by Julia Kent
The stupid ritual of getting married, of rings and parties and vows and commitment, is just dressing. She’s right: we’re not married.
And I need to confess how sorry I am for that.
More than that, I need to correct this.
“Thank God,” she adds, laughing softly. “Can you imagine how ridiculous that would be?”
I go cold. I am a wall at my company’s ice bar. I am an iceberg. I become liquid nitrogen.
Ridiculous.
Right.
I can’t breathe. My throat closes, mind a whirl of all the business work Gina has texted and emailed to me, a helicopter cutting through the perfect familiarity of two seconds ago and shredding it with blades that become claws.
“Andrew?” she asks, snuggling against my shoulder, the angle awkward, her ear over my heart.
Can she hear it break?
“Right,” I choke out, plastering on a smile. I force a low rumble of a laugh. “Ridiculous.”
She lifts the window cover and a shaft of sunlight streams in, catching her ring, the wave bouncing right into my eye, blinding me with pain. I have to look away, the afterimage etched in my sight.
I close my eyes, the distance between her warm skin and mine widening with each breath, even as we stay in place. She is pressed against me, still snuggled in, yet I’m a football field away within ten minutes.
That day I said I wouldn’t let her love me, I lied. I told myself one hell of a whopper, and then I crafted it, an artisanal masterpiece of fakery, in order to get her to leave me with my pain and fear. Having a witness to my weakness was worse than bearing it alone.
It’s crazy. I know. Wanting to be married to her is illogical. Impetuous. Silly and immature, a flouting of convention and societal understanding of what marriage is supposed to be and represent. We made a spectacle of ourselves in Vegas, and in the midst of drug-induced spontaneity, we committed an act of utter synchronicity.
For one of us, at least.
By the time we arrive in Boston, we’re still sitting next to each other, and she’s sleeping, her cheek against my shoulder, but we might as well have the Berlin Wall between us.
And one of us has to defect.
Chapter Nine
The realities of learning to run a Fortune 500 company come crashing down the second we land in Boston. Gerald’s there to greet me with the limo. Amanda and I exchange strangely distant kisses. Lance takes her home at her insistence.
She claims she has a doctor’s appointment she forgot about, but it seems contrived.
I invent a meeting with investors from Vilnius. She doesn’t question it. Her weekend is “full” with vague events with her mother, and mine is nothing but work catch-up.
We both clearly need some space.
Our parting lingers in my troubled mind as Gerald pulls away from the airport, the other limo disappearing with a finality that makes me sick. We’re not on bad terms. Not even a bit.
Ridiculous.
That comment, though. Might as well tell me I’m bad in bed. Both are about as true, and both are distinctly impossible.
“Sir?” Gerald asks. “How was Vegas?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Pretend I didn’t, sir.” He smirks. The guy has worked for us for years. I don’t know much about him, other than the fact that he was a Navy SEAL and he teaches art on the side. Dad likes to hire chauffeurs with military or law enforcement backgrounds. We haven’t had a safety issue since I started working for Anterdec, so this is one of my father’s policies I plan to continue.
“What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” I add, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Anything new here?”
“No, sir.”
“How goes the art project at the community center?” Declan’s closer to Gerald, and helped secure a grant from our company’s foundation for a proposal initiated by Gerald.
The guy shaves his head and has a face that shows a violent life. Crooked nose, deep scar below his right ear into the jaw, and a hardness in the lines of his face. He’s built like a nuclear bunker.
But when he smiles, he becomes a marshmallow.
“The kids love it. The pottery wheels and kiln make a huge difference. Some of the kids are preparing to sell their works at a juried art show. Another one got accepted into a full-tuition summer program for art camp.”
“That’s great.”
“And your brother has offered to model again for my classes. Not for a while, but this fall, after the honeymoon.”
I groan. Gerald laughs. “What’s my brother trying to prove?”
Gerald wisely shrugs and goes silent for the rest of the trip to my place.
I spend the night alone with my laptop. It doesn’t mind being married to me. My laptop is the perfect wife, actually.
It turns on whenever I want it.
It greets me by name.
It remembers everything.
A few strokes of my fingers and it gives me anything I demand.
It doesn’t talk back.
I am one floor below the penthouse apartment, overlooking the Seaport District. Lights blink in the distance, different colors from boats sending signals I can’t read. Just like women.
I am on top of the world, the city sprawled before me in an endless series of lights in motion, as if its energy exists solely to serve me. Scores of square miles of industry and commerce, tourism and entertainment, financial and educational institutions dotting the cityscape, each representing a system designed to serve.
Serve people. Markets. Government policy.
And I am empty.
She’s happy we’re not married. Relieved. No equivocation. No questioning. She views it all as one big mess we untangled ourselves from. Whew. Thank God.
We’re free.
She’s not wrong. My left hand is heavy. It carries the weight of my own expectations, curled into my palm like a fragile fruit, one that bruises easily but tastes like ambrosia. I can stand here in the dark, wine glass in hand, and own the world that stretches before my eyes.
And every bite of victory tastes bitter.
You know what that is?
That’s right.
Ridiculous.
