It’s too much information.
My phone rings while I’m staring at Anthony’s text — actually rings, rather than vibrating. I’ve forgotten to mute it.
The sound jars me, and I almost drop the phone in my kitchen sink.
“Mom.”
“Caitlin. How are things with my little girl?”
Mom’s been slightly over the top ever since we had our breakthrough discussion — Dad, too. It’s okay; it’s still on the “adorable” side of the cute/obnoxious spectrum. I allow a smile, reminding myself that this out-of-sorts feeling I’ve had since waking is my crap, not hers. I don’t know what my deal is today.
“Good. How are you, Mom?”
She tells me she’s fine, the usual. Then, awkwardly: “Have you talked to your father?”
“Two days ago.”
“How’s he doing?”
“You’re the one who lives with him.”
And she does, which is weird. They live separate lives together, then Mom goes to her beau’s place to get her jollies.
Remind me why I’ve decided this doesn’t bother me again?
“Did he mention me?” she asks.
I stop, thinking. It’s a strange question. Specifically, it’s the kind of question I’d expect from my best girlfriend. When we were in middle school. Talking about a boy she liked.
“Should he have?”
“We sort of … had a date.”
I sigh. “Mom …”
“I told him about Richard,” Mom blurts.
Her lover.
My mouth just hangs open.
“He already knew. We had a long talk. That was two weeks ago. Has he mentioned any of this?”
I blink. “No.”
“It’s a strange place we’re in. Your father told me he’s selling the business.”
“He’s …” But again, no words.
“I think it’s because of your talk. About how he never seemed to have time for any of us.”
“I didn’t tell Dad to sell anything. Or to change anything at all.”
“I know, honey. I think this is just something he’s realizing for himself.”
She goes on, telling me the whole story, but I barely hear her. Dad must be having some sort of mid-life crisis. He’s offloading business and spending more time at home. Wants to take Mom out on dates, apparently. It’s hardly some miraculous reversal, but it could be the slow beginning of one.
Only time will tell … but this is my father. I can hardly believe it.
I don’t ask if Mom is still seeing her lover. It’s their baggage to carry, not mine.
We talk for a while, and Mom closes by telling me to say hi to Anthony. She’s never met him, barely even knows who he is. All she knows is that Anthony is the one I credit with bringing about my own change, the one whose actions tipped the first domino toward this strange and slow reunion between my parents — or at least between me and each of them.
“He seems like a good man.” And because she’s my mother and can’t help meddling a little, I hear her unspoken codicil: … and by that I mean, a good man for you, Caitlin.
Maybe there will come a day when I’m okay telling my mom I have a sex-only relationship with the world’s foremost self-help guru, but for now I just mumble, “I’ll tell him hi,” and hang up.
The phone buzzes a few minutes later, as I’m clearing the counter to distract my mind after the weird call with my mom. It’s a new text from Anthony. I practically trip as I dive to check it, heart hammering. I’m a bit embarrassed by my behavior, but the sensation in my chest is like a loose end getting tucked back in.
The text is from Anthony’s number, but not from Anthony himself. It says: Available 5pm at Del Mar house? -AC
It’s a terse but innocuous enough message, appropriate to the booty call it is. I’m a little disappointed it’s not a bit friendlier, but I’m most bothered by the initials at the end. AC means Amber Christian. Anthony’s assistant texting is me from his phone.
I look down at the text. I’m a bit pissed, and I’m not sure why, nor am I convinced I have any right to be pissed. In the first weeks of our fuck-dates, about a third of our hook-ups were arranged by Amber. She’s nice. She’s nonjudgmental and shares Anthony’s shame-free, no-bullshit attitudes. She manages Anthony’s calendar so he doesn’t hurt himself by managing it poorly on his own.
But suddenly I’m irked to hear from Amber, because I figured my days of being booked by Amber were over. Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen with a couple after their new sex-date relationship evolves into a mature sex-date relationship?
I wish I could respond to this text with video, because there’s subtlety to my answer that I can’t convey with my thumbs. I want to respond with a measured tone of voice. I want to give someone a meaningful look.
