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The meeting was with Dr. George Tiernan, who was the head of the network of clinics mine was a part of—Dr. Weldman obviously had more influence than he thought he did. His office was downtown, right by North Beach, with Coit Tower looking down at us from the top of Telegraph Hill. I felt completely fucking out of place, but it was just one meeting. I could get through it. I had a plan.
Gwen walked next to me as I entered the building, bumping my shoulder with hers. “Ready?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. I even had a leather bag with file folders in it. Inside the file folders were the pages outlining how my proposed charity would work, including proof of my government and IRS non-profit paperwork. Three weeks of work in one small briefcase.
Gwen was wearing a demure dark pencil skirt that skimmed her knees, heels, a buttoned blouse, and a fitted sweater. Her blonde hair was styled—she’d done something or other with a curling iron—and she had makeup on. She looked smart and businesslike, but she also managed to look like a dirty fantasy at the same time. Or maybe that was just to me.
George Tiernan was in his late forties, a slim, fit man with that salt-and-pepper hair women love. He wore no wedding ring and his eyes lit up with pleasant surprise when Gwen shook his hand. She took no notice.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m Gwen Maplethorpe, Head of Fundraising and Public Relations for Real Heroes. This is Max Reilly, Real Heroes’ founder and president.”
The smile he gave her—and, by extension, me—was genuine, and he shook my hand warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you two. Please sit down.”
Head of Fundraising and Public Relations. That had been Gwen’s idea. But that isn’t a real job, I’d said. Her reply was, How the hell does he know it isn’t a job? I’ll have it printed on a business card. The card she handed George Tiernan right now. He took it and nodded without a single question.
It worked. I took the papers from my briefcase, and we laid them out on the desk, going through everything. Tiernan asked questions—sometimes of me, and sometimes of Gwen. I answered pretty well, but when I went silent or got stuck, Gwen simply stepped in. She smiled at him. She made light jokes and laughed at his. She talked up the idea. In short, she sold it.
She was a natural. Tiernan thought he was talking to a seasoned PR professional who had been doing the job for years, not a former stripper who had just started a night course. She made it look like this half-assed idea, that I’d first pitched t
o my PTSD therapist with a spoon and a couple of shakers, was detailed and well thought out. The idea was mine, but she gave it a polish I could never have given it in a hundred years.
It didn’t hurt that she was fucking gorgeous. It wasn’t lost on Tiernan, either, not by a long shot. He had no idea Gwen was anything more to me than an employee, and he was practically staring while trying to stay professional. He was under her spell. He was distinguished, classy, well-heeled—probably the kind of guy Gwen should be with. But I didn’t give a fuck. She was mine.
“I’ll certainly review all of this,” he said toward the end of the meeting, when we’d laid it out for him. “But I’d like to know something from you, Mr. Reilly.” He turned to me. “What motivates you to do this?”
I frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I know you’re a veteran. But this is a big commitment, and a lot of money. Frankly, if it works out, it will likely take over your life.” He looked at me more closely than he had for the entire meeting. “Why this? Why now? Why do it at all?”
It sounded like one of Dr. Weldman’s bullshit questions, and I remembered that this guy was a doctor—likely a therapist himself. So I thought about it, and then I looked him in the eye.
“In the Marines,” I said, “they taught us that if you’re in a dangerous situation—say, a burning building—you get yourself out. But they also taught us that if you’re capable of getting yourself out of a situation like that, if you aren’t injured and you’re able to run, then you’re capable of reaching back and pulling out the guy behind you. And the guy behind him. And the guy behind him. If you can save yourself, the chances are you can save someone else. Maybe more than one.”
The room was quiet. Tiernan listened, his eyes on me.
“They don’t teach us what to do after we come home,” I said. “They leave you to figure it out for yourself. But I’m still a Marine in my head. I spent the four years since I’ve been home pulling myself out of my own personal burning building. And now I’m well enough that I can start pulling out the other guys. The guys who are still there.” I shrugged. “That’s the reason, I guess.”
No one said anything at first. Tiernan sat back in his chair. I risked a look at Gwen. She was staring at me, lips parted, eyes wide. She looked speechless.
“Well,” Tiernan said at last. “That’s a heartfelt answer. I’ll have to go over the logistics with a few of the other departments, like Finance and Legal, but I hope we can work something out.”
With that, he dismissed me and turned back to Gwen, smiling again. She seemed to come out of her stupor and chatted back as they wrapped up the meeting. She didn’t even react when he gave her his card with his personal cell phone written on the back—“in case you have any questions, any at all.” She just put the card in her purse as we stood to go.
We were silent as we left the building and rounded it to the small parking lot. I was suddenly exhausted. I reached the car first and tossed the briefcase into the back seat, then shrugged out of my jacket and tossed it in as well. Gwen still didn’t speak.
I turned and looked at her. She was standing there, watching me, the breeze lifting her hair from her shoulders. She was staring at me like she had something to say.
“Just say it,” I said, my voice tired. “You can go ahead. He’s a nice guy. Good-looking. A doctor. Easy to talk to. Has a good job. He even wears a suit, and he probably didn’t make anyone else pick it out for him. He always knows the right thing to say, and he gave you his number.”
“I love you,” she said.
I stared at her, stunned.
“I love you,” she said again, “and I want—I want everything. I want marriage and babies and a home. A life. And I want this.” She gestured to the building we just left. “I want Real Heroes to be real, and I want to be part of it. I don’t want a fake job description for a single meeting. I want to help you build it. I want it to be true.” I opened my mouth to say something, but she kept talking. “If you don’t want those things, you have to tell me now, because I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ve spent eight years not wanting anything. Telling myself I it was too risky. And now, after all that time, I want everything. With you.”
My heart had stopped. I could smell the ocean on the breeze that blew through the parking lot.
“I love you too,” I said. She made a little sound, quickly choked off, her knuckles white where she gripped her purse. Jesus. She wanted kids? I’d give her as many as she told me to. “I want all that stuff,” I said. “I do. You’re the only woman I want it with. I can’t imagine it with anyone else.”
