“My turn?”
“Come on, you’re not that drunk. Tell me something about yourself that no one knows.”
“Hmmm. . . I’m not sure you’ll still like me if I do.”
20
Penelope
I don’t know why I made that so dramatic. Maybe I’m feeling the alcohol—I’ve always been a lightweight. But if I’m being honest, I’m nowhere near being drunk, my defenses are just starting to come down. My attempts to block out the disturbing conversation I had with my ex are slowly fading away, and the words he said to me are starting to echo.
“What do you mean?” It’s a normal question he’s asking me—and one I practically had a fishing rod out to get him to ask.
“I think I hate Chandler. No. I hate him, and I hate myself for even saying that out loud.”
“I hate him too. So what’s the problem?”
“The problem, Dylan? The problem is that I can’t believe that I could go from love to hate so fast—that scares the living shit out of me. How could I feel so strongly towards the man who was going to be my husband? Is there something wrong with me?”
“What happened when you spoke to him today?”
He can already read me. I’m in a weird headspace, and all I want to do is forget about the whole thing—I want to go to back in time to when I knew who I was and the world made perfect sense to me. My life was rough, but I knew where I stood. There was no pretense, no fake people, and everything was as it seemed. The world before I met him.
“Why are you asking?”
“Why? Because something clearly changed after you spoke to him. I know you weren’t looking forward to it—and I don’t blame you for that—but you seem upset all of a sudden. So, what’s going on? What happened when you went to see him?”
I order another shot. I think I’m going to need it. “I think, more than anything, I’m mad at myself.”
“For what?” he asks.
“For not seeing all of this coming. How could I not know that Chandler was such a monster? I was a few short months away from living the rest of my life as some trophy wife. I can’t believe I was so blind.”
“It’s not your fault, you realize that, right? You didn’t do anything. This is all on him. And I’m sure he didn’t portray himself as a monster to you. You saw the good parts of him—that’s a good quality, not a bad one.”
He’s being so sweet with me, and it’s making me feel really close to him, but I still feel like a total bitch for declaring my hatred for the guy I was going to walk down the aisle with.
“I’m so stupid. Do you know what my first thought was when I found out about Teresa?” He shakes his head. “I wanted to know what she had that I didn’t have. I blamed myself and thought that I hadn’t been good enough. Can you believe that?”
“Yes, I can,” he says authoritatively. “Listen to me, I’ll say it again—you didn’t do anything wrong here. This is all one hundred percent on him. No matter what you’re feeling, it isn’t your fault. You’re just reeling from your world getting shattered. Don’t judge yourself, it makes complete sense.”
I love how supportive he’s being of me. It almost takes the edge off of what happened. Almost. But I feel bad for keeping the details from him—he’s gone out of his way to make me feel better about this whole disaster, so I at least owe him an explanation.
“I didn’t answer you yet.”
“About what he said to you? No, I’m still waiting to hear that part.” I take a deep breath and try to fight back the tears. Instinctively, I reach for my drink but Dylan puts his hand over mine to stop me. “Whatever it is I want to hear it from you when you’re in your right mind. We can have another drink afterwards.”
“Alright. I went there expecting to be strong—to tell him that he went too far, that I couldn’t forgive him, and that our relationship was over. I was going to tell him to keep the ring, and that I’d send for my things. Then I planned on marching out of there with my head held high.”
“I’m guessing that isn’t what happened.”
“It did, but that wasn’t the end of it. After my little liberating speech, I did turn around, and I did start to walk out. Then he said. . .” I stop because I don’t want to relive it, but I force myself through the words.
“It’s alright. Take your time.”
“He told me that splitting up wasn’t going to work for him—that it would look very bad for him to have a personal scandal when his company was getting bought. He told me that if that was what I really wanted, I could have it, but he needed me to pretend to be with him a little longer.”
“Pretend to be with him? What does that mean?”
“That’s what I asked. He said that he wants me to move back in—that it looks really bad if Chandler Daniels’ fiancé is seen living in a hotel in the city. He said we could live separate lives, but that in public he needed me to be by his side. And once the purchase of his company was finalized, and only then, would he let me go.”
As I say that last phrase I feel embarrassed—it sounds so bad.
“And you told him he was fucking crazy, right?”
I look at Dylan, then look down, embarrassed for what I have to say next. “I did. In so many words. But then he pulled the ace he had up his sleeve.”
“Which was what?”
“You wouldn’t know this, but my sister is in an assisted living home. She has severe special needs.”
“Oh my God, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize—I love my sister more than anything in the world. I told you her name is Jessica, and she’s been in an assisted living situation for a while now. She used to live with us in Queens, but as she got older taking care of her got harder and harder for my mom, so we put her in a private facility that we found that has the services she really needed.”
“I looked into one of those places for my great aunt once—it was really expensive.”
“Right. Never something we could afford on our own, right?”
“Oh my God. Let me guess—Chandler has been paying for her care this whole time?” I nod as Dylan slowly figures out the situation. “And you can’t afford it on your own?” I nod a second time. The look on Dylan’s face changes slowly into an anger that I’ve never seen on him before. “And that piece of shit told you that if you don’t stay with him a little longer that he’ll stop paying for her care? Am I right?” I nod for the last time, only I can’t hold back the tears any longer. I really don’t want to cry in public, but I can’t help it right now.
Dylan stands up and puts his arms around me and pulls me up to my feet. “Come on, we’re getting out of here.”
“Wait, but. . .”
“No buts, we’re going. Come on.”
We step outside and Dylan wipes the tears from my face. I feel like shit, but his touch makes me feel better.
“Listen to me. We’re going to figure this out, together.”
“How?” I ask. “He’s too powerful.”
“I don’t know. But mark my words, I’m going to figure it out.”
21
Dylan
Last night wasn’t a night for having sex—even though that’s basically all I want to do whenever I see her. It wouldn’t have been appropriate to even bring it up in the mental state she was in—so you could say that we slept together without sleeping together.
Before she fell asleep in my arms, I had an epiphany. “I have an idea,” I told her. “There’s something that makes all of the world’s problems more bearable, and I think you should come enjoy it with me. I promise, you’ll forget about all of this bullshit, at least for a while. You in?”
“I’m definitely in,” she told me, wiping the rest of her tears away. “But you should probably tell me what it is you’re talking about.”
“Nonna’s meatballs. Sunday dinner. Trust me, there’ll be no more hole in the ozone layer while you’re eating those, I promise. The world will just seem like a more just and fairer place.”
“Oh. The world goes back to sucking sometimes—but that hour or two is so worth it. What do you say?”
“What do I always say to you, Dylan? I say yes.”
She drifted off quickly after that, and once she was passed out I slid my arm from behind her neck and sat at the little table that all hotels have across from the bed. All I could think about was how to help Penelope get away from Chandler. I didn’t think about his company, or speaking to the press, or what I was going to tell him when he came back from Europe about the whole Teresa thing. The good part—if there is a good part to this situation—is that I still had a few days before having to make these decisions.
The one decision I did make was to speak to the only person I trust to make decisions—and that’s where I’m going right now.
Graham agreed to me for lunch at Le Bernadin—one of the best restaurants in the world, let alone in New York City. “Do I need to dress up?” I asked him last night.
“You should always dress up for lunch with me, so yes. Nothing too fancy though,” he told me. “Wear your grey shirt and the black tie with a pair of nice pants and your black shoes. That should do fine.”
“You dressing me now?”
“Only when I’m not sure you can be trusted to dress yourself. Hope you like seafood. I’ll see you at one.”
That was last night. Now it’s twelve fifty and I’m waiting outside the place for Graham. I wouldn’t feel comfortable in there by myself. His driver pulls his Lincoln Town Car up curbside five minutes later, and Graham steps out looking like he’s about to step out on the red carpet for the Academy Awards. I feel underdressed.
“You took my advice, I see,” he says, motioning to my tie.
“I usually do.”
“And, at the risk of sounding like some stuck-up suit, that’s exactly why you’re going to be successful one day. Let’s go inside.”
We get seated by a guy who treats Graham like he’s the president of the United States. I follow along. The place isn’t as intimidating as I expected from the outside, especially at this time, but I still don’t feel like I belong. Once we sit down, Graham orders for both of us—evidently, he doesn’t trust me to order for myself either.
“So, speaking of you being successful—how’s the business going?”
The business. It’s been a while since this has come up. My brilliant idea that never got off the ground. Graham always encouraged me to use some of the money that he paid me to get my Veterans business started.
“It isn’t. I’ve told you this.”
“You told me it was. . . how did you say it? Oh yeah, ‘on hold.’ But in my experience, phrases like ‘putting my business on hold’ is a euphemism for giving up on an idea. Have you given up?”
I don’t know how to answer that question. I want to yell out ‘hell no’, but there’s something to what he’s saying. “I haven’t given up, exactly. I’ve just had a lot going on. And to be fair, you’re a part of that. It would be one thing if I knew I had a regular income coming in like it’s been, but. . .”
“Dylan, Soraya and I can’t very well raise our growing family in the city just to keep you employed, you realize that.”
“Of course,” I tell him. “I’m not blaming you—I’m just saying it’s hard to start a business when you’re not sure where your next paycheck is coming from, or how much it’ll be, or even if you’ll be employed.”
“I understand. I really do. When I started my first company, I had almost no money. I was right out of college, and I was even more unstable than you are now. I just had to go for it. It sounds cliché, but starting a business is like having a family—if you wait until you’re ready before starting one you’ll never start one. You have to take the leap and do everything in your power to make sure it works out.”
I take a sip of my water and chew on an ice cube that finds its way into my mouth. As I crush it into little pieces, I think about what he’s saying. Then I start to think about where my money is coming from. Then I start to think about Chandler. I’m here for advice because I really need it, but to get advice I have to tell Graham the truth about what’s going on with Penelope and I. I’m not sure how he’s going to react.
“I appreciate that, and I’ll definitely take that under consideration, but I need to talk to you about something that doesn’t involve my coffee business.”
“I figured. I can see the tension all over your face. And I bet I know who it’s about.”
“How did you guess?”
I’m being viciously sarcastic and Graham knows it. “Lucky guess. Tell me.”
Fuck it—I decide to just pull the band-aid right off. “I’m seeing his ex-fiancé.” I just blurt that right out, waiting for his disapproval. It doesn’t come.
“I figured that already, Dylan. What I’m waiting to hear about is what kind of trouble you’re in.”
“Trouble is the right word. I’m in trouble and no one realizes it but me. Give me anyone else’s problems and I’m good—that’s what I do. Your problems, or any of the people in the building, I can solve it. Small stuff, large stuff, life changing stuff—it doesn’t matter, I can handle it. But, when it comes to my own problems, I’m completely stuck. I need help, man.”
Graham looks at me with something that almost looks like sympathy. He’s used to most sides of me—confident, self-assured, happy, mad, the entire ranges of emotions. What he’s not used to is me not knowing what to do and being vulnerable in a situation. He leans forward and puts a strong hand on my shoulder.
“It’s Chandler, isn’t it? He’s gotten you caught up in his. . . drama?”
This man knows everything. “Yeah. Something like that. To be honest, I’d rather not get too far into the details of it. I’m afraid you might need an attorney by the time I tell you everything. The last thing I’d want is for his drama to bleed onto your life. You have enough going on already.”
“That’s true enough, but you can tell me without actually telling me.”
“How’s that?” I ask.
“Give me a hypothetical. Not involving any real people, of course, but just a random ethical business scenario. You’re a burgeoning entrepreneur, right?”
“I don’t even know any. . .”
“Dylan!” he yells. “You’re a burgeoning entrepreneur. Get my meaning.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“And I’m a highly successful businessman who’s been your employer for some time now. You’re here at a business meeting seeking advice for how to proceed. That’s all it is. It’s got nothing to do with any real people we know. Understand?”
He’s brilliant. I smile once I get his meaning, then I think about how to code what I need to tell him. “So, you know how Jorge and I were going to start that coffee place, right?”
“Right.”
“Let’s say I wanted to buy my way into Jorge’s coffee business. Only before he’d let me, I had to do a few things that were a little. . . ethically questionable. Things to cover up some bad stuff Jorge had done.”
“What kind of things had Jorge done in this complete hypothetical situation? Something illegal?”
“Uh-huh. Imagine—hypothetically—that every time someone comes in to get a coffee Jorge gives them a rewards card. You know the type.”
“Like you buy a certain number of cups of coffee and get one free—that sort of thing?”
“Exactly. But imagine to get that card in the first place you had to fill out a form with some personal information on it. And then, instead of keeping that information in a drawer for only himself, imagine that Jorge was selling that information to other businesses in Manhattan so that they could target them for coupons.”
“I see,” Graham says, taking a bite of his food. “Well, in that case, I’d say that if. . . Jorge. . . had always had rumors following him around regarding that kind of behavior, that I wouldn’t go into business with such a man.”
I look down and make a fist without even realizing it. “I know. But I had no choice.”
Graham puts his fork down and looks me in the eyes intensely. “Everything in life is a choice, Dylan. Situations change. Just because Jorge isn’t the right partner doesn’t mean that the right one isn’t out there. You need to trust your instincts. If you feel like going into business with Jorge is the wrong thing to do then—and I can’t stress this enough—do not do it. Understand?”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I understand. Well if the person in the hypothetical had started to go down that road already, he’d need to find an exit strategy.”
“There’s always a way out of a bad deal, Dylan. It just needs to be found. So find it—hypothetically.”
We finish our meal. Graham treated to what I’m sure was a substantial bill, then walked me outside.
“Remember what I said. You have a choice, Dylan. Always. Just make the right ones.”
The right ones.
I know what the right choices are when it comes to Chandler—but I can’t say what the right move is when it comes to Penelope. I’ve already kept too much from her, and each passing day I keep even more. But with each passing day I also feel stronger towards her. I’m into her, and I know that she’s into me.
Graham mentioned roads, and not going too far down the wrong ones.
I get his point.
His point makes all the sense in the world.
On the road towards being Chandler’s PA, I need to make a sharp U-turn. I realize that.
But on the road towards Penelope—I think I’m about to slam my foot on the gas.
22
Penelope
Sunday
I haven’t smelled something this good in a long time.
Holy Italian food, Batman!
The smell is overwhelming in the best possible way, and my mouth is practically watering.
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