But I’m being ridiculous.
I type: yes
All lower case. No period. No emojis. No I’ll be there or sounds fun or anything extra. Just three characters. That’ll show ’em just how noncommittal I am.
confirmed 5pm del mar -AC
That bitch did not just lower-case-no-period me back.
I call Jamie. There’s noise behind her that sounds like someone doing dishes. I figure it’s Jamie, until she steps away — then I figure it’s a maid, until I hear Aiden’s voice ask for a Brillo pad. What Anthony said about his billionaire friends really is true: they did need the love of a good woman to become normal, good-hearted men. Or at least to begin engaging in unnecessary domestic work.
It sure is convenient that Anthony is whole without a woman’s love. He’ll never have to do dishes. He can just have his people get in touch with my people —or, no, I’m sorry. I mean with my pussy.
“I thought you were with Anthony?”
“How do you know I’m not?” I counter.
“Because I just talked to him. He told me yesterday that you were going to the zoo. I remember because I laughed at him for like half an hour about it. But then he’s all, We’re just hanging out. Which means you’re having sex.”
I still cringe when Jamie brings it up, but maybe I should grow up and realize I’m the only one who seems to think it’s a big deal. Jamie grew up with Anthony as a father figure. She knows how he operates.
I figured hooking up with Anthony would mean trouble between us, but it turns out Jamie wasn’t remotely shocked. About time was the answer she gave me when I finally told her, and Anthony said she told him basically the same thing.
“It’s still weird for me, you knowing. You saying stuff like that.”
“I’d rather Anthony be with you than some of the other women he’s been with,” Jamie says. “At least I like you.”
“He’s not with me.”
“Okay. Whatever. I don’t actually think the zoo is funny, by the way. It’s cute. So what happened? Why didn’t you go?”
I want to respond to the idea of the trip to the zoo being cute, but I’m more focused on the question. So I say, “I’m not sure.”
That’s when I realize I’ve called Jamie to complain about what happened with Anthony, Amber, the text, and the implication that my pussy is bookable for appointments like a conference center. Up until now, I guess I figured I was just calling to chat.
So much for the illusions I use to deceive myself.
“Did he say anything to you about why he cancelled?” Deflection is needed, so I add: “You know, because we were probably going to talk about foundation stuff while we were there.”
“You were going to talk business on a Saturday? Was it a booty call or a meeting?”
“You know how Anthony is.”
I leave it there, waiting for her to go on.
“I think he had something come up with Alexa,” she says. “It’s just a guess, though. I’m not supposed to be involved or know any of it, but Aiden makes a terrible secret-keeper. He folds under torture. Or, you know … other stuff.”
“Alexa?” I’m surprised. The feeling is almost like jealou
sy, except that it can’t be. Ours isn’t a jealous relationship. Or even a relationship. Right? “You mean he’s meeting her in person?”
“I doubt it. I think she’s just been bothering him. About foundation money, I think.”
“How is the foundation Alexa’s business?”
“I don’t know. But he asked me if I had the quarterlies on foundation income and outgoings. He’s talking to someone today about uses for our donations.”
“But … but that’s my job!”
“Well, it is his foundation, sweetie.”
“Yes, but …” I don’t really feel like arguing because it just makes me feel more needy, but if he’s meeting with anyone for his charity, you’d think he’d want the Director of Charitable Change with him.
Has our zoo date honestly been bumped for a meeting that should include me but doesn’t? It almost feels like he’s going out of his way to avoid me all of a sudden. I shouldn’t take it personally, but I do.
“I’ve gotta go,” Jamie says. “We’re flying back to Seattle in just a bit.”
“You’re leaving San Diego?”
Jamie laughs. “We’re in Rome.”
“Italy?”
“I thought you knew?”
“Why would I know you went to Italy?”
And why is my voice rising? Just because one of my best friends now spends her days globe-trotting in the lap of luxury doesn’t mean I’m jealous. It doesn’t mean I’m starting to resent certain arm’s-length arrangements I’ve made with a guy who travels all over the world and could easily do the same with me if I weren’t just a pair of legs ripe for spreading.
