“By the way, I had another idea about how we could integrate the chat function better . . .”
Zoe looked at him carefully while he talked. He was still sinewy and thin, attractive in an almost feminine kind of way. That was countered, however, by his three-day beard. The lines on his forehead also gave him a slightly intellectual look. He was wearing the right flannel shirt with the right jeans and the right baseball cap, but in that ironic way that only hipsters could pull off. Actually, he looked pretty damn good. Physically, he hadn’t changed a bit. To celebrate, she ordered a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino and relaxed a little. Maybe she should just get wasted. After all, there was definitely a reason to celebrate.
After two identical appetizers and a second bottle of Brunello, there was no doubt whatsoever: Zoe Schuhmacher had attained her goal. She was piss-drunk. While Ben was dealing with the check, she suddenly thought back to that disastrous Sunday morning with Tom. She chuckled quietly at the memory of how she’d run out into the hall of the Four Seasons in mismatched underwear after setting her kitchenette on fire. Could that really be true? Had she really set fire to her kitchen? She saw Tom in her mind’s eye in his pajama pants that rode low on his hips. She could almost feel his kiss from that first time. The way she had sat on his lap and crossed her legs behind his back. She shivered. Damn red wine! It made her sentimental.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Ben interrupted her.
“Oh, nothing.” Zoe felt as though she had been caught. She stared intensely at the flower arrangement in the middle of the table.
“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Ben gazed at her insistently.
“No, of course not.”
“Behind your perfect mask, you think about him every day,” Ben said. “I can almost feel it when you do.”
“You’re just imagining that,” Zoe objected in a firm tone and tried to look into his eyes convincingly.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Absolutely.”
Zoe Schuhmacher did not think about Thomas Prescott Fiorino every day. That would have been an understatement. She thought about him almost every waking hour, and she dreamed about him at night. They were confusing dreams, and she would sneakily Google their meanings the next morning when Ben thought she was doing work. For example, she had dreamed of tender, green garden cress seeds growing on Mr. McDreamy’s hairy, masculine chest. In Zoe’s eyes, a dream like that was, at best, material for a god-awful romance novel; more likely, it was reason to be immediately sent to a psychiatric hospital. The online encyclopedia of dream interpretations also warned against “garden cress seeds in a love relationship, especially if picked out of the water.” Against cress, mind you, not against the relationship. On the other hand, a hairy, masculine chest meant winning the lottery. And it also indicated “regressive desires which manifest sexually.” In other words, her Internet research didn’t tell Zoe very much about what she needed to know.
“Are you absolutely sure?” Ben asked again.
“I’m absolutely, completely, totally sure!” Zoe answered staunchly. Suddenly, she felt the intense desire to prove to Ben—and herself—that she had successfully banned Tom from her heart. She wanted to show him that she hadn’t just locked Tom away carefully, like they did with Ebola patients who were still highly contagious at the slightest touch, quarantining them in isolation wards.
She took a deep breath. “Ben?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to be alone tonight. Can you stay over?”
24
MARCH
Zoe was pretty sure that if she had to eat cold pizza out of a box one more time, she’d throw up into the next garbage can she encountered. She was thirty-four years old, and definitely not a college student anymore. She glared at the stack of pizza boxes in the hall that still needed to be taken downstairs for recycling.
“Come on, Ben, hurry up. We’ll miss the damn train.” Zoe had been waiting with the luggage for at least ten minutes now. She hated when other people weren’t as punctual as she was.
“Don’t freak out. I’m just trying one more thing here,” Ben called from the living room. She could hear him typing hastily.
“If we’d chosen to fly, you’d have another three hours to try things out now,” she retorted grouchily.
“But we didn’t.”
“But only because you couldn’t decide again, and because economy-class tickets were suddenly almost as expensive as business class. What are you trying to do, anyway?”
“I thought we could reorganize the verticals again.”
“Are you nuts? Reorganize the verticals? We green-lighted that weeks ago. And it looks great the way it is.”
“The truth is the whole,” Ben said, trying to avoid an impending fight while sounding philosophical.
“Oh, don’t try to impress me with your damn Kant quotes!” Zoe exclaimed, angry at his completely unnecessary, time-wasting solo effort.
“Hegel, darling—Hegel!”
“So it’s Hegel, freaking smartass,” she said, because she just couldn’t resist, and kicked the pizza boxes. There she was, starting a fight with Benni again. Because he was getting stuck in his work again instead of finally getting the damn job done. I’m starting to sound like my own mother, she realized with a shiver of horror. She, too, always had to have the last word.
And that was who they were going to visit now: either “delicious apple cake” Mrs. Schuhmacher or “I told you so” Mom, depending on the perspective. It was the end of March, and Ben had let Mama Schuhmacher convince him to spend Easter in Ansbach with Zoe’s parents. Zoe was, to put it mildly, royally pissed.
While standing in the hall waiting for Ben, Zoe thought about the past four weeks. She had really wanted to be able to love Ben again. Life with him would have been an alternative plan to a life with Tom. But Zoe had failed miserably. It just wouldn’t work. She just couldn’t force herself to love Ben. Of course she loved him, the way she would love a brother. “Or a dog,” she murmured and aimed another kick at the pizza boxes, which were now lying all over the hall in a messy pile. But she wasn’t in love with him.
