

I was about to crazily chase after her when I finally caught a break, as a gaggle of girls had emerged from the locker room, chattering so loudly that I couldn’t help but overhear.

“Jane, honey, you deserve better than him.”

“He’s not worth it.”

“I can’t believe Charlotte did-”

“Shh, don’t say it, Maria.”

The nexus of this conversation was a short, brown-haired woman walking in the middle of the cluster. Her face was red, most likely from the workout but I could also see tears streaming from her eyes. Even a breakup was not enough to stop someone from going to this spin class it seemed.

“I just want to go home and curl up in a ball until tomorrow’s class,” said Jane.

“Absolutely not,” said one of the other girls. “And I don’t know why you feel the need to go five days a week. You look amazing! We are taking you out tonight to make you forget all about-”

“Travis.”

“Yeah, Travis. See, I’ve almost forgotten it already. Ladies, we’ll reconvene at Muldoon’s at 7:30.”

The group continued offering words of encouragement to Jane as they too disappeared into the storm outside but a germ of an idea had formed in my head, and I texted Beatrice that tomorrow morning I would have a spot in Lanie’s class waiting for her.

They say that to know someone’s true name is to hold power over them. That made sense in the case of a dragon or some other mythical creature, but not for your average twenty-something woman living in Manhattan.

This was different though.

I knew her name, I knew her sorrow, and I knew I had to succeed in my task.

Jane was still alone when I walked into Muldoon’s and was sobbing silently to herself, no drink in sight. The bartender stood a few feet back, unsure if he should do something, so I pulled up a stool next to the downtrodden woman and waited for my opening. She continued staring off into space, not acknowledging my presence, until I motioned for the bartender.

“A rum and coke for my friend here and a Laphroaig 10 on the rocks for me please.”

“You got it,” said the bartender, who seemed happy that someone was taking responsibility for Jane. He returned shortly with the drinks, but the woman remained unresponsive.

“Rough day?” I said, putting on my best sympathy face.

Finally, Jane noticed me. She looked about ten times worse from when I saw her this morning, and that was after an hour-long workout. Her eyeliner had dribbled down the sides of her cheeks, her eyes were bloodshot, and the less said about her hair, the better.

“W-what? Oh, sorry. Y-yeah.”

“That’s for you,” I said, pointing to the rum and coke. “You look like you could use a drink. Or 20.”

Jane stared at the glass in front of her and then back at me.

“Do I know you from somewhere?”

“No, was just stopping in for a drink, noticed you were sitting here alone, and thought you could use some company.”

“T-thanks.”

Jane turned away from me and resumed her catatonic staring contest, before suddenly grabbing the rum and coke and chugging the whole thing in one sip.

“Wow,” I said. “You really needed that.”

The lifelessness had faded a little from her eyes, and Jane swiveled 90 degrees toward me on her stool.

“And I need another. Finish that drink and I’m buying the next one, umm, what did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t. It’s Jade.”

There was no sense in giving her my real name. Plus, I liked the thought of having a separate Quester identity for clandestine missions like these.

“Hi Jade, I’m Jane. I just found out my boyfriend has been sleeping with my best friend for the past year.”

“Yikes! And I thought I was having a bad day.” I gulped down my whiskey and set it aside. If we ended up getting plastered here, where Jane’s friends could show up any minute, I wouldn’t be able to stay with her all night to make sure she didn’t make it to spin tomorrow morning.

“You really don’t need to buy me a drink, but if you insist, let’s go somewhere with a little better vibe. This place reminds me of a bad college dive.” I put down a couple of bills on the bar and began ushering Jane out the door.

“U-umm OK. But I think some of my friends were coming here soon. Let me just--” Jane pulled out her phone and began texting the social circle from earlier.

“You mean the same friends who also are friends with this bitch who just betrayed you?”

Jane stopped texting and looked at me, as I continued moving her towards the exit.

“You’re right. I don’t need them. Let’s go get drunk.”

“That’s the spirit! Let’s do it!” I said.

And we did.

I woke up the next morning on an uncomfortable couch to a fire siren beeping in my ear.

It was six a.m. and my six p.m.-yesterday self thought it had been a good idea to pick the loudest, most piercing ringtone as an alarm. What my darling past self failed to realize, however, was that even after consuming most of the remaining hangover gummy, drinking almost two bottles of whiskey was not going to leave me in the best physical state to go spinning. Plus that alarm was so frakking loud, I thought the apartment was actually on fire.

I mashed my palm several times over the phone screen to stop the bleating and sat up slowly. The first conclusion I came to was that I was not in my apartment. The second conclusion was that I was not lying next to a random guy on said uncomfortable couch. The third conclusion, which came to me after the rest of the night snapped back into focus, was that I had actually done it. I was in Jane’s apartment, ready to convince her that I should go to spin class instead of her.

The place was silent, which was good, because the last thing I wanted to see was a chipper Jane making us coffee in her workout clothes before jetting off to class. I pushed myself off of the couch and crept along the creaky floor toward the bedroom.

The door was wide open and inside lay Jane, spread-eagle in the middle of a king-size bed, fast asleep wearing the same clothes from last night. I took a minute to survey the room. Pictures adorned the walls at various intervals. A short, brown-haired guy had his arms around Jane, their smiling faces gradually aging as I moved further into the room. They must have been high school sweethearts, I figured. In another picture, a girl with curly red hair and freckles was toasting a coconut drink with Jane on a beach somewhere, and I had a bad feeling that this girl was the infamous Charlotte. Jane’s old life was on display all around me, but there was nothing I could do for her right now. Except go to the spinning class so she wouldn’t be charged the cancellation fee.

I walked up to the bed and sat down on the edge.

“Hey girl, you alright?”

She didn’t respond. I pushed her gently on the shoulder, but still nothing. My pulse quickened for a second as I watched to see if Jane was still breathing. The slow rise and fall of her chest answered that question, and I let out a small sigh of relief.

“Umm, Jane? It’s me, uh, Jade. Time to get up.”

And time for me to get the hell out of there.

I sat there for longer than I should have, and if Jane had actually woken up to see me sitting over her, she probably would have screamed bloody murder. But she didn’t. So I did what any respectable guy did after a one-night stand: I stole her green spin ID and left a note.

“Hey Jane,

I hope you’re feeling better. Haven’t gotten that drunk in ages but it was fun. If you need to talk, you have my number.

XOXO,

Jade

PS: Oh and don’t worry about making it to spin. I know you were worried last night about not being able to make it, so I’ll go for you so you won’t get hit with the no-show fee.”

I left the note on top of her phone and pulled the Velo Bike card out of the sleeve on the phone case. When I set the phone back down, it sprang to life, revealing a string of texts from Jane’s actual friends.

“Jane u alright? Went to Muldoon’s but u weren’t there”

“Eff Travis and eff Charlotte. Those two deserve each other. Pls txt me, me and Maria went to find you last night at the bar but you were gone.”

Similar texts lined the rest of the screen and for the first time since I came up with this crazy plan, I stopped for a second to think about what I had done.

I had taken advantage of this woman, made her ignore her real friends, made her think that they didn’t care about her, and for what? So I could chase down a different woman and lie to her too? Any moral reckoning would have to wait though, because Jane started to stir. I tiptoed out of the bedroom, out of the apartment, and out of Jane’s life as quickly as I had entered it.