Brooklynaire

by Sarina Bowen

  “Before you go…there’s two pieces of mail you need to look at.” My sister deigns to rise from the sofa just far enough to sift through the mail on the coffee table. It’s mostly catalogues, but she locates two envelopes—one thick, one thin. “This says it’s from a real estate company, so I thought it might be important. And the other is a health insurance thing.”

  Oh, shit. Double shit. The thicker envelope is from DUMBO Holdings. “This is our new lease.” I’d been waiting for this. My two-year lease is up, and by law they can raise me a significant amount. I slit the envelope and slide the folded papers out. My eye scans the first page until I find what I’m looking for.

  Two-year rate increase: 0.00%.

  I read it three more times just because I can’t quite believe it. Then I flip to the second page to make sure the numbers match the ones on the first page.

  They do.

  “Wow,” I breathe. “This is the best news I’ve heard in weeks.”

  “Yeah?” Missy crowds me to look. “No increase? In New York?”

  “I know. Maybe it’s a clerical error.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” my sister says quickly. “Sign it. Send it back. They’ll have to honor it.”

  That’s not true, since it isn’t countersigned yet. But I take a pen from the jar where I’ve stashed them (neatly!) and sign it anyway.

  “I’ll get a stamp,” Missy offers.

  The thinner envelope is from my health plan. I’m also dreading this. In the past month I’ve racked up an ER visit, a neurologist, and then a Sunday visit to Dr. Armitage. There’s no way that’s covered.

  Sure enough, I find one of those boggling Explanation of Benefits forms inside—the kind that are written in code. “This is not a bill,” it reads at the top. But I know better than to assume it’s good news. And it isn’t. Dr. Armitage is listed as an Out of Network Provider, which doesn’t surprise me at all. But my first session in his training clinic is also listed as Not Approved for Coverage.

  When I see the prices, I inhale sharply. Four hundred bucks for the consultation and $275 for my first therapy session. And I’m supposed to go three times a week.

  “Is it bad?” Missy is back, holding a stamp on the tip of one finger.

  “No,” I lie. “Just a bureaucratic snafu. Talking to the insurance company will probably eat half a day.” If only. I’ll try to get them to approve the therapy, but I know my chances are probably terrible.

  Goddamn it.

  “Mail the lease!” Missy says, pasting the stamp on the return envelope. “That’s one less thing to worry about.”

  I hope she’s right.

  Five minutes later I drop it into a mailbox on Water Street. Two more years at the same rate in an apartment that’s two blocks away from a job I love. It should feel like a coup.

  But I’m so very confused about what happens now.

  14

  Nate

  May 1, Tampa

  A few times a year there are articles published about my success. How High Is Nate Kattenberger’s IQ? Or, The Man Who Sees the Future of Tech.

  The people who write these things are obviously off-base. Because I’m the stupidest man alive. I’m sitting in a crowded hockey stadium with twenty-thousand people. Millions of dollars of my investment money is fighting for their lives on the ice below me. And what am I thinking about?

  Rebecca.

  That’s right. Five days later and I’m sitting here kicking myself for my lack of self-control. One heated conversation with Rebecca in the dark, and I totally lost my mind. She’s avoiding me now, which means it may have cost me a good friend. And if I’m really unlucky it will cost my organization a great employee.

  Until now I never understood what people meant when they said, thinking with your dick. But now I do. Mine got some big ideas and instead of tamping it down I said, dude, let’s go.

  What a fucking nightmare I’ve caused myself.

  Lauren stands up and claps, reminding me to watch the fucking game. Beacon has just made a terrific save.

  At least someone is focused.

  “Nice!” Stew says, punctuating the compliment by poking me in the arm. “That’s how it’s done! I think your boys can make this happen.”

  I think so too, although it’s been a challenging week. The team lost the first game to Tampa. Tonight they look strong, though. I know it’s not over for us. They spent the last forty-eight hours watching tape while Lauren and I hunkered down with our laptops and tried to stay on top of everything that’s happening in New York.

