by R.S. Grey
I’m aware of how meaningless it sounds. He spent his day with his peers, paving the way for the future tech industry; meanwhile, I sipped on drinks with tiny umbrellas.
“Good. I’m happy you can relax while you’re here.”
He tries to reach across the table for my hand, but I move it away gently so it looks like a coincidence and not a passive-aggressive act on my part—though it definitely is.
“Do you think your wife will work?”
He pauses with his wine glass halfway to his mouth. Unsurprisingly, my out-of-left-field question catches him off guard. “If she wants to work, she can. I’d imagine it would be difficult though.”
“Why’s that?”
He sets his glass down and sighs. “Because I live a busy life. If she works long hours as well, we’d hardly see each other.”
“So ideally you would want her to stay home and what, raise kids?”
He nods. “I think that’d be easiest. That way she’s happy and the children are happy.”
I look down at where my finger is turning soft circles on the tablecloth. “What about moms who like to work? Surely you don’t think their children are less happy just because they don’t spend all day every day with their mothers.”
“Brooke, that’s not what I—”
“It’s good for children to experience things outside their home.”
He reaches across the table and catches my hand before I can move it a second time. My circles cease. “I completely agree. You asked a question and I answered it without giving it much thought. If my future wife wants to work, I’ll support her.”
The sincerity in his voice makes it hard to hold on to my anger. I take a deep breath and turn away, grateful to see our second course making its way toward us from the kitchen.
As we dine on tiny portions of food that cost more per serving than most people make in a week, I mull over all the reasons James and I would be better off staying away from each other. This feels like the beginning of something really serious, and that’s not what I want. It’s too much too fast. I knew something would happen in Vegas, but with the pace he’s setting, by the end of the conference we’ll be headed straight for one of those pop-up chapels down the street.
I won’t allow James to steamroll over my wants and needs. I’m not ready to play the housewife for him. I’m not ready to be a committee member of the Women’s Philanthropic League of Austin by day, mom and wife by night—yeah, no thanks. I’d rather schlep margaritas at Twin Oaks for the next five years.
After dinner, I insist on walking back to the hotel. James points out how impractical my shoes are, but I assure him I’ll be fine. I’ll do anything to delay our return to that quiet suite.
We walk side by side down the Vegas strip, and he tells me about the conference and what it could mean for his company. He’s passionate when he talks about his work, and I admire that. His keynote speech is tomorrow evening, and he tells me the main focus will be on the responsibility of entrepreneurs and inventors to focus on those who can’t be their own advocates, that first world progress does not have to come at the expense of third world suffering. He envisions a rising technological tide that lifts all boats, and for him, this means creating smart solutions to prevent and eradicate neglected tropical diseases. He’ll be unveiling the prototype for the BioShield, and he expects the press coverage will help bring on new and conscientious investors.
“If there’s enough support for it, we can do for health technology what Elon Musk has done for the electric car.”
He’s almost childlike in his optimism and I have to look away, back down the sidewalk before my heart slips a little more out of my grasp. This is a side of James I wish he wouldn’t reveal to me. Beneath the layers of pretension and wealth sits a heart of gold. I doubt many people see this side of him, not because he presents a cold facade to the rest of the world, but because he rarely fills his life with people who take the time to see it. I think of his impersonal, empty house back in Austin, that quiet corner in his living room with the half-read book and the mismatched furniture.
“Do you want to stop in for a drink somewhere?” he asks, reaching out for my hand.
His palm covers mine so easily that for a moment I forget about my niggling doubts. I think we should stop and get a drink, and after, when I’m just a little bit tipsy and we’ve made out like two teenagers on the side of the street, we should head back to the hotel and have a repeat of last night. It would feel good to forget about better judgment for another few hours. Maybe that’s exactly what I would have done, but then we walk past the Paris hotel and it jogs his memory.
“Oh, remind me when we get back to Austin,” James says, “there’s a restaurant I want us to try, Détour. It’s a bistro, romantic and small, not the kind of place you go to unless you’re there with someone special.”
