Don’t gamble, I tell myself firmly. Oscar is everything I didn’t even know I wanted, and now can’t imagine living without. It’s not just the grand gestures and romance. He’s older and wiser. I feel like I can learn from him, that he can show me the world and teach me things, cheesy as that sounds. He’s not too good to be true, and he’s given me no indication that I have competition. If I want to know who Krystal is, I should ask him, and trust him to tell the truth.
The little voice in my head needles me about how wrong I was about my former fiancé. She says Oscar can still be older and wiser and wonderful beyond description, after I’ve satisfied my doubts, however preposterous they may seem.
I flip the pendant lights over the counter back on. If he comes to investigate, I’m just here for a drink of water. My heart starts pounding in my chest as I pick up his phone. Of course it’s locked. I try 0-0-0-0.
Still locked.
1-2-3-4.
Nothing.
4-3-2-1.
What other combinations are obvious? I try Oscar’s birth year, 1-9-7-0. Maybe his birth date. I enter 0-4-2-7, already feeling frantic about what numbers to try next.
The keys unlock.
Why am I doing this? My heart feels like it’s going to burst right through my rib cage. Even if he’s hiding something, there’s no guarantee that his phone holds an explanation. I’d be furious and hurt if someone did this to me, but I can’t stop myself.
I should try. That would be the decent thing. Trust him, love him, and march back to bed. And never think of this again. I place the phone down and silently make my way back towards the bedroom. He’s still sleeping. I start to climb under the covers once more, but the self-destructive urges in my psyche get the better of me. As soon as I close my eyes I see this Krystal person, and in my imagination, she’s a gum-snapping bleach blonde bombshell with huge breasts spilling from a pink bustier. I slink back to the kitchen, rationalizing that, if I learn anything incriminating, it will absolve my guilt over hiding the kiss I shared with Kevin.
I unlock the phone and play the new message. A chirpy voice says, “Hi Oscar. It’s Krystal. I wanted to let you know that Hideki wants to reschedule your Monday morning meeting for Tuesday. If that’s a problem, send me an email and I’ll try to find a better time. Otherwise, have a good weekend.”
I exhale as I realize Krystal is his secretary, whom he’s always referred to as Chris. I didn’t make the connection because the spelling wasn’t what I expected. My shoulders relax out of my ears as I scroll through his recent calls. I account for nine of the past fifteen. The rest look business related, based on the fact that they’re to men, some with Asian names, and all with numbers labeled “office.” I feel a rush of relief when Olivia isn’t listed among his contacts. In the interest of thoroughness, I replay his saved messages, and start to feel really lame as I realize they’re all from colleagues and clients. Why didn’t I trust Oscar? Let alone my own instincts? It’s toxic to live my life as if everyone has a secret as big as Brendan’s.
I’m trying to figure out how to save Krystal’s message as new when something moves in the hall. Oscar’s up and out of bed. Frantic now, I hit delete and restore the phone to its spot on the counter. My heart feels like it’s going to pound through my chest.
I’m hovering without purpose by the barstools when the overhead lights flip on. Oscar leans against the wall of the corridor, folds his arms across his naked chest, and looks at me through surprisingly alert eyes. “What are you doing?”
TWENTY
“Bumping into things like a total klutz. I’m still buzzed from the afterparty. I should get to bed before I hurt myself.” My explanations spew out like a spray of bullets. I must sound guilty beyond any reasonable doubt.
The muscles in Oscar’s face relax visibly. “Sorry. I was sound asleep and I heard you in the kitchen. I’m not fully awake. Let’s go back to bed.”
I can’t believe that’s it, because honestly, if I caught him—or even suspected I caught him—rifling through my things, I’d be livid. My hands are still shaking. When I raise my glass to take a drink, I miss my mouth and water splashes down my chest.
“You are still drunk. I hope you don’t develop a bed spinning problem.”
“Yeah, I guess I lost track of the champagne.”