  Mostly I thought about Rebecca.

  The morning she left Bal Harbour I caught her limo before it left for the airport. I leaned inside to give her a kiss on the cheekbone, and she looked back at me with wide, shaken eyes.

  The look on her face cut me, because holding her in my arms had been a transformative experience. One I’m still processing.

  But I don’t know where she stands.

  “We’ll speak soon, okay?” I said during that last moment we had together.

  She’d avoided my eyes. “I’m going to be mostly offline this week. Doctor’s orders.”

  Definitely sounded like a brushoff.

  Nonetheless, I’ve sent her a couple of texts and left a voicemail, asking if she was okay. But either she’s ghosting me, or she’s really offline. And I can’t keep reaching out to her, because if I do, that makes me a creepy guy who can’t leave her alone.

  And that’s the worst thing about this mess. If I’d seriously tried to break the rules in the seediest possible way, it would look a hell of a lot like what went down on Tuesday night. I used a key card she’d given to Lauren to let myself into her hotel room while she slept. I woke her up, and then we had very energetic sex.

  Twice.

  I can see the headlines now. Nate Kattenberger, CEO of a Fortune 500 Company Is the Biggest Idiot Alive.

  Meanwhile, I can’t get that night out of my head. I know Becca enjoyed herself, to put it mildly. The way she undressed me plays on repeat in a brain that I used to think had above-average powers of concentration. But apparently not, because the taste of her kisses is all I think about now.

  “Oh my God,” Lauren gasps. “This game is taking a year off my life.”

  I check the scoreboard. Still zero-zero. At least I picked the right game to be distracted.

  Beside me, Lauren’s fingers are worrying the strap of her handbag, and her eyes are glued to the goalie she claims not to love.

  As it happens, I’m not the only one who had an interesting night in Bal Harbour. She doesn’t know it, but as I snuck back into my hotel room the other morning, I caught Mike Beacon sneaking out of hers. The goalie and I didn’t say a word to each other as we passed in the hallway, both of us wearing rumpled tuxedos. We just gave each other a quick smile and moved on.

  I would never say a word to embarrass Lauren. Though I deserve a medal for not mentioning her sudden return to hockey fandom this month.

  “Nate.” Stew snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Are you seriously not paying attention right now?”

  “I am,” I lie.

  “Only you could think about work at a time like this,” he says, stuffing another handful of popcorn into his mouth.

  Stew knows me pretty well. And I do have a rep for thinking about work all the time. Though at this rate I’ll never have another original thought. I’m not even sure I care. My obsession with Rebecca got a nice little workout, and I want to hang onto that memory as long as I can.

  The game grinds on, the tension escalating on the ice. I manage to pay attention. Lesser men would let their frustrations show on the ice, but my players keep their cool.

  Tampa’s don’t, though. Their most decorated forward trips my D-man and then gets chippy with the ref. I smile when he gets tossed out of the game a minute later.

  “Power play!” Lauren squeaks, and I smile about that, too.

  “Nice to see you paying attention,” she says.

 
; “Nice to see you’re a hockey fan again,” I return.

  And that’s when it happens. My boys put the puck in the goal. Finally! We’re on our feet, yelling. The second period ends with a 1-0 score.

  Lauren sits back in her chair and exhales. “This is torture,” she mutters.

  I say nothing, burnishing my trophy for discretion. But now I have fifteen minutes to wait for the third period. And that’s an eternity for me. So my thoughts go right back to Rebecca. Is she lying in my den again, listening to the game?

  God, I hope so. I hope I haven’t fucked everything up by, well, fucking.

  I slip my phone out of my pocket like an impatient teenager and check the screen.

  Nothing from Becca.

  I open up a chat window with Bingley. One of my innovations for this product is the ability to communicate from afar.

  Nate: Checking in.

