The Executive

by Winter Renshaw

  “Sir ...” The phone muffles for a moment until she returns. “I’m very sorry. If you’d like, I can see if we have any available suites at our sister location in Schaumburg?”

  The whole point of me staying at that location is because it’s a quick walk to the office.

  “That won’t be necessary.” I end the call, only to turn around and find Bevin still standing there.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, eyes soft. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Are you having issues with your hotel?”

  Flattening my lips, I nod. “It’s difficult to find a decent place around here on such short notice. All I need is a soft mattress, some clean sheets, and some hot water, but apparently I’m asking too much of this hotel.”

  “Stay with us.”

  For a second, I think I heard her wrong.

  “We’re in Mills Haven,” she says. “Joa lives up the street from us. You could stay at our house while you’re here and commute back and forth with Joa. I think she takes the L. Hey, Joa … how long does it take you to get to work?”

  Joa’s standing by the cookie tin, examining a pretzel covered in chocolate and M&Ms shaped like Rudolph.

  “Thirty minutes or so. Why?” she asks.

  Bevin turns back to me. “It’s no five-star hotel, but it’s certainly better than what you’re dealing with now.”

  She has a point.

  An extremely valid point.

  “That’s very kind of you, but I wouldn’t feel right imposing,” I say. “Especially given that we’re two days from Christmas.”

  “It would be our honor hosting a Genesis executive. The company’s been so good to Joa, it's the least we can do,” she says. “Do you have plans for Christmas day? Any family in town?”

  “No, ma’am. Everyone’s back west.”

  “Then it’s settled. You’re staying at our house and spending Christmas with us.” She's beaming now, hands clasped.

  Joa returns to her mother’s side. “What are we smiling about?”

  “I’m inviting your CFO to stay at our house for the holidays,” she says. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  Joa’s expression darkens and her eyes narrow. “I’m sure he’s fine with his current accommodations. No sense in changing things up when he’s already settled.”

  “Actually, he was just telling me about his hotel and the issues he’s been having,” Bevin says, twisting the cross pendant around her neck.

  Joa lifts a brow. “Hotel? You’re staying at a hotel? You?”

  I sniff. “That’s right, Joa. I’m staying at a hotel.”

  “I told him he could commute back and forth with you,” Bevin says to her daughter. “I’m sure the two of you have some catching up to do?”

  Joa tries to hide the disappointment on her face from her mother, but I recognize it plain as day.

  “It would be nice to catch up,” I say, talking to Bevin but looking at Joa. “It’s definitely been a while. Though in some ways, it seems like it was only yesterday.”

  “I have a conference call in ten minutes that I need to prepare for,” Joa says. “Thanks for stopping by, Mom.”

  She leans in, kissing her mother’s cheek, and then disappears down the hall into her office.

  I gave her space last night at Friar Parson’s, because that’s what you do when you care about someone and your sheer presence brings out this sadness in their eyes you never knew could exist there.

  But I came here to win her back, and I’m running out of time. Besides, I’ve always been a sore loser.

  “So it’s settled?” Bevin asks. “You’ll stay with us?”

  “I’d be honored. Thank you.”

  Past

  Reed

  “Non-work-related question for you.” Joa’s voice fills the earpiece of my office phone. In the background, I can hear her fingers tapping at her keyboard.

  “Yes?”

  “You know how we’re going to Vail in a few weeks?”

  “What about it?”

  “I found this really cool resort I think we should look at. I’ll send you the link right now.”

  “Pass.”

  “You haven’t even seen the pictures.”

  “Resorts are hotels. You know how I feel about hotels,” I say, keeping my voice calm and steady.

  “Maybe if you told me why you feel the way you feel about hotels, then I’d—”

  “Not a chance” The last thing I need is to delve into traumatic childhood memories with the girl who’s only with me for the orgasms. “Get back to work, Jolivet."

  11

  Joa

  “Lucy.” I force my way into her office the second my mother leaves and all but slam the door.

  She ends the call she’s on and gifts me with some major side eye and a curious half-leer. “Okay. You’re coming at me with some serious ruffled feather energy here. What’s going on?”

  Ruffled feather energy? That must be one of her mom’s trademark terms.

  I take the seat across from her, burying my face in my hands for a second.

  “What’s all this?” Lucy asks. “You’re being weird.”

  “My mom …” I begin to say, before I break into an incredulous chuckle.

  “Oh, no. What’d she do?” Lucy knows all about my mom and her tendencies to go above and beyond when she feels her services are needed in any capacity. She’s a born giver. Bevin Jolivet has never met a donation jar she could ignore or a stranded motorist she couldn’t stop for. Apparently she places Reed in the same category despite the fact that he could afford the nicest hotel room in town if he wanted and the fact that he chose to spend the holidays alone.

  “I guess the apartment Reed was renting flooded or something and he’s staying at some hotel that doesn’t meet his expectations,” I say. “Mom told him he should stay with them.”

  “No.” Lucy’s hand flies to her mouth, though I think she’s hiding laughter and not shock.

  “You think this is funny, don’t you?” I ask. “Luc, it’s not. I don’t want to see him on Christmas. Do you know how weird this is going to be?”

