She claims she has a doctor’s appointment she forgot about, but it seems contrived.
I invent a meeting with investors from Vilnius. She doesn’t question it. Her weekend is “full” with vague events with her mother, and mine is nothing but work catch-up.
We both clearly need some space.
Our parting lingers in my troubled mind as Gerald pulls away from the airport, the other limo disappearing with a finality that makes me sick. We’re not on bad terms. Not even a bit.
Ridiculous.
That comment, though. Might as well tell me I’m bad in bed. Both are about as true, and both are distinctly impossible.
“Sir?” Gerald asks. “How was Vegas?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Pretend I didn’t, sir.” He smirks. The guy has worked for us for years. I don’t know much about him, other than the fact that he was a Navy SEAL and he teaches art on the side. Dad likes to hire chauffeurs with military or law enforcement backgrounds. We haven’t had a safety issue since I started working for Anterdec, so this is one of my father’s policies I plan to continue.
“What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” I add, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Anything new here?”
“No, sir.”
“How goes the art project at the community center?” Declan’s closer to Gerald, and helped secure a grant from our company’s foundation for a proposal initiated by Gerald.
The guy shaves his head and has a face that shows a violent life. Crooked nose, deep scar below his right ear into the jaw, and a hardness in the lines of his face. He’s built like a nuclear bunker.
But when he smiles, he becomes a marshmallow.
“The kids love it. The pottery wheels and kiln make a huge difference. Some of the kids are preparing to sell their works at a juried art show. Another one got accepted into a full-tuition summer program for art camp.”
“That’s great.”
“And your brother has offered to model again for my classes. Not for a while, but this fall, after the honeymoon.”
I groan. Gerald laughs. “What’s my brother trying to prove?”
Gerald wisely shrugs and goes silent for the rest of the trip to my place.
I spend the night alone with my laptop. It doesn’t mind being married to me. My laptop is the perfect wife, actually.
It turns on whenever I want it.
It greets me by name.
It remembers everything.
A few strokes of my fingers and it gives me anything I demand.
It doesn’t talk back.
I am one floor below the penthouse apartment, overlooking the Seaport District. Lights blink in the distance, different colors from boats sending signals I can’t read. Just like women.
I am on top of the world, the city sprawled before me in an endless series of lights in motion, as if its energy exists solely to serve me. Scores of square miles of industry and commerce, tourism and entertainment, financial and educational institutions dotting the cityscape, each representing a system designed to serve.
Serve people. Markets. Government policy.
And I am empty.
She’s happy we’re not married. Relieved. No equivocation. No questioning. She views it all as one big mess we untangled ourselves from. Whew. Thank God.
We’re free.
She’s not wrong. My left hand is heavy. It carries the weight of my own expectations, curled into my palm like a fragile fruit, one that bruises easily but tastes like ambrosia. I can stand here in the dark, wine glass in hand, and own the world that stretches before my eyes.
And every bite of victory tastes bitter.
You know what that is?
That’s right.
Ridiculous.
By Monday morning I’m in the office, buried under paperwork, three hours of conference calls under my belt and a raging hard-on that keeps banging against the shards of my cracked heart. Restlessness does not come naturally to me. As kids, Declan was the one who twitched and fidgeted, his deep calm as an adult a characteristic he acquired as a result of the rush of puberty and growth.
My fingers strum my desktop. My foot won’t stop bouncing. My pants are tight. My wedding ring taps out a sickly Morse code that I can’t decipher, but if I were a betting man, I’d guess it’s saying something about Amanda.
Who hasn’t answered my latest text. Twenty minutes without an answer is, well...
Ridiculous.
My executive assistant, Gina, is new. While Declan got Grace a few years ago, I’m stuck with a string of temps.
Why? It’s not because I’m an asshole.
I am particular.
It occurs to me for the first time that Declan’s resignation could result in a big coup for me. Grace. I can finally have Grace all to myself. She’s smart and hilarious, motherly and hardened, and she manages details like a drill sergeant.
I smile. Plus, Dec will have a cow if I snipe his longtime admin.
I smile wider.
My phone rings. Gina. “Mr. McCormick? It’s Gina?” Every sentence Gina utters sounds like a question. Either she’s the most uncertain woman on the planet, or she’s from California.
“Yes. I know. You programmed your number into my phone, Gina. I see it on caller display. No need to ID yourself.”
“Oh? Oh, right? Well, I’m calling because your father has issued an edict for the removal of—”
“An edict?”
“That was his term, sir? Not mine?”
“Tell me about this edict,” I say, in a voice that makes it clear I’m not going to like it.
“Mr. McCormick—er, senior—says that Mr. McCormick—uh, Mr. Declan McCormick—is to have all Anterdec privileges revoked, effective immediately, and security needs to escort him out of the building with, um...?”