Auctioned to Him

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Oh, c’mon, please.” She bounces up and down and grabs my hand. Her pale face and severe hair cut are a complete mismatch to how warm and kind she comes off.

  “All three of them are assholes. I just want to know which one you fell for.”

  “Gatsby,” I whisper, embarrassed. I shake my head.

  “But it’s not like he did this to me.” I’m trying to gain some of my dignity back, but all efforts are in vain. “It just happened.”

  It. What was it that happened? I can’t call it a breakup, we were just on our first date! But something did happen, and that’s why I’m now sitting on his private plane all alone. Well, not all alone.

  27

  O shakes her head. “Honestly, I didn’t expect that. Gatsby never brings anyone here. And he should know better. He is the oldest.”

  “Oldest of all of you?”

  “No, oldest of the guys. I’m the oldest oldest.”

  I nod. She must be close to thirty, but she could easily pass for twenty-one. I want to shift the conversation away from me. I tell O my name and ask her why she’s in Montana.

  “Charity event for the American Prairie Preserve.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Oh, it’s an amazing organization. They are buying up land and letting a herd of buffalo roam around it, in the wild, just like they did a hundred and fifty years ago. Before they were all almost slaughtered to extinction.”

  She hands me a pamphlet. The buffalo on the cover looks just like the one I saw outside our window last night. Oh, how I wish that I could go back to that moment. There would be so much that I would do over. So many things that I wouldn’t say or say properly.

  After an hour or so of flight time, I start to feel groggy and take a nap. When I wake up, O is asleep. I don’t know much about her, but I really like her anyway. She has a calm demeanor about her, the kind that puts me at ease right away. Her haircut and dark clothes don’t go with her sunny personality. But there must be an explanation for that as well. I hope that we will see each other again. However unlikely.

  When we start to descend towards the lights of Los Angeles that span toward the horizon as far as the eyes can see, O grabs my hand and asks to exchange numbers.

  “If you ever want to talk, please call. I live in Malibu, but I’ll be right over.”

  People in LA always promise to call and text but never do. But something about O makes me believe her.

  “I will,” I say. “You too. Call or text whenever you need anything.”

  I have no idea how I could help someone who has a bigger monthly spending allowance than I will probably make in a lifetime, but I want to be of use as well.

  “I’m serious,” she says. “I know we all say that, but I really mean it.”

  “Everyone says that, too,” I laugh.

  “Well, I want to stay in touch. I kinda like you, Annabelle. And I don’t like too many people.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you’re not stupid. And I know you’ll make me laugh when you’re not so heartbroken.”

  Her words cut right through me, and I gasp.

  “How do you know?” I whisper.

  “How could I not? Look at you. If you look like this in your every day life, you have some things to answer to.”

  I smile. I’m surprised at myself. Only a few hours ago, I didn’t think that I would ever, or could ever, laugh again. Yet, after a flight with O, I was on my way back to being my normal self. Gatsby didn’t take it all out of me. No, I’ve been through a lot. But I’m more resilient than that.

  I may have been falling in love with him, but at least it stopped before it actually got that far. I gasp again. Falling in love? Was that what was happening?

  “Isn’t life amazing?” O asks. “Just when you think you’re going to be spending the whole evening alone, being bored, you end up meeting a friend.”

  She’s talking about herself, but I feel the same way. Yes, life is amazing.

  I arrive at work early the following Monday. I set my alarm extra early, take a shower, and spend time picking out my outfit and doing my hair and makeup. I have to look as normal as possible. I don’t want Ms. Greaves to be alarmed. And most of all, I don’t want Gatsby to know that anything is wrong. The best way to deal with all of this and keep my job is to act as professionally as possible. And that means to pretend that nothing is wrong.

  Ms. Greaves and her perfectly coiffed hair and impossibly high heels are already there. She must be pushing sixty, and yet she has more energy than I do most mornings. I’ve never seen her drink a cup of coffee. What is powering her? Caffeine pills? ADHD? Coke?

  I nod hello and sit down at my desk. We rarely exchange any more pleasantries than that. I tried, but Ms. Greaves thinks that everything is gossip. News, politics, entertainment. Even regular water cooler talk is gossip to her. “And this office has no space for gossip.”

  Maggie Mae wasn’t home yesterday, and today, of all days, I really regret that no one else works with me at the office. It would be nice to talk to someone about something to take my mind off things.

  “I’ve got good news for you, Ms. York,” Ms. Greaves says, standing over my desk. She moves as quietly as a mouse. How long has she been there? I minimize Facebook and look up.

  “You’re moving to your new office today.”

  “New office?”

  “Close to Mr. Wild.”

  “Really?”

  After this weekend, I wasn’t even sure if I would still have my job, let alone get the promotion a week early.

  “I know. You’re not the only one who’s surprised. Personally, I don’t think you’re ready. But it’s all up to Mr. Wild.” She shakes her head.

  “Are you sure?” I ask. I still can’t believe it. How can this be? Perhaps, it’s a request that he put in last week when everything was fine. Yeah, that must be it.

  “I wouldn’t be doing this otherwise. Got strict instructions from Mr. Wild this morning. Guess you made an impression.”

  I shake my head. This morning! What kind of impression could I have made this weekend? Not a good one, that’s for sure!

  My chest grows tight, and my throat closes up. I feel like I’m about to lose my job. Last night, I wasn’t sure. But now I’m certain. What if this is some sort of ruse to humiliate me? What if he wants to fire me but make a big show first? No, that can’t be it, Gatsby wouldn’t do that. Would he?

  “You ready?” Ms. Greaves asks.

  “For what?”

  “To see your new office?”

  No, no, no. I get up and follow her through the double doors. Just keep calm. Keep cool. Act professional. Everything will be okay. I say these things to myself over and over without believing a single word.

  The elevator doors open. Gatsby walks in. He is wearing an impeccably tailored gray suit that accentuates his narrow waist and wide shoulders. The collar of his white shirt is so starched that it looks like it would stand up to the worst desert heat.

  He nods hello. First to Ms. Greaves and then to me. I give him a little nod back. When he grabs the stack of paperwork off Ms. Greaves desk, his cufflinks sparkle like starlight. Each cufflink is a parallelogram made of white gold with a wavy line of diamonds going down the middle.

  Gatsby’s perfectly polished Italian shoes squeak right before he goes through the double doors, breaking my concentration. He pauses for a moment as if he’s waiting for something. I don’t know whether I should follow him inside.

  “We’ll be right in, Mr. Wild.” Ms. Greaves stands up from her chair. Without a word, he disappears into his office.

  “Well, c’mon.” Ms. Greaves waves to me. “Let me show you to your new place.”

  “What? Now?” I’m not ready. I can’t.

  “Yes, now!”

  I take a deep breath and follow her through the double doors.

  28

  I enter a room the size of a football field.
I had no idea that this floor was even that big. I thought that our room was unnecessarily large for two people, but this one is even bigger. The ceiling is close to twenty feet. The office has only one real wall and that one houses the elevator. The rest of it is glass, from floor to ceiling.

  I see Gatsby on the far end of the room. A full living room with three couches and two sofas and a beautiful coffee table separates us.

  “Here, this is it,” Ms. Greaves says, focusin my concentration. I turn to face her. She’s inside a cube. There’s a smaller glass office within the large space. I follow her inside.

  “This will be your space. This way you can have some privacy and so can Mr. Wild when he has meetings. But you will also be right here if he needs you.”

  If Gatsby needs me. I like the sound of that.

  My office is entirely constructed of glass. Even the door is glass. But the size of it is quite manageable. It’s the size of my living room.

  I’m relieved. Large spaces make me uncomfortable. I’m glad that I don’t have to sit at a table in the middle of an enormous room.

  The desk, which is luckily not made of glass, is facing the window. I sit down and look out. The glass is so clean that I feel like I am outside. A bird flies by. It seems like it’s flying right in front of me even though there are two layers of glass separating us.

  “Isn’t this nice?” Ms. Greaves says, walking around my office. I’m not sure if she’s just complimenting the place or is jealous that she’s not the one working here.

  “Can I ask you something, Ms. Greaves? Is there a reason you don’t work here? You have so much more experience, and you know everything about Mr. Wild and what he needs.”

  “Mr. Wild and I go way back, Ms. York. I don’t like to gossip, but let’s just say that I’m happy in my permanent position.”

  “Permanent?” I ask. What does that mean? Does that mean that Gatsby is going to fire me soon?

  “Is this position not permanent?” I ask when she doesn’t reply.

  “It’s complicated. You and I fulfill different functions. Let’s just say, this position isn’t for me,” she finally says. “But I’m sure you’re going to be very happy here.”

  After Ms. Greaves leaves, I sit down in the most comfortable office chair I’ve ever sat in and swivel around in a circle. I stop spinning, facing Gatsby, who is talking on the phone and walking around his office. He pours himself a coffee at the bar and meanders around the living room with it. The conversation is heated, but I can’t hear a word.

  He signals that he’ll be off soon when he catches me staring at him. I turn away from him and face the computer. It’s a good time to get some work done. If not work, then at least set up all the things that need to be set up. My email. Facebook. Save some important tabs into favorites. Like CNN. Buzzfeed.

  * * *

  “Hey, sorry, about that,” Gatsby opens the door. “How do you like your office?”

  My office. I like the sound of that!

  “It’s great, thanks.”

  “Did Ms. Greaves show you everything?”

  “Yep. Thanks. This place is amazing, Gatsby. The view, it’s unbelievable. But you know, I wanted to talk to you about something. I mean, after everything that happened, are you sure that you want me working here?”

  He takes a moment to collect his thoughts.

  “Yes, I do, Ms. York. I wouldn’t have asked for you otherwise.”

  “Ms. York?”

  “Ms. York. And it’s Mr. Wild to you. I have to get back to work now.”

  I nod. I can’t believe my ears. Ms. York. Mr. Wild. The formalities make me cringe. It’s as if we are strangers again. Calls start streaming in before I get the chance to really think about this and what it all means. I answer calls, putting some of them through. Ms. Greaves was kind enough to leave a list of people who were to be put through immediately on my desk. I screen all other calls, take notes on their issues and desires and pleas.

  The rest of the day comes and goes, but we don’t speak again. At least, not in person. There are a couple of times when Gatsby, er, Mr. Wild, calls me on the phone and asks for his messages, but other than that, nothing.

  Around 5:30 pm, I’m ready to leave. I’ve been ready to leave for close to forty-five minutes already, but I’m not sure what to do. Gatsby is still at his desk, going through paperwork and making calls. When he’s not doing that, he’s staring at the computer screen and clicking ferociously.

  I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to leave too early. I don’t know if I should ask permission. I never did before with Ms. Greaves, but this is different.

  I watch the clock. Time passes slowly.

  5:45 pm.

  6:00 pm.

  7:15 pm.

  7:29 pm.

  * * *

  This is getting ridiculous. What am I waiting for? Clearly, there’s no more work for me to do. If Gatsby needs to stay late, that’s his problem. I have searched every website imaginable. Finally, at 7:31pm, I turn off the screen and officially end my day.

  “Hey, Gatsby…I mean, Mr. Wild,” I correct myself as quickly as I can. “I’m going to take off now.”

  “Oh, wow, you’re still here?”

  I catch him off guard. He’s no longer wearing his tie. His starched shirt is just as starched, but the two buttons at the top are open. He’s not wearing his suit jacket anymore. When I get closer to his desk, I see that he’s also barefoot. His shoes are tossed casually aside, and his perfect, powerful feet are naked. No socks!

  “I thought you’d left already,” he says, leaning back in his chair. There’s a half drunk gin and tonic on his desk.

  “You did?” I don’t understand how that’s possible. “Why?”

  “Yeah. I can’t really see you,” he says, pointing his drink at my office.

  I turn around. The glass cube is completely opaque. I can see out, but no one can see in.

  “Oh, I had no idea. Why is it like that?”

  Gatsby shrugs and smiles.

  “If you want to be in a fishbowl, you can always turn it off.”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about. He walks me back to my office and shows me that there’s a button on my desk that makes the glass all around the office either opaque or see-through. My office has been opaque the whole day. He couldn’t see a thing!

  “I just thought you wanted some privacy.”

  I shake my head. I had been wrong this whole day. I spent so much time pretending to work that I actually got some work done.

  I start to laugh.

  “What? What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing really. I just didn’t know. That’s all.”

  “Ah, I see. You feel like the day has been wasted because you were just pretending to work, huh?” he jokes. For a moment, I see the old Gatsby and my heart breaks.

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Would you like a drink?” he asks. He doesn’t apologize for being rude in not offering me one before, he simply stares into my eyes and asks the question like he means it. But I can’t say yes. This has to remain professional. I’m confused as to what’s going on here.

  “Sure,” I nod. The words simply escape my lips as if my body is acting on its own accord. He appears to be as surprised by it as I am.

  29

  I watch Gatsby make me a martini. He’s meticulous and diligent. He’s like this in everything except lovemaking. It’s as if he has flashes of inspiration that he only saves for me when we are together. My mind is wandering again, and it must stop.

  Gatsby hands me my drink and takes a sip of his, looking over the skyline below us.

  “We’re so high up, and the windows are so big, I feel like I’m skydiving again.”

  Gatsby smiles without turning to me. “It wasn’t this boring, was it?”

  “No, not at all! I mean the slow part. After the chute opened. It hardly felt like we were falling at all.”

  “Isn’t that cool?” he asks.

  “H
ow do you mean?”

  “How relative everything is. If you were to fall right now at that same slow speed, you’d feel like you were falling fast. But in comparison to falling out of a plane, standing still feels like falling.”

  I nod and look out at the buildings and the flashing lights below. This part of downtown is quiet now. Almost all of the office buildings are empty. All of the employees that make this place such a hotbed of activity at lunchtime have now gone home or moved their activity to the clubs and bars to the west.

  “I’m sorry about what happened,” Gatsby says, facing the window and looking out into the distance.

  I want to face him, but I don’t.

  “Me too,” I say.

  “I don’t want it to interfere with our working relationship. I really like having you around,” he says.

  “No, me neither,” I agree.

  “What I’m trying to say.” Gatsby turns to face me. “Is that I want you to keep working here. No matter what happens between us.”

  “I want to work here, too,” I whisper.

  We are standing so close together I can feel his breath on my lips. What does that mean, no matter what happens between us? I thought ‘we’ were over, but perhaps not.

  “So you want to be friends?” I ask.

  I don’t know if I want him to say yes or no. I want to be friends if we can’t be anything else, but I don’t want to be just friends. I want more. I want to grab his head right now and pull him close to me.

  He leans closer to me. So close that his hair brushes against my forehead. It feels like a feather and sends shivers up my spine.

  “I’d like that,” he whispers.

  I close my eyes. I feel the warmth of his lip close to mine. I hear the pounding of his heart.

  He wraps his arms around me and gives me a close hug. A warm, but clearly not romantic hug.

  I open my eyes and realize that we’re in the middle of a friendly but not sensual embrace.

  “I’m glad, we were able to work this out,” Gatsby says when he pulls away from me.