  Bingley: Hello, Nate! The hockey score is 1-zip, your favor. But you probably know that, as you are currently seated 23.5 yards from the ice surface. On the home front, there is nothing to report. Internal temperature is 68 degrees. All security systems engaged.

  Nate: Good stuff. I was wondering if Rebecca is there?

  Bingley: Alas, fair Rebecca is not presently on the premises. I last interacted with Rebecca on Wednesday at one-thirty-three p.m.

  Well, fuck. That was right after she had returned from the airport. She practically left a contrail on her way out of my life.

  Shit.

  Nate: Did she leave a message? A guy can hope.

  Bingley: No, good sir. Shall I locate her current whereabouts?

  Every employee phone has a tracking device, so Bingley could find Rebecca easily. But it’s my company policy never to snoop on an employee unless we believe someone is in danger.

  And I will not be that creepy guy.

  Nate: No, thank you. Goodnight.

  Bingley: Night, good sir!

  I could change his name back to Hal, I suppose. But I don’t. Just in case Rebecca might be back.

  As if.

  I put the phone away and find Stew watching me.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he says with a grin. “Want a beer? I’m going to the bar.”

  “I’m good,” I say.

  “I’ll get you a drink, Stew,” Lauren says, rising from her seat.

  “No! You don’t have to.” Even if Lauren is here in an official capacity, he would never abuse her by asking for petty favors.

  There’s a reason we’ve been friends for years. Stew is good people.

  “But I want a drink and I don’t know what they have.” She puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll go. And maybe you can snap Nate out of being such a space cadet.”

  “Dude,” Stew says after she disappears. “What is up with you? And don’t tell me you are thinking about systems architecture right now.”

  “I’m a little distracted. No big deal.”

  Stew lifts his eyebrows. “Please tell me you’ve finally broken your dry spell. I was starting to get worried.”

  “Oh, fuck off.”

  He laughs. “So who’s the lucky girl?”

  “I can’t talk about this with you.”

  The smile falls off his face. “Why not?”

  “Because you know her. I’m not a gossip.”

  “You are totally a gossip. But also weirdly discreet. Now this will drive me insane, you realize.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Fucker. I’m almost tempted to think you finally bagged Rebecca.”

  I just look back at him blandly. People tell me that I have a really impassive face.

  “No fucking way,” he whispers.

  People also tell me that when it comes to Rebecca, the impassive face thing is kind of broken.

  “Seriously? When did this happen?”

  “Remember ten seconds ago when I told you we weren’t discussing it?”

  Stew rubs his chin. “Is this an ongoing thing?”

  I just sigh.

  “I’d feel a whole lot better right now if you tell me you’ve been secretly dating all year.”

  “Not as much as I would,” I mutter.

  Stew groans. “So… this happened once, and now she’s freezing you out? Was it recently?”

  “Bal Harbour. Just a few days ago. Then she went back to New York, and I’m here. I don’t know what’s in her head.”

  “Did you call her? Please tell me you called her.”

  “Of course I did. No pickup, though. I sent a few texts.”

  Stew’s eyes widen. “Then you have a problem.”

  “Gosh, you think?”

  “No, a big problem. She’s your employee, and now you’re pursuing her. You have to stop.”

  “Obviously she and I need to have a conversation.”

  Stew adjusts the collar of his shirt, and that’s his tell for when he’s feeling uncomfortable. “No. I think you fucked up.”

  “And you know this how?” I look around, hoping to see Lauren approaching. I need this conversation to end.

  “You two got it on, and now she’s not returning your calls? That’s some bad juju.”

  “Maybe she just needs time to process.” I know I do.

  “How did this go down anyway? Please tell me she started it.”

  She didn’t start it. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t come around to my way of seeing things in a hurry. “She definitely escalated it.”

  “You kissed her.”

  “I did,” I admit. But I skip right over the part about breaking into her hotel room and waking her up. I can’t even imagine what my HR officers would say about that. It’s probably near the top ten list of Things Never to Do with Colleagues on a Business Trip.