Except I’m not feeling the slightest bit intoxicated. As I slip between Oscar’s over-priced sheets and he curls up behind me with his arms around me, I stare at the clock. Ten after four, and I’m wide awake. Not Oscar. Maybe I just imagined he looked awake in the kitchen. His breathing gets deeper from the moment his head hits the pillow and he’s back to sleep in no time.
Thank God it’s Sunday morning. If I could nod off now, I could easily get four or five hours. Maybe more. But I know I’ll be lucky to manage a cat nap, because my mind is racing. Maybe this is really it. He’s The One. It’s time to accept that I’m the luckiest person I know because I’m falling in love with a brilliant, wonderful, gorgeous guy who apparently adores me, too.
Of course he probably wouldn’t think quite so highly of me if he knew I was snooping. Or kissing Kevin. I resolve to purge all self-sabotaging impulses. Immediately. But what if it’s too late? What if he finds out about either of last night’s transgressions? I feel panic brewing in my chest and force myself to focus on my breathing in an effort to stay calm, but my mind spins with insecurity until the clock reads almost seven and weak daylight starts peeking under the edge of Oscar’s shades. He rolls towards me and his arm fumbles under my tiny night gown, but he’s not fully awake. He grabs at me like I’m a stuffed animal and settles back to his slumber. I must nod off, too, because when I open my eyes, it’s twenty after ten and Oscar’s no longer in bed.
I untangle myself from the covers. As I step barefoot onto the hardwood floor, I decide I should bring some slippers over here. I’m wary about colonizing Oscar’s bathroom too soon, but if he gave me a key, it must mean it would be alright if I left a toothbrush here. And some face wash. And night cream. And maybe a spare lipstick and mascara. Right. Maybe now I’m getting too carried away in the opposite direction. Still, I wish he’d offer me a shelf in his medicine cabinet. Maybe he doesn’t want me that settled in. Or maybe it’s just not something his male brain thinks about. What’s our deal anyway? Was the key just a matter of convenience for last night? Or does it mean he’s sure about me? I tell myself to stop obsessing over stupidity and walk to the window. I raise the shade and look out onto a gray, drizzly morning. Maybe I should go back to bed. Instead I pad into Oscar’s study. He’s dressed and focused on his laptop, with an empty coffee mug on his oversized and extremely manly mahogany desk.
The whole office is more masculine and traditional than the rest of the apartment, and it’s my least favorite room. It’s not as bright as the kitchen and living room, and two walls are covered with dark bookshelves, which in turn contain hundreds of hardcover volumes ranging from War and Peace to a recent biography of Warren Buffett. Oscar displays his diplomas on the remaining wall, along with an oil painting of a hunting scene I don’t much care for. The best thing in his study is an antique globe that stashes a bar.
“How long have you been up?”
“A couple of hours. You were dead to the world.”
“Sorry. Do you have a lot of work to do?”
“Yeah. This presentation needs to be perfect by tomorrow and right now, it’s a stretch to call it mediocre. At best.” He reaches for the dregs of his coffee.
“Want a refill?”
“Sure.”
I take his mug and head for the kitchen. The coffee smell helps me fight the urge to crawl back under the covers. I can’t believe there’s no fallout from my phone surveillance. Still, that was stupid of me. I gambled with the best, and really only, adult relationship I’ve ever had, to listen to a mundane work message. If he knew, he’d never trust me again. Not that he should. I feel doubly dirty for spying on him after the kiss, which in and of itself could be grounds fo
r breaking up. One thing seems clear, even through the haze of my hangover: I need to get a grip, before I destroy the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
I pour myself some coffee, drop a splash of milk into it, and check my phone. Angela wants to know if I can have lunch later. I take Oscar’s coffee to him and perch on the corner of his desk. He rests his hand on my thigh but doesn’t turn his eyes away from the computer screen. He looks stressed.
“I should have never delegated to this new kid. My boss insisted we hire him, but he’s never worked with a beverage account before. Now I have to do three weeks’ worth of work in two days.” Oscar rubs his temples. “He’s not a bad guy, but he surfed his way through UCSB, and then decided he wanted to be in advertising. So he spent his early twenties in some second-tier shop in New Jersey, and he thinks just because he’s put in the time, he’s ready to run a major account. And sadly, that’s not the case. I wish it were. It would make my life easier.”
“That sucks. But maybe he’ll grow into the job.” I don’t sound convincing. One thing I’ve learned as a headhunter is that nobody wants to make a hire who needs on the job training. It doesn’t look like Oscar is going to get to leave his desk anytime soon. Unfortunately. I wish we could spend the day lounging around, or wandering in and out of book stores and coffee shops, or seeing a movie. Stuff established couples do on weekends. Maybe this is the price I pay for being with a career over-achiever. No lazy Sundays.
I notice Oscar’s passport sitting on his desk by my leg. I pick it up and start flipping through it. “You get around.”
“Yeah, mostly I see airports and conference rooms. Very exotic stuff.”
I turn the page and squint to make out an especially foreign-looking visa. “Phnom Penh? When did you go to Cambodia? I’ve love to see Angkor Wat. Do you have pictures?”
“I went for a day to see a Japanese client’s bottling plant,” Oscar says, in a tone that’s neither nasty nor encouraging of further light conversation.
“That’s too bad.” I restore his passport to its place on the desk. I should find something else to occupy my time this morning. I hate feeling like I’m underfoot.
“Since you’re obviously slammed, I’m going to take a shower and leave you to it, if that’s okay.” It’s not what I want to do, but I’m not pathetic enough to spend the day puttering in his apartment, waiting to see when and if he finishes his work.
“Of course it’s okay. I’m tempted to blow all of this off and join you in there.” His fingers trace little circles up my leg. It sends a shiver up my spine.
In that moment, all my negative suspicions of him from last night evaporate. I was over-tired, tipsy, thrown by Kevin’s bombshell, and therefore susceptible to foolish suggestions. “I wish we could just lie around together all day. I’ve missed you. Or rather, missed being alone with you.” I hope I sound sincere, and not whiny. I don’t mean to be whiny.
Oscar pauses to look at his watch. He runs his hands through his hair and lets out a muffled growl of frustration before spinning in his seat and looking me in the eye. “I wish we could spend the whole day together, too.” He glances at the clock on his computer. “Maybe I’ve got time for just a little fun. I’m totally screwed anyway.”
He gets out of his chair and leans over to kiss me.
“I have coffee breath,” I protest.
“Who cares?” He shoves his laptop out of the way and pushes me down onto his desk. I stop worrying about my coffee breath when he drops to his knees on the Persian rug and buries his face between my legs.
Angela stabs at one of the grape tomatoes in her salad as if she’s trying to bludgeon it to death. “I can’t believe this is how it all goes down.”
I can’t tell from her tone if she’s ticked, or confused, or merely fishing for more information. Before the food arrived, I gave her the minute by minute recap of last night’s events. But Kevin had gotten to her first. He woke her, and Claudio, at nine this morning. Angela said he sounded so unhinged that she left Claudio in her bed with the cats and went out for a bagel with Kevin.
“Why did he have to do it now?” I moan. Instead of assaulting my food, I’m plowing the lettuce around the plate with my fork.
“Duh. Because for him, the timing couldn’t be better. You’ve moved past Brendan. Kevin’s done with the hellacious election cycle, and he figures Oscar is new enough to be expendable.” She decapitates an asparagus spear and pops the top in her mouth.
“Do you think our friendship is over?”
“Not necessarily. But I would say it’s severely damaged. Kevin has a fragile ego, like all guys do. You need to talk to him, before too much time goes by and everything gets too weird.”
I nod noncommittally. “What if I’m doing the wrong thing by picking Oscar? I can’t trust myself post-Brendan. Do you think I’m doomed to suck at relationships forever?”
Angela’s face wrinkles with concentration for a moment. “You can’t think like that, because you never know, do you? You just have to do what feels right and take a leap of faith. People waste so much time stressing about the road not taken. It’s kind of dumb. There’s never any way to tell what would have happened.”
