by Bec Linder
Well. It likely counted as stalking. But I was here already, and I was—I missed her. That was all there was to it. I couldn’t explain the pull she had on me. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman I had ever met, or the wittiest, or the easiest to talk to, but being with her had been uncomplicated and right in a way I had never experienced with any of the other women I dated. Not even with Prentice, whom I had asked to marry me.
And I had screwed it up somehow, and lost her.
I wished I knew what had happened while she was in California.
Germaine’s open door beckoned to me. The light was on; she was in there working, and the temptation proved too much for me to resist.
I went over.
I knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Germaine said, and I pushed the door open and stepped into her office.
“Mr. Sutton,” she said, looking surprised but pleased. She stood up to shake my hand. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I hope everything has been going well for you.”
“Yes, just fine,” I said. “It’s good to see you again, Germaine. I was hoping you could answer a question for me.”
“I’ll certainly do my best,” she said. She sat down again and folded her hands on top of her desk.
“There’s a waitress who works here,” I said. “She served my private parties a few times. Regan, I think?”
“Yes, of course,” Germaine said. Her face was carefully blank. A polite fiction on both of our parts, then. She knew I had been dating Regan.
“I didn’t see her here tonight,” I said, “but I was hoping she would be available for a party later this week.”
Germaine sighed. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but I will. Regan doesn’t work here anymore.”
I held very still, forcing myself not to react. “That’s a shame,” I said. “She was very discreet.”
“Yes, it’s a shame that she decided to quit,” Germaine said. “But I believe she was happy with her decision.”
She said it with such finality that I knew I wouldn’t get any additional information from her. “Well, thank you anyway,” I said. “I’ll leave you to your work.”
“Good evening, Mr. Sutton,” she said, already turning back to her paperwork.
That was it, then. Regan had quit to avoid running into me at the club.
It was a clear message: she never wanted to see me again.
It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, but I never seemed to learn the fundamental lesson that life had been trying to teach me, over and over again, for the last twenty years: everyone would leave me in the end. My best friend would sell me out to the tabloids, my fiancée would have an affair while planning our wedding, my father would walk out with no warning. My money was enough to lure people to me, but it wasn’t enough to convince them to stay.
I had thought, foolishly, that Regan was different, that she saw me as a person instead of a bank account; that maybe she was interested in me, the person, as opposed to Carter Sutton, the CEO.
But I had been mistaken. She was the same as everyone else.
I needed to forget about her and move on with my life.
* * *
I didn’t end up going to bed early, like I had planned. Instead, I stayed up far too late, drinking and watching horrible reality television, and the next morning was far from pleasant. Like most people, I hated Mondays, and a Monday with a slight hangover and far too little sleep was more unpleasant than most. I didn’t even enjoy television. I had no idea why I maintained my cable subscription. Masochism? Blind loyalty to the American dream?
I spent the next few days doing my best to bury myself in work and avoid thinking about Regan. I failed, of course. My brain mercilessly replayed my conversation with Germaine, and—far worse—my final conversation with Regan. Anger and bitterness were tempting emotions, ready salves for a bruised ego, but when I was honest with myself, what I mainly felt was sorrow.
As I thought about it more, I was forced to admit to myself that I didn’t truly believe that Regan had never cared about me. I didn’t think she was that callous or manipulative. Her lack of guile was one of the traits that originally drew me to her, and I knew that I hadn’t misinterpreted our relationship so thoroughly. Regan had mattered to me so much in part because I mattered to her.
It was a moot point. My regrets didn’t matter.
It was over.
Thursday dawned gray and rainy, and nothing improved after I arrived at work. An actual yelling match broke out in my first meeting of the day, between two top executives who really ought to have known better. The coffee maker in my office broke. The accountants, hell-bent on filing taxes before April 15 for the first time in the history of the company, kept sending me endless, mind-numbing memos about minutiae of the tax code that I neither understood nor cared about. Nancy had called in sick, and her temporary replacement, while very sweet, couldn’t figure out how to transfer calls appropriately, and kept sending annoyed investors straight to my office line.
It was, in short, a beast of a Thursday.
And then, to cap it all off, I received an email from my cousin David, informing me that my aunt wanted to know if investing in Bitcoin was a good idea, and would I please give him a call to discuss the matter.
I sighed. I knew next to nothing about Bitcoin, but David would just keep emailing me until I succumbed. I checked my calendar. I had half an hour until my next meeting; plenty of time to give David a stern talking-to about keeping his mother off the internet.
I scrolled through my phone, looking for David’s phone number. The sheer quantity of my contacts bordered on the absurd. There were hundreds. I never called these people. I didn’t need to have their numbers on hand. That was why I had a secretary.
In a fit of pique, I went through and started deleting. Former housekeeper, ex-VP of Operations whom I had fired, someone named Candy—deleted. I had a million other things I needed to be doing, but this felt oddly satisfying. Getting rid of the old, making room for the new. Purging.
I was making good progress when I came to one name and stopped.
Sadie Bayliss.
It sounded oddly familiar. Sadie...
That was Regan’s friend. The girl with the hair.