  “You planted one on her,” Stew prods. “Then what happened?”

  “She made a noise, so I stopped. Then she yelled at me for a minute, climbed in my lap, and kissed me like the world was ending.”

  Grinning, Stew puts a hand over his heart. “Wow. You’ve been waiting years for that to happen.”

  I sigh because it’s true.

  “So you guys got freaky. And then what?”

  “You don’t get any more details.”

  “I meant in the morning, dumbass.”

  Oh. “I spent the night. Then I asked her to have breakfast with me, but she said she had plans. I put her in the limo an hour later, kissed her goodbye, said I couldn’t wait to see her again.”

  “And now she’s not taking your call.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Stew tugs at his collar again. “She wasn’t drunk, right?”

  “No! Not at all. She was chatty, asking me questions. She asked me why I transferred her to Brooklyn.”

  “And you said, ‘Because I’m in love with you’?”

  “No. That would have been an exaggeration.” Even as I say this, I feel a strange tightness in my chest. Maybe it isn’t as far from the truth as I wish it was.

  “My initial analysis suggests only two reasons why she isn’t returning your call.”

  I wasn’t in a hurry to hear them.

  “Number one, she didn’t like it and doesn’t want to tell you.”

  “She liked it,” I say immediately. I may be a socially awkward human, but when a woman is gasping my name and coming on my cock, I know she’s had a good time.

  “Well, congratulations.” He smirks and it makes me want to punch him. “But the other option isn’t any better. Which is that she liked it at the time, but now she regrets it.”

  He’s right, of course. That isn’t any better. “What’s to regret?”

  “Complicating her life, for starters. You’re the boss. It’s tricky.”

  “I’m not her boss.”

  “Nate, you’re smarter than that.” He pokes me in the arm. “You hired her. You gave her the exact job she has now. Even if she technically works for Hugh, you’re still her boss’s boss.”

  This line of thought makes me even gr
umpier than I was before. Stew is my best friend, and I respect his opinion. But I don’t want to hear that I’m complicating Becca’s life. I just spent the last few weeks trying to make her life easier.

  And why did you do that? my subconscious wants to know.

  Fuck.

  “I see that face,” Stew says. “You hate it when I tell you the truth. But listen, man. This is really important. You can’t pursue Rebecca now. Or ever. That’s the definition of sexual harassment.”

  “I’m never going to harass her,” I argue. Fuck. Even as I say it, I have a sinking feeling. Because pursuing your assistant for sex is the definition of harassment.

  “Look.” His face is dead serious. “You’re the least sleazy guy in the Fortune 500. I know that. Rebecca knows that. But it doesn’t matter. You don’t get to behave any differently from the 2000 people who work for you.”

  “Actually it’s 1999, because I just fired you. Such a shame really, since you’re the number two man in the company. The board is gonna pitch a fit.”

  Stew just shakes his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Nate. If she didn’t work for a company you own, it would be different.”

  Lauren picks that moment to return. She hands Stew a beer, and me a fresh Diet Coke. She’s drinking orange juice and holding a bag, which turns out to contain three hot pretzels.

  “Yum,” Stew says. “Thanks!”

  “You didn’t have to bring me anything,” I say, breaking off a corner of the pretzel.

  She hands me a little cup of mustard. “Don’t worry. You paid for it. I’m just trying to make you look a little less gloomy. Is it working?”

  “Sure,” I lie.

  But after that chat with Stewart, I’m pretty sure I’ll be gloomy as hell for a while now.

  * * *

  In better news, my team clinches the game a half hour later, with one more goal on a power play. And since the next two games will happen in Brooklyn, we’ll have a chance to lean into the home ice advantage.

  That night Stew and I fly back on the Gulfstream.

  It’s late and he doesn’t try to talk to me about Rebecca anymore. So I’m grateful. When we reach cruising altitude, we change into sweats and recline our seats to flat, hoping to catch a couple hours of sleep. We’re scheduled to land at three in the morning.