By Monday morning I’m in the office, buried under paperwork, three hours of conference calls under my belt and a raging hard-on that keeps banging against the shards of my cracked heart. Restlessness does not come naturally to me. As kids, Declan was the one who twitched and fidgeted, his deep calm as an adult a characteristic he acquired as a result of the rush of puberty and growth.
My fingers strum my desktop. My foot won’t stop bouncing. My pants are tight. My wedding ring taps out a sickly Morse code that I can’t decipher, but if I were a betting man, I’d guess it’s saying something about Amanda.
Who hasn’t answered my latest text. Twenty minutes without an answer is, well...
Ridiculous.
My executive assistant, Gina, is new. While Declan got Grace a few years ago, I’m stuck with a string of temps.
Why? It’s not because I’m an asshole.
I am particular.
It occurs to me for the first time that Declan’s resignation could result in a big coup for me. Grace. I can finally have Grace all to myself. She’s smart and hilarious, motherly and hardened, and she manages details like a drill sergeant.
I smile. Plus, Dec will have a cow if I snipe his longtime admin.
I smile wider.
My phone rings. Gina. “Mr. McCormick? It’s Gina?” Every sentence Gina utters sounds like a question. Either she’s the most uncertain woman on the planet, or she’s from California.
“Yes. I know. You programmed your number into my phone, Gina. I see it on caller display. No need to ID yourself.”
“Oh? Oh, right? Well, I’m calling because your father has issued an edict for the removal of—”
“An edict?”
“That was his term, sir? Not mine?”
“Tell me about this edict,” I say, in a voice tha
t makes it clear I’m not going to like it.
“Mr. McCormick—er, senior—says that Mr. McCormick—uh, Mr. Declan McCormick—is to have all Anterdec privileges revoked, effective immediately, and security needs to escort him out of the building with, um...?”
“What?”
“His exact words were, ‘all his personal belongs in a cheap box from a discount warehouse’?”
“I can’t do that!”
“Why not?” She sounds like she’s about to cry. “Because it would be cruel, right?”
“No!” Actually, it’s pretty brilliant. “Because Declan’s on his honeymoon right now. He won’t be back for a week. Tell Dad we have to wait until then.”
Hah. This just gets better. I get Grace, and Dec gets all the luxuries removed. It’s like Christmas and Easter rolled into one.
“You want me to tell Mr. McCormick—senior—that you agree with the edict, but just want to delay it?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that kind of mean?” Is she sniffling?
Gina’s not going to last long.
“And should I let Grace know?”
“God, no!” I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out Declan’s resignation letter. Smug. He was so smug, handing over this thin piece of paper that contains words that unravel parts of my professional life. Terry bailed on the family business ages ago, for reasons he and Dad still won’t talk about.
Declan can’t leave, too. Without him, there’s no buffer.
Just Dad and me.
Bearing the brunt of The Full James McCormick isn’t fair.
Fair.
There’s a loaded word.
If Grace knows what’s coming for Declan, she’ll move heaven and earth to protect him. Besides, I need to get to her before Dad. I know she’d sooner eat live cockroaches than work for my father again (her words, not hyperbole), which means she’ll definitely come work for me, if I make sure the price is right.
“Gina, I’ll speak with my father. What else do I need to tackle today?”
“Your calendar has all your meetings in it? You’re booked solid in person or by phone for forty-six of the next sixty-three hours?”
“Is that a question, Gina?”
“Is what a question, sir?”
Sigh. “Thanks for giving me time to sleep and shower.”
“Actually, you’re double-booked for an entire hour in there, but I couldn’t help it? Someone from a place called Consolidated Evalu-shop insisted on a meeting?”
“Greg?” I fumble for his last name. That’s a detail admins should handle, damn it.
“Um, someone named Amanda Warrick? Just got off the phone with her? She said it involves confidential FCC filing information and requires that you clear your schedule for two hours straight?”
“Excuse me?” Gerald got me a coffee for the ride over here this morning. A double breve. That’s Amanda’s favorite, but whatever. I’ll take all the caffeine I can get. I start drinking as I listen to Gina’s explanation and look outside my window, the expansive view of the financial district rolling out to the seaport. I can see my building from here, along with a large tourist ship making its way to the Harbor Islands.
“She did this for today and again for Friday? I know Anterdec is acquiring Consolidated Evalu-shop, so I assume she needs to go over every detail of how to merge?”
And the window gets sprayed with coffee.
“What?”
“Did I explain this the wrong way?” Gina’s voice goes up even more when she’s worried. If this continues, she’ll sound like she’s sucking on helium all day.
“No, I got it.” And I do. Amanda is grabbing chunks of my schedule in advance.
She’s a fixer, all right. Saving the date in my professional calendar for sex?
Damn, she’s good.
“Let Ms. Warrick know that the merger talks may go on longer than two hours. Better plan for three.”
“That would bump your daily meeting with your dad?”
I smile. “Even better.”
“Mr. McCormick—senior—also made a requisition for a change in corporate policy regarding pets at work?”
“A what?” Oh, God. Now I’m doing it. I need a declarative statement to purge this vocal tic. “Please explain.”
