He nodded to her impersonal y. "Cil a."
"Rand." She began to tremble.
"Thanks for taking time to meet. I'm getting pul ed off on some of the EU Danforth work beginning this week, so I wanted to find out what you need from me on your business plan. We should break down the task list and get rol ing." No pleasantries, no greeting, just the abrupt jump into work.
Cil a swal owed. "How do you want to do it?"
He gave her a level look. "You should probably make that cal since you're the primary. I can make some recommendations, if you like."
"I'm not the primary. This project belongs to both of us."
"Cil a. As far as the board is concerned, this is your baby. They're expecting a proposal from you, and I'm supposed to help. So that's what I'm ready to do—help." He was remote rather than angry, and in that moment she began to understand the ful extent of the damage. This wasn't going to go away. It wasn't going to be a Hol ywood ending where just seeing one another would be enough.
"That's not what I want." Her voice was unsteady, and they both knew she was talking about more than the proposal.
"I'm sorry. That's the best I can do right now," he said flatly. If it hurt him to say it, it didn't show, except maybe in the tightening of his jaw.
"Rand," she pleaded, "we need to talk about this."
He looked at a point on the wal , and then at her. "I think we've talked enough."
It was like being slapped, and she blinked. As hurt as she'd been al weekend, she'd assumed that everything was ultimately going to be al right.
She'd assumed that he would stil be ready to try. Now, in an instant, everything had changed. She wanted to beg, she wanted to weep. Pride wouldn't let her do either, though—pride, and the closed-off look in his eyes that warned her nothing she could do would make a difference.
"We should make a shortlist of locations and get some demographics on them." His voice was toneless. "I believe your memo mentioned Manhattan and Miami Beach."
"And London and Montreal." It took her two tries to get the words out.
She remembered the night they'd sat on her couch, flushed in the success of the Annex opening, giddy with the joy of their love affair. It had been only five weeks before, and yet it already seemed like a time captured in some golden wash of color, like an insect trapped in amber. How could they have come from that easy comfort to this frigid distance?
And how in God's name was she going to live with it? "I'l take London." Rand made a note on his pad. "I've already done some groundwork there. I can take whatever other city you don't want. We'l need demographics, competitive assessment, real estate estimates. Do you want to draft the straw man proposal, or shal I?"
Once, they'd worked together. Now, they would be separate, meeting only occasional y to bridge the gap. "I'l do it." She squared her shoulders.
"Get me your site data by Friday morning. I'l put it into the draft and have my father look it over."
Rand nodded. "I'l be out Wednesday afternoon, but it shouldn't be a problem. When do you want to meet again?"
"Friday morning."
* * *
IT WAS ABOUT the lousiest day he'd had in recent memory—rivaled only, perhaps, by the whole of the previous weekend. Rand's phone rang and he lifted the receiver. "Mitchel ," he snapped. "I leave for a week, and I only ask one thing of you, one thing. And do you do it?"
Rand paused for a moment and col ected himself. "Hel o, Wayne."
"You, sir, should be ashamed of yourself," his friend returned. "Al I asked was that you take care of our team for four games. Four games. And what do you do?"
"Look, don't even start—"
"You let them lose three, is what you do," Wayne continued.
Rand real y wasn't in the mood for this. "Clearly, I wasn't paying attention."
There was a short silence.
"Ah," said Wayne eventual y. "You were distracted."
"Mmm."
"I see." There was another pause. "Do I want to know why?"
Rand didn't want to get into it, not now. He didn't think he could bear to relive the moments with Cil a. "Probably not."
"Oh." Wayne cleared his throat. "Wel , thank you for sparing me."
"Don't mention it," Rand replied.
"No, I won't."
But Rand could practical y hear the gears turning in Wayne's head over the phone. "I wil say however, that it's time you paid more attention to your team, in person. I say it's time we sat your butt somewhere along the left-field line and reminded you about what's important in life."
Despite his mood, Rand almost smiled. "Look, I appreciate the gesture…"
"Box seats."
Wayne clearly was trying very hard. "You have box seats?"
"I could."
Rand hesitated, then thought that he needed to start getting over Cil a some time. Or, at least, be distracted from her. "Al right, I'm in."
"Of course you are," Wayne said triumphantly.
Rand sighed. After al , what were friends for?
* * *
THE LAST THING SHE WANTED to do the day after her life had fal en apart was have dinner with her parents. Some people would turn to their parents first for succor. Not her. Not her parents. Navigating an evening with them was always an adventure, the endless bickering and the petty jealousies creating a backdrop of constant agitation. Stil , her mother's birthday was the fol owing week and Cil a would be gone on a buying trip. This dinner provided a means of al -important appeasement. Now, she sat with them in the fashionable restaurant, the sniping between them grating on her like ground glass. They'd never gotten on wel , for as long as she remembered, but in recent years, it seemed, it had escalated into al -out warfare.
Or maybe now she just noticed it more. It wasn't how al couples acted. She thought of Rand's parents at the triathlon, the gentle teasing, the unquestioning support, the affection that showed through in every gesture. No, some couples weren't like that at al .