I stiffen, aware of the meaning dripping from that sentence. First, I’m that someone special for James. Second, it’s the first time either of us has brought up the idea of continuing this once we’re back in Austin.
“Have you heard of it?” he continues, oblivious to the fact that I’m minutes away from a panic attack.
I nod and continue walking, all but pulling him in my wake.
“Hey, slow down. There’s no rush.”
His imperturbable calm finally does it. I can’t keep the lid on my emotions for another second.
“Yes, there is!” I explode, tearing my hand away from his and spinning around to face him on the sidewalk. “What are we doing? What is this?”
We’re blocking the flow of traffic, forcing tourists to weave around us.
“What do you mean?” he asks, wearing a mask of perfect confusion.
It makes me absolutely furious. He doesn’t get to suddenly feign amnesia. We both went into this with eyes wide open, but ever since we arrived in Vegas, James has acted like the two of us could actually be something, like this is a real thing forming here.
“Why’d you bring me here?” I shout over the noise of the crowd.
“Because I wanted to,” he answers simply.
I shake my head, angered by his answer. “No, why did you really bring me here?”
He looks away, tugs his hand through his hair, and then finally looks back. His eyes are different, the hopeful gleam gone. “Because this is pointless, us trying to stay away from each other. Why? For what? Because you don’t want to get married? Great!” He throws his hands in the air. “We won’t get married!”
“It’s more than that!” I cry.
“Fine. C’mon.” He steps closer and reaches for me, tugging me against him so I have to lean my head back to look up at him. “Tell me all the reasons we shouldn’t be together. You’re too young? You want to travel? You have a million excuses you’ve built up against me, haven’t you?”
“Excuses?!” I’m furious at the fact that he’s trying to belittle my goals, my life.
“Yeah,” he says, dropping my arms. “You think I haven’t noticed how distant you’ve been today? When I reached for your hand at dinner and you pulled it away? I got it, Brooke. Loud and clear.”
Unshed tears burn the backs of my eyes. “Why did you have to put so much pressure on this, on us, right from the beginning? I’m looking for a wife and kids—who says that to someone they just met? Haven’t you ever heard of the whole boiling frog thing?”
“What are you talking about?”
I’m annoyed that I have to explain it.
“If you throw a frog into a pot of boiling water, it’s going to panic and jump out. But, if you put the frog in cool water then slowly heat it up, it won’t even notice the temperature rising.”
“So you want to be a dead frog?”
He’s being obtuse on purpose.
I sigh, exasperated. “The point is, with us, the water started too hot.”
He shakes his head, visibly frustrated. “Don’t paint me out to be the bad guy. I was honest with you—don’t throw that back in my face.”
By now, it’s abundantly clear that we’re causing a scene in the middle of the sidewalk. Pedestrians loiter around us, probably unsure whether or not we’re street performers.
I want to shout at them to keep it moving, but I can’t turn my focus away from James. I’m heaving in big gulps of air and trying to make sense of the last few minutes. My whole body is shaking with pent-up anger—at him, at me, at the unfairness of the situation we’ve found ourselves in.
“What do you want to do, Brooke?”
“I don’t know.”
He looks down at his shoes and shakes his head. A sad laugh spills out of him before he glances back up and meets my gaze. “Yes you do. Say it.”
He’s forcing an answer out of me, but he already knows what it is.
“James, you can’t tell me on day one that you want a wife because then when you try to take it back and make things more casual between us, it’s not believable. Even if it’s not your true intention, I feel like all this—the flowers, the fancy dinners, the amazing suite—it’s like you’re inviting me into your delusion.”