  Lucy grabs her phone from her top desk drawer.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Calling my mom.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s one of the best relationship-slash-spiritual gurus in the entire nation, that’s why.” She holds her phone to her ear. “Hi, Betsy. It’s Lucy. Is my mother around? Thanks.”

  I can’t believe she’s interrupting her mother’s production schedule for this nonsense.

  I feel awful.

  And at the same time, I’m grateful.

  Secretly entertained, too.

  “Hi, Mom!” Lucy’s face lights as she gives her a condensed version of my ridiculous little predicament, and a moment later, she puts her on speaker and slides her phone across the desk.

  “Hi, Dr. Clarke,” I say, shooting Lucy a look. I still can’t believe she did this. In the year that I’ve known her, I’ve only met her mother twice. I doubt she’d so much as remember my face if she passed me on Michigan Avenue.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” she says, in a voice that makes me feel like I’ve known her my whole life. Exhaling, my shoulders release their held tension and I focus on the phone in front of me. “So Lucy tells me your ex is in town and your mother has just invited him to stay at your house for the holidays?”

  “That’s right,” I say, thankful this is taking place in the privacy of Lucy’s office and not on a production set under hot lights and a live audience. “But my mother doesn’t know he and I had a thing … a physical thing … that got ugly in the end. I’m not upset with her for offering—her heart’s in the right place. I’m upset with him for accepting the offer.”

  “Darling, why don’t you talk to him about it?” she asks, as if it’s the simplest solution in the world. “His boundaries are completely out of line and you have every right to tell him what he did was not okay.”

  “I could,”
I say. “But if he changes his mind now, my mom will know something’s up and she’ll either guilt trip me about it the rest of the week or ask a million questions until she gets enough information to piece together exactly what happened.”

  She’s always been good at that … piecing things together. She’ll ask a dozen seemingly unrelated and random questions and then suddenly she’s shouting, “YOU SNUCK OUT OF PHOEBE CANTOR’S BASEMENT TO MAKE OUT WITH JOSH KILDER WHEN YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE AT A SLEEPOVER!”

  “All right.” Dr. Clarke’s pregnant pause is concerning. “You know, Joa, in my experience, when life forces us to confront something we’ve been avoiding it’s almost always for the best. It might not seem that way right now, but there’s a reason the universe has placed him back in your path.”

  I offer Lucy a polite smile as I listen to the spiritual side of Dr. Candice Clarke’s relationship advice. I’ve always been much too pragmatic to believe in things like fate and destiny and the universe aligning in the most perfect way at the most perfect time.

  “If you don’t deal with him now,” she continues, “you’re going to find him placed in your path again and again until you finally close this chapter of your life.”

  I suppose she has a point.

  I just didn’t think I’d be closing the chapter at my childhood home, gathered around my family and a Christmas tree.

  “Thank you so much, Dr. Clarke,” I say. “I really appreciate the advice.”

  “Anytime,” she says, her voice mellow like a breeze. “Lucy, call me later. Love and light, darlings.”

  “Bye, Mom.” Lucy ends the call and tucks her phone back into her desk drawer. “So? Are we going to do this or are we going to do this?”

  Reed has always been two steps ahead of me, though in this case, as we make our way from the L station to my car in the parking lot, he’s two steps behind.

  We said nothing to each other on the walk to the train, the only sound between us was the rolling of his suitcase wheels against a pitted concrete sidewalk.

  Once we got on board, he sat three rows away and on the opposite side—in front of me, even. So I wouldn’t have to worry about feeling the burden of his stare on the back of my head for thirty straight minutes.

  For most of the day, he left me alone. Tending to his audits and only coming out twice that I noticed.

  I don’t know what he’s planning, only that he’s definitely planning something. He’s strategic like that. Everything he does is for a reason.

  We climb into my car—the same Honda Accord I had in LA, though he always drove us in his Range Rover because growing up in that area, he always knew the best ways to get everywhere, always understood how the time of day correlated with the flow of the traffic.

  I start the engine and the radio blares with Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, making me jump in my seat.

  Reed laughs.

  I crank the volume down and adjust the heat settings.

  Heading down Forthwait Street a few minutes later, I can’t help but wonder what he’s going to think of my parents’ home. It’s a 1970s split-level that hasn’t been updated since they remodeled it in the late nineties. Everything is hunter green and burgundy and oak. It’s going to be a far cry from the Malibu manse he grew up in.

  At least, I assume he grew up in a Malibu mansion.

  He’s from Malibu, and he’s hinted at his privileged upbringing in the past.

  Anyway, it isn’t that I care what he’s going to think. It’s not like I’m trying to impress him. I’m just wondering if he’s ever set foot in a house the size of his closet that hasn’t aged in almost thirty years.

  I almost find it funny, actually.

  Every time we’d travel, he’d pick these upscale houses, modern places with pools and art installations and private driveways and landscaping that rivaled paradise.

  This couldn’t be further from his usual fare.

  We round the corner and I pull into my parents’ snow-packed driveway, parking beneath the basketball hoop where I beat my brother, Logan, in five straight games of H-O-R-S-E last summer.