Why did I have her phone number?
She had called me. I remembered now. The night we went to her apartment for dinner, she had called to ask me to bring some wine. I must have stored her number for someone reason. Habit, probably.
Without giving myself time to think, I fired off a quick text message: This is Carter Sutton. Would you be willing to speak with me about Regan?
Christ. Why had I done that? I needed to stop thinking about Regan altogether, not pathetically try to pump her best friend for information. What good would it do me, anyway? Regan had washed her hands of me. Pursuing the matter would accomplish nothing, save burdening me with yet more misery.
It was too late now. I had already sent the message. There was nothing to do but wait.
Sadie’s answer came a few excruciating minutes later. holy crap yes. I work in midtown want 2 do lunch?
I blinked. That...wasn’t what I expected. I had anticipated a quick “fuck off” and nothing more, but if Sadie was willing to talk to me, I wasn’t going to turn her down.
It was, no doubt, a terrible decision, but no matter how much I tried to convince myself that it was a lost cause, I couldn’t bring myself to let go of Regan just yet. Her final phone call had been so confusing and ambiguous that I knew there was more to the story, and I wasn’t ready to let it rest.
Also, I was a glutton for punishment. Why stop twisting the knife when I had an opportunity to cause myself further emotional agony?
Is tomorrow too soon? I’ll meet you wherever you’d like, I texted.
Starbucks on 6th near rockefeller ctr, high noon, come alone, tell no one, Sadie replied.
I grinned. Very secret agent. I would have to bring a black briefcase just to mess with her.
My smile
faded. I was an idiot. Regan had made it very clear that she wanted nothing further to do with me, and I should respect her wishes and leave her alone. I had many words for men who pursued uninterested women, and none of them were flattering.
But—but. If Regan’s best friend thought there was something that needed to be discussed, maybe my gut feeling wasn’t wrong: that Regan had panicked, that something had happened to make her run scared, that maybe all hope wasn’t lost.
Alternatively, Sadie wanted to tell me off for being a creep who needed to leave well enough alone.
Well. I would find out soon enough.
* * *
The Starbucks on 6th was, of course, packed, but I was able to spot Sadie quickly enough, even though she had changed her hairstyle so that it was twisted in small knots all over her head. She saw me as I walked toward her and gave an enthusiastic wave.
That was a good sign, at least.
She had staked out a minuscule table in a corner. I set down my briefcase and slid it toward her.
She stared at me for a moment, brow furrowed, and then burst out laughing. “Seriously? Tell me there are fat stacks of hundred dollar bills in there.”
“There are fat stacks of hundred dollar bills in there,” I said. “Not really, though. I thought about filling it with Monopoly money, but that seemed like too much work.”
“I mean, can’t you just call the head of the Monopoly company and have it bike messengered to your door? Seems like laziness,” she said. “Have a seat. I got you a latte because all white people like lattes.”
I sat down and accepted the drink. “Is that a universal truth you’ve uncovered?”
“Are you denying it? You can’t, because it’s true,” she said.
“I do indeed like lattes,” I said. “Thanks. And thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” she said. “I mean, nothing against you. You seem like a nice guy. But I’ve got an ulterior motive, and it’s Regan, you know?”
“I figured as much,” I said. “I don’t expect you to reveal any, ah, sensitive information. But I was hoping... well. I don’t know what Regan told you. She called me from California and broke up with me, and—”
“And she’s been going fucking bananas ever since,” Sadie said. “Yeah. There was apparently some intense shit that went down with her mom and her ex, and I think being home was just a lot for her to deal with in general.”
Her ex? Regan had an ex? Who had apparently been important enough to her to still, six years later, be the source of intense shit. “She didn’t say much about it,” I said.
“Yeah, I figured,” Sadie said. “It doesn’t sound like she handled it very well. I think she had, like, stayed up all night sitting beside her grandmother’s casket, and then she called you. Anyway, I think she regrets it. Breaking up with you, I mean. But she’ll never do anything about it, so if you want her back, it’s up to you.”
“She told you that?” I asked. I wasn’t sure what to make of everything that Sadie was saying. It was too much to process. I had spent the last two months telling myself that Regan didn’t care about me, that she had left me without a second thought. The idea that she regretted it, that maybe she missed me, caused such intense cognitive dissonance that I felt as though the known universe had been inverted, and I had discovered a new and peculiar plane of existence, one involving an extra dimension or two beyond the realm of ordinary physics.
“Not in so many words,” Sadie said. “You know how she is. She told me about the breakup, and she hasn’t mentioned you again since. That’s how I know. The less she talks about something, the more it matters to her.”
“Maybe it’s just that she’s already forgotten about me,” I said.
Sadie gave me a skeptical look. “Yeah, right. You were the first man she’d been with, and she hasn’t had a relationship since high school—”
“Wait,” I said. “What?”
“Well, she was a virgin, of course,” Sadie said, and took a sip of her coffee, looking so innocently wide-eyed that I knew she was aware of the bomb she had just dropped on me. “Like, she never straight-up told me, but come on. It was pretty obvious.”
“It wasn’t obvious to me,” I said, through gritted teeth.