“What about the kiss?”
“What about it?”
“Should I tell Oscar?”
“I see no need to hurt him if it was a fluke. No offense, Zoë, but you’re practically a relationship rookie. You’re going to make a few minor mistakes.”
“You’re right. Why make a big deal out of nothing? Now I just wish I was sure Oscar is who he seems.”
Her heavily lined eyes narrow. “What do you mean by that?” She puts down her silverware and leans in to listen more closely.
“I need you to tell me it’s ludicrous. I have no evidence, or even a rational reason to suspect, that he’s doing anything wrong. But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s all too good to be true. Like I’m not supposed to be this happy or something, and I’m setting myself up to get my heart shredded to pieces because he’s going to leave me for someone better.”
Angela ponders this for a moment and says, “Yup. You’re being ridiculous. I don’t get that vibe from him at all. From what I’ve seen, he’s only got eyes for you.”
I stir the lemon slice around my Diet Coke with my straw. “I suppose I could always just ask him, ‘Oscar, are you screwing anyone else?’” I say, in a tone I’d use to ask my brother’s kids if they’re up to something naughty. “But seriously, we’ve never had lunch together, even though he’s across the street. Maybe he’s having nooners right under my nose.”
Angela laughs out loud. “Maybe you need to find a job that allows you to express more creativity. Clearly your imagination has been driven to desperation by the lack of stimulation in your workplace. But if you want to know for sure, why not dig around a little?”
“I went through his phone last night, or this morning, rather, when he was sleeping.” I’m embarrassed to admit it, even to my closest friend.
“And?” She looks annoyed I didn’t spill this crucial intelligence earlier.
“His phone log makes a compelling case that he has no time for anything but work and me. So why can’t I stop obsessing?”
Angela’s fork stops in midair. “Because you really like him. Which is why I think you should stop looking for drama. But if you can’t manage that, you should get a peek at his computer. You know, trust, but verify.” She sounds totally serious.
“Really?”
“Absolutely. You have this nagging feeling that something’s wrong. The seeds of doubt are going to keep sprouting, unless you do something about them. You’re just torturing yourself if you abandon your espionage without squashing your suspicions.”
“Oscar almost caught me this morning.”
“Then you’ll need to be more careful,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“So, to summarize: I need to have a potentially friendship-ending talk with Kevin, and then I need to
gamble with this great thing I have with Oscar by snooping again.”
“Sounds right to me, except I’d rather you called it a friendship-altering talk, instead of a friendship-ending one. I don’t want our happy little threesome to dissolve. It would suck to have to see you guys separately. Just promise me you won’t put it off. You’ll talk to him soon. Like today.”
“I’m such a jackass.”
“Yes, you are. Now do you understand that you should have listened to me? But no. You thought I was nuts when I said good old O’Connor had the hots for you.”
“Fine, you were right.”
“Good. I’m so glad that’s resolved. Now on to the next event: Want to see what they have for dessert?”
We order a chocolate brownie, smothered in ice cream and hot fudge, ostensibly because Angela has decided to extend her birthday celebration. The waitress, a large woman with alarming orange lipstick and angry furrows in her forehead, takes some of the wind from our sails when she sniffs that it must be nice to be skinny girls who can eat dessert. Angela frowns and asks me if we should go for the fruit cup. I tell the waitress we’re sticking with the sundae, and mentally downgrade her tip while we watch her waddle away to fetch our ice cream.
As we dig into the gooey heap of calories with our sundae spoons, Angela says, “So enough about your dramas. I have a bombshell of my own.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s up?” Maybe she got that long-awaited promotion at the magazine. God knows she works her ass off for them. Or maybe she’s going to tell me she’s joining the ranks of the monogamous and officially boy-friending Claudio.
But her face suddenly looks more serious. She rests her spoon on the edge of the dish and looks over both shoulders, as if doublechecking we know nobody here.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
TWENTY-ONE
The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken Page 22