A reheated relationship is sort of like reheated coffee, Zoe thought. Bitter. Just bitter. Zoe might have guessed as much from women’s novels and romantic comedies. Now she knew firsthand. The long weekend in Ansbach would be hell.
When Zoe and Ben finally arrived on Platform 7 of Hamburg Main Station, stressed and sweaty, they could just make out the slowly disappearing red backlights of the intercity express train that would travel to Nuremberg via Hannover and Kassel-Wilhelmshöhe. The electronic display board showed that it had left seven minutes late.
“Goddamn it,” Zoe yelled. “This is all your fault!” She was aware of how shrill her voice sounded.
“Now don’t be like that,” Ben tried to appease her. “The next one leaves in an hour. Let’s go to Gosch for some shrimp with garlic sauce. My treat.”
Shrimp with garlic sauce? The guy seriously had the emotional intelligence of a piece of toast. Zoe raged silently. “But I don’t want to leave in an hour. And I don’t want shrimp with garlic sauce either. I don’t want to go at all.”
“Huh? You don’t want to go?”
“I don’t want to go to Ansbach. Especially not with you. I don’t want any of this.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m sorry that we missed the train. Mea culpa.”
“Ben, it’s not about the fucking train. It’s about us. Haven’t you noticed? We missed each other. Not just here and now in this train station, but years ago.”
Ben Nigmann hadn’t changed the slightest bit, Zoe now realized. He was still the same old Benni Nigmann. And somehow, none of this was his fault. It was hers. She didn’t want any comfortable shoes; they had been worn out for a long time already, and she had to admit that to herself. She just didn�
��t want to keep on living the same old life with the same old Benni.
“It’s all Greek to me, Zoe. Are you breaking up with me?”
Zoe looked around. She was causing a scene on the platform like some pathetic C-list actress in a made-for-TV movie. Zoe didn’t even recognize herself anymore.
“There’s no point, Ben. Our relationship is like . . . like a wilted house plant. We tried to revive it, but it didn’t work. If we’re completely honest with ourselves, we haven’t watered it in ages.”
“That’s not true. I water it! I’m sure we can make this work.”
“It’s not enough if only one person waters it, Ben.”
She pushed through the oncoming tide of people toward the exit. She noticed from the corner of her eye that a tall man, whose hair was sticking out messily every which way, quickly switched directions and disappeared behind a newsstand. But Zoe Schuhmacher was far too preoccupied to waste another thought on a stranger.
So Zoe spent her Easter weekend alone on Hegestrasse. She happened to be home when she got a call on Good Friday from the publisher’s office of Schoenhoff Publishing.
“Ms. Schuhmacher,” a young woman’s voice said. “My name is Sophia Laubach. I’m Justus von Schoenhoff’s new assistant, and I got your number from your parents. Mr. von Schoenhoff saw your name on the attendance list for the Bright Young Things conference next week in San Diego that you will be attending with your new project. He’d like to meet you there for lunch. Is Friday afternoon OK, or do you have plans already?”
“Just a moment,” Zoe said. “Did Justus Schoenhoff rejoin the company?”
“At the beginning of February. Didn’t you know that?”
No, she certainly had not known that. “And what is this about?”
“Mr. von Schoenhoff would like to know more about your project.”
Zoe wasn’t too intent on meeting some freaks from her past, but curiosity got the better of her. She didn’t want to pass up the chance to meet the Prodigal Son.
“OK, no problem. Friday afternoon. Please just email me the exact date, time, and location.”
“Wonderful. We’re glad to hear that. Enjoy your flight!”
Zoe had been eager to register for the Bright Young Things conference, where entrepreneurs, Angel Investors, and other digital minds met once a year, and where quite a few big deals had been made in the past. She would present her concept for Yearning in front of a panel and pitch their second round of financing. Until then, Benni would keep working on the beta version back in Hamburg and Allegra would continue searching for the man of her dreams in Bali.
The only discussions Zoe and Ben had these days were by email, primarily in one-word sentences.
Done?
What?
Subject pool!
Nope.
When?
Day after tomorrow.
On the day they’d fought at the train station, Zoe dismantled the entire computer lab on Hegestrasse and packed everything up in boxes. When Benni drifted in on Monday morning stinking of alcohol, she explained to him that he’d have to program at his own apartment from now on. Zoe had mentally prepared for a huge fight and had been going through the possibilities in her head all weekend.
But Benni just slid down theatrically onto the hall’s wooden floor, and sat there stoically, sniffing. “It’s his fault, isn’t it?”
“Whose fault?”
“Your Yankee’s, of course.”
“He has nothing to do with this.”
“It’s not me, it’s him!” Ben said it triumphantly, as though he had just discovered the theory of relativity.
Zoe took a deep breath. “First of all, it doesn’t matter whose fault it is. The bottom line is, this thing with us just isn’t working. And second—”
“It does matter,” Benni interrupted.