“He wants Fridays to be Bring Your Pet to Work Day?”
“Fine.” No harm in it. “Anything else, Gina?”
“No, sir?”
“Please call me Andrew. All my admins do.”
“Yes, Mr. McCormick?”
Click.
I finish my lukewarm coffee. Weed through more than a hundred email messages that Gina already triaged. These are the truly urgent ones. I pare them down to eleven that are impossible to solve in my first full day back.
By the time I’m in my spin clothes, my trainer, Vince, has arrived. He’s carrying a glass bottle filled with limp, brown seaweed and a foil packet.
“Here’s your kombucha,” he announces, handing me the seaweed.
“I’m not drinking that crap, Vince.”
“It’s fermented! It’s good for your gut.”
“Beer’s fermented, too.”
He shoves the foil pouch in my hand. Vince has long hair, thick and braided, with a clean-shaven, wide face and a nearly hairless body. In spite of his enormous size, he cycles competitively and does private training for a few CEOs in the area.
He’s also merciless.
Which is why I hired him.
“What’s this? Kelp botanicals in a druid-tear solution?”
“MCT oil.”
“Isn’t that illegal everywhere except Colorado and Washington?”
“It’s medium-chain fatty acids, not marijuana.” Vince begins reciting all the health benefits. It’s easier to eat it than to argue. I rip open the top of the packet and suck it down.
“Ugh.” It tastes like you think. I just drank a quarter-cup of oil.
“Muscle power.”
“If I vomit in the middle of my sprint, it’s on you.”
“Nope. My reflexes are better than yours. You won’t get any on me.”
I snort. He shoves me to the twin spin bikes in the workout room attached to my office. “Put up or shut up.”
I climb on my bike and wait for the music. The same song opens all of our 60-minute spin sessions for warm-up.
Queen’s Fat-Bottomed Girls.
Vince doesn’t start the music, though. His eyes are narrowed to slits, and he’s staring at my midsection.
“The fuck, Andrew?” Unlike everyone else who works for me, Vince doesn’t call me Mr. or Sir.
“What?”
“Something you want to share with the class?”
“What class?”
He yanks my left hand off the handlebars. “You got married?”
“Oh, that.”
“You’re wearing a wedding ring for shits and giggles?”
“No.”
“You gonna explain this to me?”
“No.”
“I have to spin it out of you?”
“Just try.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Burn me to the ground, Vince.”
“Done.”
The music starts.
Five minutes into it and my legs are screaming.
Ten minutes into it and Vince is screaming.
Twenty minutes into it and I’m screaming.
Forty minutes later, the lambs are screaming.
With five minutes to go, Vince’s soundtrack shifts to a song I’ve never heard before.
“You changed the lineup?”
“Sure. Variety is the spice of life.”
“Don’t do that. Stick to the plan.”
“My plan, Andrew. You can’t make me do the same damn shit over and over.”
When I hired Vince, I told him exactly what I wanted. Technique, pacing, playlist, the whole bit. All he had to do was ride with me and hold me accountable.
“Screw you,” he said th
at day. “I do what I want because I’m the best. Don’t like it? Don’t hire me.”
I hired him on the spot.
“Changing the music makes me lose my place,” I huff.
“Changing the music forces you to adapt. You’re too rigid.”
“Go to hell, Vince.”
“You only say that when I’m right.”
I don’t have the lung power to answer.
Five minutes later, I’m stretching. Vince is at the blender.
“Smoothie?” I ask, as I feel my pulse in my eyelashes.
“Bulletproof coffee with protein powder.”
“Coffee and whey?” I cringe. I uncringe. How did Vince make my face muscles ache like this? Damn. “Do I look like Little Miss Muffet with a latte?”
“Trust me.”
“I don’t trust someone whose primary diet source is rotten plankton.”
He just grunts, then shoves a pint glass filled with beige cream at me.
“Seriously, Vince, what’s in this?” It looks like a hot latte met an oil slick.
“Try it.”
I do. It tastes like milk blended with coffee and snot. I gag on the first try.
“You’re like a chick giving her first blow job, Andrew.”
“Now I really want to put this in my mouth. You’re so inspirational.”
“Wimp.”
“Asshole.”
“You have too much energy left,” he declares. “Let’s lift.”
Verbal abuse is my second language. I’m fluent in it when talking to other guys.
“I’m not lifting. I’ve got a call with some investors in Turkey.”
“Excuses, excuses.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I run a Fortune 500 company.”
“And you’re wearing a wedding ring you won’t talk about.”
“I’m not married.”
“Spill it.”
Damn. He’s not letting me live this down, is he?
I tell him the whole story. The abridged version.
In one sentence.
“Amanda and I drank hallucinogen-spiked wine in Vegas and woke up wearing wedding rings, but it turns out we didn’t actually marry each other.”
His eyes narrow.
“Why are you still wearing the ring?”
I shrug. “Haven’t had time to take it off.”
His eyebrows go up. “You haven’t had two spare seconds?”
Damn.
“Fine.” I reach down and slide the ring off my finger, holding it in my palm. “See?” I curl my fingers around it, protective.