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“I know romance, Mr. Cox, and I assure you—nothing is romantic about this surprise.”
Picking up the mantle while I started downing every champagne glass that glided past, Delia officially jumped on the bandwagon.
“What did you say, Mrs. Stone?” Delia rubbed my nose in it. “That it would seem insensitive and opportunistic?”
“And a smidge obsessive,” Jessie added, drumming her blood red talons on her bicep. Arms crossed. Judging me. It seemed to be how things worked with us. I was surprised she hadn’t commented on how many glasses of champagne I’d chugged, because I had no doubt that she was keeping track. “And I can assure you, watching her from afar isn’t helping your case. The damage is done, you should get whatever it is that you couldn’t share via email, text, or phone, over with.”
I didn’t have a retort ready, and it didn’t matter because Jessie ended the conversation in her usual manner, by just disengaging altogether. She did me and Delia a solid by at least giving us a crisp nod, then stomped off to berate someone else.
I swiped another glass, stealing a look past the velvet curtains backstage, past the women who were waiting for me to re-emerge, with bated breath. The thing was, their attention was the last thing I was searching for. None of the pictures, or the ‘I love you Jason!’s that had turned my statement of support for The Women’s Collective into ‘blah blah blah’ was why I decided to accompany Delia.
“I came for Natalee,” I said out loud, my tone bristling with a flash of dejection when Natalee glanced toward the stage and scowled, like she’d heard my words and was calling bullshit.
“Want some advice?” Delia offered, waving away the server before I could grab another glass.
“No.”
“It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself,” she said, ignoring my decline of her input. “You keep saying you came for Natalee, but is that really true? You found out her schedule, you saw this event and reached out to Jessie, and you wrote a cheek.”
“A check that basically covers The Women’s Collective’s operating budget for several years,” I grumbled, pacing back and forth. Not ready to listen because I was too busy nursing my bruised ego. Definitely not ready to admit that there were a whole lot of you’s that she just laid out. “I was trying to do something good.”
“Do you want a medal? A parade?” Delia didn’t shake her head, but I knew she was tempted. Wanted to hang her head and write me off as a lost cause to mankind. “That alone is proof that you did it for yourself. You donated that money so they’d have no choice but to be welcoming to the man who had to give his two cents at a conference about women’s empowerment. Because you wanted to look good. Because you want Natalee to forgive you, whether she’s ready to do so or not.” Her voice took on a softer tone. “You have to ask yourself: is this about her, or is this about you?”
I stopped pacing, but my head was spinning - and it had nothing to do with the champagne. I had all my excuses, all my supportive arguments for why I should-
I stopped myself before I got in too deep, shifting my gaze to an empty chair because I didn’t want to look at Delia, because then I’d have to admit that maybe she had a point.
I was the kind of man that was a fan of a sink or swim approach. I jumped into the deep end. Sometimes I swam like Michael Phelps, and sometimes I sank like a stone.
Like when you drowned in all the disappointed stares after your toast at the wedding.
Like Natalee’s face, creased with sorrow and disgust when you couldn’t remember her name. At this rate, she was probably wishing your paths had never crossed.
I was coming to terms with the idea that I sucked at this dating thing. Almost as badly as I sucked at asking for help. Especially when it had been less that a week since our last conversation on this very subject and I was either stubborn, or beyond help.
I gathered what was left of my pride, peeling off my blazer and feeling more like myself. More in control. Even the button down shirt felt like I was playing dress up; playing the role of the respectable businessman. Wearing my father’s favorite disguise when I knew I was most comfortable in a t-shirt and jeans.
At least I had the jeans part down. Something authentic...other than the fact that I was truly sorry.
“This was a horrible idea.” I acquiesced finally, shaking my head.
Delia could have made me marinate in my defeat, but she just shrugged. “What’s done is done. She’ll either think you’re more drama than you’re worth, or she’ll see that you’re just being a guy. Impatient, stubborn, and utterly missing the point.”
I frowned. “And what point is that?”
“That you don’t need to try so hard,” Delia sighed, like it should have been obvious. “She likes you.”
I wasn’t entirely convinced of that. “This is what liking me looks like? Ignoring me? The pinched and painful smile on her face?”
Delia looked ready to pull out her hair by the fistful. “I’ll be right back.”
Still trying to put together what her plan was, my eyes widened when her intentions became clear.
She was aimed in the direction of the Madison Creations table.
My gut did a slip knot combination as I tried to refrain from reading lips, body language, anything that would give me a spoiler for what came next. I debated heading over myself, no fan of my assistant taking matters into her own hands. This wasn’t junior high and I wasn’t a pimple faced, braces wielding freshman, pining over the star quarterback.
I took a step toward the opening between the curtains and turned to stone when I realized that Natalee was handing Delia an apron.