"If she weren't going out of town to take care of that business of yours, she'd be around for my party," her mother was saying, stil irate that she wasn't going to be feted on her birthday. She didn't take it up with Cil a, though. She wouldn't. Instead, it was another grievance to hold against her husband.
Sam Danforth bridled. "That business of mine, as you cal it, is what pays for al your credit cards and vacations."
"Al my vacations? Is it my fault you refuse to go anywhere that doesn't have a golf course?"
"Elaine, I work my ass off to make this company a success. When I've got time off, I want to do what I want to do."
"You're the most selfish man I've ever met, Sam Danforth."
"Me? I could take lessons from you."
Cil a sipped her wine and tried not to rol her eyes.
"Fine," Elaine sniffed. "I know when I'm not wanted. You go on your little golf holidays and I'l go to China by myself. It'l be more enjoyable without you anyway."
Cil a raised her glass, listening to the bickering go on as it had al her life. Suddenly her hand froze. Suddenly she saw the pattern. Solo. Their solution to everything was to split up and pursue their separate goals. Their pattern was to pursue what they wanted, without ever considering their partner. Be a team player, she remembered Rand saying. She'd lived with her parents her whole life. She'd known they'd battled. She'd always tried to ignore it, so she'd never listened enough to understand that the dialogue was always about the two of them separately.
And maybe that's what she had absorbed.
She'd been hurt that Rand hadn't been mol ified by the fact that what she'd done, she'd done without thinking. To her, it made sense. To him, it wasn't justification but a statement of the problem. And for the first time, she truly got it. What he wanted was someone who integrated their partner into their life, into their thinking. She'd never intentional y shut him out, but now she saw often she'd done it out of carelessness, out of not making him a priority.
She remembered Josephine and Vinnie, alwa
ys making the effort with the smal courtesies, the caring, and she understood. She final y understood.
Now she just had to convince Rand.
* * *
SUN SLANTED through the blinds of the conference room, backlighting the trio of investors. Rand relaxed in his seat. As far as he was concerned, he was interviewing them even as they were interviewing him. He didn't need the job. He might want it, but only if it was right. It needed to be a fit both ways. As far as that went, it was pretty clear that they were liking what they'd seen so far. No surprise there—this was the kind of interview he could do in his sleep, even if his heart wasn't ful y in it.
"Wel , I think we should keep discussions going here, Rand," said John Woodson, the head of the VC group. "What I'd real y like to do is have you meet with our ful investor group up in the San Jose office." Woodson looked about fifty, but was only in his late thirties, according to Rand's research. That was what bond trading did to you. Then again, it had also done other things, like setting Woodson up with enough dough to launch a company.
"Think about that biotech focus we talked about," Rand suggested. "There's a lot of strong technology out there, a lot of ways to win."
Woodson rose to shake his hand. "That's where we need the right managing partner. El iot wil be in touch."
He ought to have been truly psyched about the opportunity that had dropped in his lap, Rand thought as he got home. After a year spent fruitlessly searching for the right job, he'd just had one handed to him on a platter. It had the effect of lightening his mood a few shades from black, but that was about the extent of it. Intel ectual y, he knew it was right for him. Of course, intel ectual y he knew that getting the hel out of Dodge would put him that much closer to starting to get over Cil a.
As to actual y getting over Cil a, wel , one thing at a time. He changed into shorts and moved out to his balcony with a beer, staring out at the Hol ywood Hil s as they turned ruddy in the light of the setting sun.
The job represented a chance to move back into the world he knew, a world he loved. Running a VC firm wouldn't actual y involve making anything, but he'd be intrinsic to helping others realize their dreams. He could be as involved as he wanted to be. It would give him a chance to sit on boards, help make the decisions that would help shape tomorrow's Hewlett-Packard or Microsoft. It would let him use his ful array of skil s.
It would let him get away from the wreckage of what he'd had with Cil a.
The regrets and memories? They'd fol ow him always.
* * *
CILLA STARED AT her computer screen, tabulating the data she'd accrued on Miami Beach and Montreal. The proposal was nearly together. It had taken longer than it should have to write up. Then again, it was hard to concentrate when her life was lying in a shambles around her. The office had gradual y quieted as people knocked off for the day and headed out. She'd remained, working on her document.
She'd remained, hoping for a chance to talk with Rand.
After missing the previous afternoon, he'd be working late to catch up, she was betting. And, indeed, she saw, walking into the hal way, his light was on.
Show time.
When she reached his open door, Cil a tapped on the wood and Rand looked up inquiringly. Just for a moment, before the shutters came down, she saw the person she knew. He was stil in there, it was just a matter of reaching him.
She swal owed. "Got a minute?"
"Okay." His face was guarded, though he barely glanced up from his computer. "I'm just finishing up the data summaries on my sites. Check your e-mail in about half an hour."
"That's fine, but that's not what I wanted to talk about." She shut the door and walked to the client chair. Forget about nerves, she thought, she just needed to tel him that she'd final y understood. It would work out.
He stopped what he was doing, reluctantly, and looked directly at her for the first time. "Cil a, don't. We've been over this."