“Oh come on, Brooke! I’m sorry I’m not some stoner at your co-op who shows his interest with a joint and a Hot Pocket,” he rasps, dragging his hands through his hair angrily. “I wanted to show you I’m interested in seeing where this goes, nothing more. That’s what the flowers are. That’s what this trip is.” He turns away and takes a deep breath before continuing, “It’s fucking impossible to navigate the emotional minefield of a 25-year-old. Anything I do to show you I care just freaks you out, but if I back off, it’s even worse. You’ll assume I’m uninterested, and then there’s no hope that the relationship will progress naturally. It’s a lose-lose. All I can do is keep trying or walk away, and I think it’s worth it to keeping trying.”
And I think it’s time to walk away.
I don’t have the guts to say that though, so I sugarcoat it.
“There’s no point in continuing this,” I whisper, wiping hard at the tears spilling down my cheeks. “We’re only going to end up hurting each other even more. Don’t you see that?”
“No,” he says, calm and resolute. “I don’t.”
His admission stuns me into silence, and it’s clear we’re at a stalemate. James wants something from me that I’m not ready to give.
“I’ll see you back at the hotel,” he says, stepping forward to move around me.
My hand reaches out for his and I squeeze his wrist. “Please don’t go, not like this…”
My voice trails off when he jerks out of my hold and continues on down the sidewalk.
“James!” I turn and cry out after him but he doesn’t stop, and it only takes a few seconds for the crowd to swallow him up.
…
On the Vegas strip, hundreds of tourists fill the sidewalk, dressed up for the evening. I fight against the flow of pedestrian traffic, annoyed as their chatter invades my depressed fog. What the hell are they so happy about? I tuck my arms around my middle and pick up my pace, nearly stumbling right into an animated street performer dressed like Elvis. When he leaps back in front of me and offers a trademark, “Thank you, thank you very much,” I tell him to go die on a toilet.
I have no clue what I’ll say to James when I see him. My only hope is that he has calmed down and is willing to talk. I need to apologize for the way I treated him. I want to explain my side, the panic that was gripping my thoughts all day. I don’t expect him to forgive me yet, but at least we can come to an understanding. Unfortunately, the hotel room is pitch black when I arrive. I flip on the light and find the suit jacket he was wearing at dinner sitting on the back of a chair in the living room. He came back to the hotel after our fight, but he’s not here now. I check his room, just to confirm, but it’s empty and quiet.
I sit in the living room and wait for almost an hour—I know because I look down and check my watch every 10 minutes. I wait in silence, willing the door to swing open. At this point, I’d willingly accept his anger if it meant he would return. Somehow, his absence is worse. It means he’s unwilling to fight. He wants distance, and more than likely, he wants me gone. When the hour strikes, I stand and head for my room. It only takes a few minutes to pack my bags. Usually I scatter my things all over a hotel room, but since my arrival in Vegas, I kept everything neat and organized, almost like I always knew I’d be making a quick exit.
After I’ve gathered everything, I grab a cocktail napkin from the bar and jot down an apology, just I’m sorry, but for some reason, it seems worse than leaving nothing at all. I crumble it into a ball and toss in the wastebasket before walking out the door.
It’s late, but I’m hoping there’s still a flight or two leaving Vegas headed to Texas. If not, I’ll sleep in the airport and leave on the first flight out in the morning. Anything is better than staying here and waiting for the other shoe to drop.
On the way down, I can’t meet my reflection in the mirrored elevator. Shame is a heavy burden, and one I’ll probably carry for a long time. I should have been honest with James earlier. I should have told him I deserve at least half the blame for whatever panic I was feeling.
If I could go back in time, I never would have come to Vegas. I knew it would make things more complicated, but I ignored my intuition and boarded that plane anyway. The only thing I can do now is leave before I make things even worse.
The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and I roll my suitcase out behind me. My heels clap against the lobby floor, and I realize that in my rush to pack, I forgot to change. I should have swapped my dress for jeans and my heels for sneakers. As a compromise, I pause in the lobby and unzip my suitcase to grab a thick, long sweater. I slip my arms in and wrap it around myself. When I stand again, I find I’m paused directly in front of the lobby bar—and a few yards away, James sits alone, nursing a drink.
