fine, but I’ll drive
For once, instead of getting into a car he sent, I make my own way to his condo and park my old Honda on the dark street outside. Mark Winterson comes out onto his front steps and stops to stare at my car, light from his doorway framing him from behind.
“That’s what you drive?” He puts an arm around me when I get close. “We’ll have to do something about that.”
But he turns on the charm again, and I almost forget about the weird dissonant moments lately. He puts on rugby and attempts to explain it while he cuddles up on the couch beside me, and I cut in with as many bad jokes as possible, and he plants kisses all over my face.
“Man, I could never live in the UK,” I say, listening to the commentators. “I think the accents are too funny. And too attractive! I’d be inappropriately laughing all the time, and also in love with everyone.”
“It’s settled, then,” he says, enveloping me in a bear hug, likehe’s going to physically stop me from leaving. “You’re staying right here.”
When I wake up in the morning, Mark Winterson is gone already, and I sweep a hand over the high-thread-count sheet beside me. There’s a note on the nightstand.
Had an early meeting. Sorry work’s been crazy. There’s croissants and coffee in the kitchen.
I’ll be back later—stay and we’ll get lunch.
I brace myself and open Slack, checking to see if Mom is still there. And when she responds to myGood morning!,a rush of despair hits me.
Fuck.I am running out of things to try! Why isn’t anything working?
I’m beside myself, mind racing, overwhelmed—and I can’t even talk to anyone about it, since Greg is barely answering my texts.
There is stillBE CLOSER TO FAMILY,which I leapfrogged over, before I go completely back to the drawing board.
With a pang of guilt over leaving my cousin on read for a week, I quickly tap out a reply to Trisha:Yes, I’ll be there!
you better!she writes back. It makes me laugh.
But when I try to picture bringing Mark Winterson to see my family in San Diego, the stress in my body ratchets up. It’s a visceral reaction, instant, like the snap of a rubber band.Not happening.Maybe it’s just too soon.
I lie there staring at the ceiling, painted a pale shade of gray that’s probably got a name withpebbleordovein it. And the memory I’d shoved down tumbles over in my head: how hegrabbed my wrist, suddenly stormy, adamant about me not going through his things.
What is he hiding?
I slide out of bed, bare feet on the fluffy white rug by the bedside.Time to snoop!
I peek through his closets filled with pressed shirts and suits, ears straining for sounds of him returning, ready to scramble and put everything back the way I found it at a moment’s notice.
I pad barefoot down to the living room, scanning Mark Winterson’s bookshelves, thinking about when I’d spy on Greg’s reading habits from a distance.
It all starts out normal enough, but the further I get, the more the sinking feeling deepens. Some classics. Some hefty novels I’ve always vaguely intended to read at some point.Infinite Jest.Freedom.The literary Jonathans. A couple books by Jack Welch—the titleJack: Straight from the Gutmakes me snort. Some Nietzsche. F. A. Hayek. Milton Friedman. The complete works of Ayn Rand. Margaret Thatcher’s memoir.
Hmm.
On the kitchen counter, there’s a bunch of papers tossed around haphazardly, like he was searching for something and left in a hurry. A folder peeks out from underneath the pile, and I slide it out and flip it open, trying to remember the exact configuration he left all this in so I can re-create it later.
There’s a bunch of official-looking documents—Articles of Incorporation,the papers say—and my cheeks burn with the knowledge that I should probably not be rifling through these. But it’s strange. They’re for a bunch of different companies with similar names.GERBO I LLC, GERBO II LLC, GERBO III LLC.It’s a thick stack; there must be at least a dozen here.
How many companies does this guy have? Why does he need all of these? Is this some normal business thing I don’t understand?
I’m sensing my limits here—a liberal arts person who lets the world turn without understanding what makes it happen. That whole money layer of everything that flies over my head.
The sinking feeling gets deeper while I slide the folder back where I found it.
When I finish and glance at my phone, the message on my screen gives me a start.
sampaguita72:
