Attachments by Rainbow Rowell Page A

they’d hacked the firewalls and were running instant messaging and Napster on their computers. He told Greg, but Greg said he didn’t give a shit as long as he still had a job on January 1.
    No one on the Strike Force had interoffice e-mail, so no one was monitoring them. Sometimes Lincoln wondered if anyone was monitoring his own mail. Maybe Greg, he thought, but it didn’t really matter because Greg was the only one who ever sent him messages.

CHAPTER 19
    From: Beth Fremont
To: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder
Sent: Wed, 09/22/1999 2:38 PM
Subject: Roo-ah-rooo-ahhh.
    Roo-ah-rooo-ahhh.
    <> What’s that?
    <> It’s the Cute Guy Alarm.
    <> It sounds like a bird.
    <> There’s a cute guy working here.
    <> No, there isn’t.
    <> I know, that was my first response, too. I thought he must have come in from the outside, a repairman, perhaps, or a consultant. That’s why I waited for two confirmed sightings before sounding the Cute Guy Alarm.
    <> Is this Cute Guy Alarm something you made up with your eighth-grade friends? Do I need to be wearing Guess overalls to understand this?
    Also—confirmed by whom?
    <> Confirmed by me. I know a cute guy when I see him. Remember when I told you about the cute messenger? (And I just now made up the alarm. It felt necessary.)
    <> Oh, that messenger was cute.
    <> And that’s why he didn’t last. This place can’t sustain cuteness, I don’t know why. It’s cuteness-cursed.
    <> You’re very cute.
    <> Oh, I was. Once. Before I came to this decuteing factory. Look around you. We journalists are a homely lot.
    <> Matt Lauer isn’t homely.
    <> Now, that is a matter of opinion. (And I can’t believe you went straight to Matt Lauer. Have you seen Brian Williams?) Regardless, TV journalists don’t count; cute is their job. There’s no reason to look pretty in print journalism. Readers don’t care if you’re cute. Especially not my readers. The only time I’m out in public, I’m sitting in the dark.
    <> Now that you mention it, I haven’t worn lipstick to work in three years.
    <> And you’re still too cute for the copy desk.
    <> Damn me with faint praise, why don’t you.
    Tell me more about this cute guy you’ve imagined.
    <> There’s not much to tell—beyond his monumental cuteness.
    <> Monumental?
    <> He’s very, very tall. And strong-looking. Like the kind of guy you feel standing next to you before you actually see him, because he’s blocking so much ambient light.
    <> Is that how you spotted him?
    <> No, I spotted him the first time walking down the hallway. And then I spotted him at the drinking fountain—and I thought to myself, “Now there’s a tall drink of water …getting a drink of water.” He has really nice brown hair and action-hero facial features.
    <> Explain.
    <> Manly. Kind of square. Harrison Fordish. The kind of guy you can picture negotiating for hostages and also jumping away from an explosion.
    Do you think it’s scandalous that someone in a committed relationship like mine is checking out guys at the drinking fountain?
    <> No. How could you not notice a cute guy around here? That’s like spotting a passenger pigeon.
    <> A passenger pigeon with a sweet ass.
    <> Why did you have to go there?
    <> To bug you. I didn’t even look at his butt. I never remember to do that.
    <> I’m going back to work now.
    <> You seem a little testy. Is everything okay?
    <> I’m fine.
    <> See what I mean?