Jesus fucking Christ.
That put an entirely new and unfortunate spin on the situation.
Why hadn’t she told me?
If I had known—
Well, if I had known, I wouldn’t have touched her. Maybe that was the reason she hadn’t told me.
“It’s okay, men are pretty oblivious,” Sadie said. “Don’t worry about it. Anyway, the big problem here is that she’s got her head up her ass and won’t admit that she made a mistake.”
“I’m not going to show up at her apartment with a boombox, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said. “She told me it was over, and I intend to respect that.”
Sadie sighed. “Carter, look. She didn’t break up with you because she wasn’t into you, or because you did something wrong. Her big fear is that she isn’t good enough for you. She hasn’t been able to articulate that to me, of course. She said a few things about how you were ‘too different,’ which in Regan talk means she thinks she’s gutter trash.”
How could Regan think she wasn’t good enough for me? If anything, I wasn’t good enough for her.
Maybe we were both afraid. Maybe that was the problem: neither of us had enough courage to face down our fears. Regan was afraid of inadequacy, and I was afraid of abandonment. What a sad pair. I rubbed my face and said, “Why don’t we just cut to the chase. What is it that you think I should do?”
“Okay,” Sadie said. “I’ll be honest with you, I’m not convinced that the whole high-flying billionaire thing is good for her, but she was happy and now she’s not, and I’m invested in her continued happiness. Do you understand what I’m saying? You do what I tell you to, and I’ll work on bringing her around.”
“That sounds a little threatening,” I said, carefully non-committal. I knew a watershed moment when one beat me over the head. This was my last chance to walk away with heart and dignity intact.
Sadie leaned toward me. “It doesn’t sound like you’re saying no.”
In for a penny. “I’m not,” I said.
“Good,” she said. “Now, listen up. I have a plan.”
Chapter 14
Sadie, it turned out, fancied herself as something of a tactical genius, an intellectual descendant of Sun Tzu. The first part of her plan involved having me learn about Filipino culture to convince Regan that I was capable of understanding her background. The second part required me to purchase certain things for my apartment and discard others, to make my home more welcoming. The third part involved learning to ride the subway—
“I already know how to ride the subway,” I said.
“Yeah, but when was the last time you actually did it?” Sadie asked. “When you were a kid, and your mom thought you needed to see how the other half lives? Get real, you have a car and driver. I wouldn’t take the subway either.”
“So then why is it so important for me to start taking the subway?” I asked.
“Who’s making the list here, me or you?” she asked. “That’s right, it’s me. You don’t get to ask questions.”
I rolled my eyes. We were in Starbucks again, three days after our first meeting, and Sadie had brought an actual typed list of things that I needed to do. I was beginning to get the feeling that her tasks were more about forcing me to jump through hoops for her own amusement than actually helping me to win Regan back. But it was important to be on Sadie’s good side, and so I was willing to indulge her, at least for now. It also gave me some more time to figure out how I felt about seeing Regan again.
“Okay, step four,” Sadie said. “Sell your company, give away all your belongings, and move into a yurt in Central Park.”
“I’m not going to do that,” I said. “Rent in Central Park is much too expensive.”
“What about a tent,” she said. “Smaller footprint, right? You can afford that.”
“Not if I sell my company,” I said. “How will I buy food? I have no marketable skills. My resume only has one line: Head Mogul.”
“Well, okay,” Sadie said. “You can keep the company for now. I pulled your expense reports from the last fiscal year. Pretty good profit margins, but corporate donations are on the low side. You can work on that.”
“You’re right,” I said, amused. “I’ll speak with the board of directors immediately. In the meantime, why don’t we work on the first three steps for now? You wouldn’t want me to get overwhelmed.”
“Hmm,” Sadie said. “You’re probably right. Your tiny man-brain can’t handle too much change all at once. Get started on this, and I’ll check in on you next week.” She folded the list in half and handed it to me.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said dryly. Tiny man-brain? I had to admire Sadie: there weren’t many people who would say something like that to my face. I found it refreshing. I was surrounded by people who told me what they think I wanted to hear; it was an interesting change of pace to be around someone who had no compunctions about telling me what she really thought.
“Good luck, lover-boy,” Sadie said, standing and gathering her things. “Call me if you need help.” She winked at me, pulled the hood of her coat over her head, and sailed out of the coffee shop.
I watched her go, torn between irritation and amusement. I wondered if she would call Regan and give her a full report of our meeting, and if so, what that report would entail.
Hopefully nothing but flattering statements about my animalistic appeal.
As Henry drove me back to the office, I thought about the tasks Sadie had assigned me. The first was probably the most necessary and useful. I knew next to nothing about Filipino culture, and I didn’t think that Sadie would have suggested it unless it mattered to Regan. At the very least, I was sure that Regan would appreciate the effort.
Learning the cuisine seemed the obvious choice. I was a competent chef, and I had never known a woman to turn up her nose at a home-cooked meal. Mastering the full repertoire was out of the realm of possibility, of course, but learning the basic techniques shouldn’t be too difficult. The only hurdle would be finding someone to teach me.