Even with his profile to me, I see how dejected he is. His broad shoulders are slumped forward as he rests his elbows on the bar, his head hanging low. I wonder if he’s waiting for me. The bartender says something that catches his attention. He looks up, shakes his head, and then takes a long sip of his drink. I should turn and continue through the lobby, but I stand immobile for another second. I thought I would leave Vegas without seeing him. This is a gift, one last chance to make things right between us.
I take a step toward the bar and he turns. My stomach dips as his warm brown eyes meet mine. They’re so sad and heavy that I can barely stand their weight. He scans down to where my suitcase sits beside me and his brows arch in surprise as he registers the fact that I’m leaving. Hope explodes inside of me—STOP ME, PLEASE—but when he glances back up, the emotion in his eyes is gone, erased in the blink of eye. Now, he looks right through me. To him, I’m already gone. Then, to nail home that fact, he turns away. No nod, no wave goodbye.
I stand there immobile for a few seconds and then, when I realize how pathetic I look, I reach for the handle of my suitcase with a shaky hand and nearly sprint out of the lobby. As soon as I slide into the back of the taxi, the tears start to flow. The old cabbie is at a complete loss for what to do with me.
“All right, there, there. Where to?”
I tell him.
“Aww c’mon, lady. I can’t hear you with all that blubbering.”
I cry harder.
“Jesus. Why do I always get the basket cases?”
He sighs and tosses back a couple of crumpled Subway napkins for me to use to blow my nose. They smell like roast beef.
“Listen, okay, I’m no Sherlock, but you’ve got a suitcase, so I’m going to head to the airport.”
“Th-Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, pulling away from the hotel. “Looks like Vegas bagged another one.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
There’s no way James hates me more than I hate myself, but it’s probably pretty close. Things between us were always going to end—we both knew that. I’m not going to forfeit my dream of living abroad and traveling, a
nd he shouldn’t give up the hope of finding someone who’s ready to take a leap. He doesn’t have time to reassure the scared girl tiptoeing backward off the high dive.
Since Vegas, nothing has changed, and nothing will change, which unfortunately means there’s no point in trying to reach out to him. Still, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.
Instead, every day since I returned follows one of two patterns. If I have a shift at the country club, I roll out of bed, eat soggy leftovers, slip into my Twin Oaks uniform, and sit in front of the mirror to practice my fake smile. If it’s my day off, I stay in bed, job hunting until my fingers are numb from filling out questionnaires and typing emails and letters of intent. The agency says they have a few leads for me, but I don’t believe them. I’ve taken matters into my own hands, searching message boards and au pair websites for active listings. At this point, I’ll take a job tutoring kids in Siberia if it means I can leave Twin Oaks.
I even contemplate leaving my job before I find a position. I have some money in savings, and I figure if I use it wisely, I could go four or five months before it’s completely depleted. It’s a tempting option, but I won’t do it. I put that money aside for travel and I refuse to use it now, for this. I can endure a few more weeks at the country club, especially considering I’ve already gone five whole shifts without coming in contact with James. According to Ellie and Marissa, they haven’t seen him around either.
I don’t know how I feel about that. He could be staying away because he can’t stand the sight of me, or he could be staying away because he actually doesn’t care to see me. Or, worst of all, he could be going about his life with no thought of me at all.
It’s been eight days since Vegas.
By now, I expected to be well into phase two of Operation Get Over James, but I’m still held up in phase one: Stop Thinking About Him Every Minute of Every Damn Day. It doesn’t help that his company has been all over the news. Apparently his TED talk at the conference went really well. I broke down and watched it one night in an incognito browser tab, like maybe that way I wouldn’t have to acknowledge what I was doing. I wanted to see some hint of emotion in his eyes, but he was nothing but professional, not even a hint of bags under his eyes. I made it through the entire speech, filled with pride for how eloquently he spoke, and then I promptly slammed my laptop closed and tossed it aside.