"No. Not what I want to talk about." She twisted her fingers together. "I've been doing some thinking about what happened Friday, about the things that you said. And you were right. I haven't been acting like part of a couple, not real y. There are reasons for it, but it doesn't change the facts."
She moistened her lips. "My family wasn't like yours, growing up. My parents…they fight like cats and dogs, they always have. I just figured that was what couples were like. It's why, when I grew up, I never wanted to get serious about anyone, so I never learned. That's not an excuse, it's a reason."
Her voice shuddered and she blinked rapidly to clear her eyes. Rand looked down at his desk.
"I went out with my parents the other night. Everything they talked about was each of them separately. Al I heard was 'I.' There was no 'we.' They're not like your parents. You think 'we' because that's what you grew up with. I grew up with the opposite." She took an uneven breath.
"I final y real y and truly understand why you've been angry with me. And I'm sorry." She fel silent. Say something, she thought.
His voice was low. "I haven't been angry, Cil a. I mean, I was, but there was real y no point. I guess I was more…disappointed."
It gave her a surge of hope to hear it. Disappointed held open the door. Disappointed was what he'd said in the past, and he'd always been ready to give it another try.
"I get it now, Rand, in a way I didn't before." She fought not to sound overeager. "I know how it's supposed to be. Just give this another chance and I'l show you."
He just sat, watching her. Wait a minute, she thought confusedly. This was the part where he was supposed to come around the desk and hold her, say it was going to be al right.
Instead, his gaze returned to the desktop, then across the room. Final y, he looked at her again. "This is the same conversation we've had before."
It was as if she'd been sucker punched. "What do you mean? I know why now. I can change."
"Cil a, every time we've had a problem, it always ends up with you promising to do better, saying that now you get it, now you'l be better. And then we go another round and it happens again in another way." The mask had total y dropped, but the pain and weariness behind it were almost worse.
"And every time it happens, I feel a little bit more like an idiot. If we do go another round, I'l feel even worse. And I'm tired of feeling that way. So no, I don't think we can try it again."
She swal owed, tightening her hands into fists. "I'm in love with you."
His eyes widened a fraction, but then the shutter came back down. "Cil a, you were talking about things you learn from your parents. One of the things I've learned from mine is that it's what you do that counts, it's not the words you say. You are who you are."
There was a screaming in her head and she blinked furiously to keep her eyes dry. "Rand, please. Don't punish us both because I've been stupid."
"I'd be punishing us both if I let it go on." Now he did rise and come around to her. "We gave it a good go, Cil a." He pressed his lips to her forehead. "Let's just leave it at that."
* * *
SHE MANAGED TO LEAVE graceful y, for that much, Cil a could be grateful. The drive to Brentwood was merely a blur. The moments in Rand's office kept running over and over in her head as though they were on an automatic loop. We gave it a good go, Cilla. Let's just leave it at that. She wouldn't cry, she told herself fiercely, not until she got to her house. Like some sort of wounded creature, she wanted only to be home. And there, she'd figure out a way to go on.
But home could do nothing to keep reality at bay. And if she final y let herself dissolve in hopeless tears, she felt no better for it. Then again, she didn't expect to. She didn't expect to for a long time.
Cil a groped for the phone. There was only one person she wanted to talk with at this point, her closest friend in al the world.
"Hel o?" The voice on the phone was froggy with sleep.
"Trish? I woke you up. Never mind, go back to sleep."
"Cil a?" Trish's concern was quick and complete. "Never mind, I'
m up. What's wrong? You sound terrible."
For a moment, Cil a wished with al her heart that Trish were there, just to hug and to sit with until the tempest passed.
"It's Rand." Her voice was unsteady. "We broke up." It started her crying afresh, and she groped for a tissue.
"Tel me what happened," Trish said gently, and Cil a did, going back to al of the days leading up to that night. It was nearly unbearable to revisit it, would have been unbearable with anyone but Trish, with her calm, empathetic acceptance.
"So it's over," Cil a finished. "I just don't know how to get past it, Trish, God help me I real y don't."
"Do you love him?"
"Yes."
"Did you tel him?"
It sent her back into tears. She'd told him and it hadn't mattered to him at al .
"He loves you, Cil a, you know that, don't you? No matter what's happened, he loves you. Otherwise this wouldn't have mattered so much."
"Then why doesn't he give me another chance?"
"Maybe he doesn't know how. You know the bumps that Ty and I had to go through before we got things figured out," Trish reminded her. "It's not always easy. Give him time, like Ty gave to me."
"But Ty didn't have to see you every day." Cil a squeezed her eyes tightly shut. "Trish, I don't know how I'm going to get through it as it is. I mean, I've got to work with him every day. I don't know how I'm going to do it."
"You're strong, Cil a." Trish's voice was steady. "You'l find a way."
"I don't feel very strong right now."
"No one ever does in the middle of the night."
At the sound of Trish's stifled yawn, Cil a looked at the clock. "God, what am I thinking of? It's two in the morning where you are."
"Doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters. Don't you movie people start at the crack of dawn?"
"So? Sleep's for losers. I want to be sure that you're okay."
"I'm as okay as I'm going to be. Go to sleep," Cil a ordered.
"Cal me tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Sweet dreams, honey. Thanks for being there."
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