Zoe thought that if Benni were standing up right then, he’d be stamping his foot. His usually carefully styled hair was greasy and stringy, and his typical two-day beard had transformed into a stubbly six-day jungle. Benni Nigmann looked deeply unhappy and insulted at the same time, like a cat that had been bathed and shampooed. Only he wasn’t as clean—not by a long shot.
“Why can’t you be in love with me, Zoe? Like you were in the beginning?”
“I tried.”
“So try harder.”
“Benni, I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“Ben, my name is Ben, dammit.”
“Ben. I’m sorry, Ben. I’m so incredibly sorry.”
Zoe almost wanted to comfort him and tell him that she’d think about it again. But Zoe Schuhmacher had learned that lesson: You can’t love somebody just because you feel sorry for them.
25
APRIL
The flight from Hamburg to San Diego, with layovers in Frankfurt and Los Angeles, seemed to be taking twice as long as the twenty-one hours and twelve minutes that were written on Zoe’s boarding pass. That might have been because Zoe was traveling economy class. When her plane finally touched down in San Diego, the late-afternoon sun was already hanging low over the Pacific, sinking into the water with a milky-orange glow that Zoe could see from her window seat.
She grabbed her carry-on luggage, got off the plane, traversed the airport, and stood numbly at the exit. It was just the beginning of April, but it must have been about 77 degrees in San Diego. People were wearing sunglasses, flip-flops, and permanent, relaxed smiles on their faces. The palm trees across the street swayed gently in the breeze. Even the drive from the airport to the hotel felt like paradise to Zoe. That, however, was outshone by her room. As a panel participant, she wasn’t staying at the regular main building of the Del Coronado, which was located on an island across from the city right on the beach, but in one of the bungalows that were distributed generously all over the hotel grounds. She fell asleep to the sound of lapping waves and woke up again the next morning to the sound of two pelicans fighting on the lawn right in front of her bungalow. It was 11:30 a.m.—California time.
Zoe wasn’t very fond of public speaking and felt extremely nervous. Her panel would begin immediately after the organizers’ introduction at 2:30 p.m. She made herself some coffee using the bungalow’s single-cup coffee machine, which ended up tasting metallic, no matter how many instant creamer packets she emptied into the cup. But it was better than nothing at all. It was too late for breakfast now, anyway, and she had a lunch date in an hour. Just enough time to go through Yearning’s concept one more time in English so she wouldn’t have to struggle for words onstage. Then she showered and slipped on her lucky pants. Like a professional soccer player, Zoe was superstitious about her uniform. When she had to perform in front of an audience, she always wore her white cashmere-and-silk Ralph Lauren trousers and a simple black-crepe blouse. Walking down the path lined with palm trees toward the main building, she felt perfectly prepared for today. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would throw her off balance. Zoe was positive about that.
“Hi! I have an appointment for lunch with Justus Schoenhoff,” she told the hotel restaurant’s hostess.
“The gentleman is already waiting. I’ll take you to your table.” The hostess, who seemed to have a smile perpetually plastered on her face, took a menu from the stack and approached an almost scrawny young man whose hair was short and stubbly, as though he had recently shaved his head. He wore jeans and a white shirt and was looking at Zoe expectantly. She stopped in her tracks in the middle of the aisle.
“Zoe, I’m very glad to see you again,” the man said as he got up.
“Vatsayana,” Zoe finally managed to eke out. “You’re—are you . . . ?”
“Exactly.” He smiled somewhat sheepishly. “I’m Justus von Schoenhoff.”
Then Zoe ran forward and hugged him. “I can’t believe you didn’t say a word, all that time in India when I was spilling my guts to you.” Zoe aimed a
light punch at his shoulder. “You swine!”
“It wasn’t about me, it was about you. You were supposed to find out how to carry on.”
The two of them eyed each other like old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years.
“You’re looking good,” Justus said once they had both sat down. “I’m really glad you’re not angry with me.”
“I am, a little bit. But what are you doing here all of a sudden?”
“I learned a lot from you in India, Zoe.”
“You? From me?”
“Anyone who believes he only has to live in the here and now is being too easy on himself.”
“Hear, hear. Now I’m curious.” That came out a little more smugly than Zoe had intended.
Justus smiled indulgently. “Everyone has a past and a future. You have a choice about how to think about the latter, and that’s what I did. Because of you, I came to understand that there are people out there somewhere who love me, and maybe even need me. Not just my mother, but Tom, too. That’s why I returned to them, and to reality.”
When Justus mentioned Tom’s name, Zoe jumped noticeably. “How’s he doing?” she asked quietly.
“Not good. Not good at all,” Justus Vatsayana Schoenhoff responded.
“He deserves it.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Please don’t get involved, Vatsayana—um, I mean Justus. You already know far too much about Tom and me as it is. Or did he send you?”
“No, he didn’t. I’m actually here because I’m interested in your project.”
Zoe wasn’t quite sure whether to believe him. She picked at her blueberry pancakes, lost in thought. But curiosity won out, as usual. “So why do you think Tom doesn’t deserve this?”
“His marriage to Vicky was already over long ago, Zoe. Tom put a clear end to things when he handed in his notice at Plachette, moved away from London and Vicky, and started with Schoenhoff in New York.”
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