  It almost feels sacrilegious to have Reed here.

  “I’ll walk you in,” I say, killing the engine.

  He climbs out, retrieving his bag from my trunk, and I head toward the garage, typing in my parents’ anniversary into the keypad.

  The smell of engine oil and frigid garage air hits my lungs and I lead him to the door in case he gets lost in this behemoth.

  A moment later, we step inside, wrapped in a hug of indoor warmth.

  “Mom? Dad?” I yell.

  I know they’re home. Both of their cars are here.

  “Reed is here,” I yell again before climbing the stairs to the next level.

  I still can’t believe my mom insisted on hosting him this week. Wait. Actually, I can believe it. She doesn’t just love to host and entertain, she lives for it. And I’m sure she took one look at Reed, sized him up as a successful, attractive man approximately my age, and thought she could do a little nonchalant match-making.

  Reed might be two steps ahead of me, but I’m two steps ahead of my mother.

  Making our way through the living room, we pass into the kitchen. The scent of warm, soapy dishwater—a smell I’ve always associated with home—fills my lungs.

  Growing up, my father was a high school math teacher and my mother ran an in-home daycare. Our house always smelled like dish soap, laundry, apple sauce, and Cheerios. I swear the walls of this place practically radiate love and warmth and togetherness.

  I can’t believe I ever thought I’d be happier in LA than here.

  “Mom?” I call for her again.

  “Coming!” A second later, she appears from the hallway. “Sorry. Was just putting away some fresh towels in Reed’s bathroom. You’ll be staying in Joa’s old room. She’s got a full-sized bed and it’s a pillow top, so you should be very comfortable.”

  “I have no doubt. Thanks again for hosting me,” Reed says.

  Kiss ass.

  “Oh, sweetheart, it’s our pleasure,” my mother says. “And you know, Tom is just dying to meet you. He’s a numbers guy. I assume you are too if you’re a CFO. I’m sure you two could talk shop tonight over dinner. I’m making goulash. I hope that’s okay?”

  Goulash.

  I swear my mom makes that every twelve days like clockwork, and she has for as long as I can remember.

  Chuckling to myself, I secretly love the fact that he could be eating the finest Chilean sea bass at some Michelin-star restaurant in Chicago tonight, but he’s going to be having ghoulash with Tom and Bevin Jolivet instead.

  While the two of them are distracted, I sneak out through the front door, climb back into my car, and head to my place.

  None of this feels real, and the hazy cast of snow flurries against a dark gray sky only adds to the surrealness.

  This is not at all how I pictured any of this going.

  Past

  Joa

  I stab at my salad with a plastic fork as I sit on bent knees in the middle of Reed’s office. I’m in the midst of organizing a presentation, and I wanted to spread out my printed slides so I could visualize them in a fresh way as I prepare my speech.

  “Where did you grow up?” I ask after I swallow a bite. When we first started hooking up, I was reluctant to ask him any personal questions, but the more time we’ve spent together, the more opportunities we’ve had to reinforce our colleagues-with-benefits-and-nothing-more arrangement still stands. “I don’t think you ever told me.”

  “I’m from the area.” He doesn’t look up from his computer.

  “That could mean anything. Beverly Grove. Culver City. Echo Park. Brentwood ...”

  “Malibu.”

  “Really?” I rest my clear plastic salad container on my lap. “Wouldn’t have guessed that. Did you live by the ocean?”

  “I did.”

  I should’ve known he came from money. A man who comes from nothing generally doesn
’t walk with an arrogant swagger like Reed’s.

  They don’t make them like him where I come from. The richest kids in my school were the spawn of doctors and lawyers and bankers. Their homes were beautiful, but they weren’t multi-million dollar works of art with breathtaking views.

  “Where did you go to school?” I ask.

  “Saint Bonne Academy, then Concord Prep, then Pepperdine.”

  I try to imagine him in a school uniform of khakis and a polo, kissing girls at recess and breaking hearts until the day he graduated a Pepperdine Wave.

  "What was it like,” I begin to ask, “growing up in a castle by the sea kind of house? Going to all the best schools and having anything you ever wanted at your disposal?”

  Reed turns away from his monitor, meeting my inquisitive stare.

  “It was awful,” he says.

  I laugh. “No, really. What was it like?”

  “It was awful.”

  12

  Reed

  Quietude haunts the office on Christmas Eve. Half the staff took the day off. The remaining staff are either checked out, biding their time watching YouTube videos on their phones or pretending to look busy because they’re still freaked out that I’m here.

  The ride to work this morning was … interesting.

  The train was packed and we were forced to share a seat. On the way home last night, I gave her space. I’m already invading her family on the holidays, it was the least I could do. But today we sat together, the sides of our thighs touching.

  She had her nose in a book the entire time—some non-fiction hardback on 18th century women who made a difference or something. Either way, I kept having to adjust myself because there’s something so sexy about the way Joa reads.

  First, it’s the micro expressions. The biting of her lips, the lifting or furrowing of her brows. Then it’s the occasional sigh that I don’t even think she realizes she’s doing. And don’t even get me started on the way she licks the pad of her finger before turning a page.