Stop it, Caitlin. This is the agreement you made. You swore it was all you wanted.
“Hey, one thing,” Jamie says. “I couldn’t get the quarterlies Anthony wanted. Maybe you could run into the office and pick them up for me?”
“Okay. Where? In your Excel folder?”
“No, they aren’t formal figures. I was going to formalize them when I got back.”
I wait, but there’s no more. Is she really going to make me dig for the answers I need to do her a favor? “How am I supposed to get you informal figures if they’re not even in Excel?”
On the other end of the phone, Jamie calls to someone. Maybe the chauffeur has shown up with a diamond necklace from her lover or something.
“Anthony and I discussed it,” she says, “but I didn’t write anything down.”
“If you didn’t write anything down—”
I’m interrupted by more activity on Jamie’s end, more sounds of her living the high life with her billionaire lover, while I wait for mine to get around to me. Fighting my annoyance, knowing it’s unreasonable: “How am I supposed to find your rough figures?”
“Oh,” she says. “It was a conversation Anthony and I had on the Disclosure app. You can just log in and search the archives.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CAITLIN
A LARGE PART OF ME wants to rush down to the office, log into Disclosure, find the numbers for Jamie, and have them when I arrive for the 5pm “date” in Del Mar that I should maybe have more integrity than to attend.
But after a full afternoon of waffling and mood swings, I realize I’m being an asshole. Anthony hasn’t done anything wrong. We were always supposed to be secondary to the Ross Institute. Hell, I’ve said the same thing while we were together, when we were out somewhere and particularly high on what our joint mission might mean for the world’s future.
So what if he text-cancelled on me? So what if he had a meeting about the charity without me? It probably came up at the last minute. Anthony is a force of nature, but nobody ever accused him of being particularly organized.
So I spend a sudden free day strolling the beach. I don’t bother going downtown to the office; I stay on the outskirts, where it’s serene. I pass a dozen yoga studios in one little beach town or another and finally decide, after the twelfth, that the universe is sending me a sign. I’m not in yoga gear but I am in shorts, so I get a day pass and spend an hour realigning my energies.
I’m not angry.
I’m not jealous.
I’m not feeling jilted or disrespected or used or abused or neglected or anything else. That’s just my baggage, my own bullshit. It has nothing to do with what’s actually happened today, or what I now realize has been brewing beneath my skin for weeks — especially whenever Anthony mentions Alexa.
I wonder if Anthony is having an affair.
But even if he were, would it be an “affair,” seeing as we’re not a couple?
Can you cheat on someone you’re not actually with? I’m not sure where Anthony’s ethos lies on the issue. I know he and I are supposed to be no-strings-attached, but does that mean we’re exclusive?
Why does not knowing whether we’re exclusive bother me all of a sudden, when it never has before?
I do my yoga and try to let it go.
My gym is up this way. I’d planned to walk the beach, stop in at the gym to shower and change, and arrive at Anthony’s Del Mar mansion squeaky clean. But it turns out the studio’s shower is nicer than my gym’s, so I hike back to where I parked my car, retrieve my bag, and clean up.
I have some extra time before five, so I drive to clear my head.
Blessedly, by the time I get to Anthony’s I feel centered again. Whatever was bugging me this morning is gone. I’m okay with all that’s happened. I like our arrangement, and there’s no reason for me to be irritated at Anthony.
Unless I’m annoyed that he seems to have ditched me for Alexa.
Or that he seems to have excluded me from a meeting I should, by all rights, have been part of.
The gate opens without my needing to touch the intercom, suggesting that someone at the house is watching the monitor and knows who I am. I take the long driveway up the hill and park in front of the mansion, feeling the usual sense of smallness as I get out and peer back at my little Audi parked on Anthony’s seem-too-nice-to-drive-on flagstones. Then I go for the door. It opens without a knock.
Anthony faces me from the doorway: tall, handsome, broad, strong. Somehow conflicted. His face is unreadable. It’s not the energy-filled face he shows his crowds, and it’s not the odd face he wore that night outside the hotel when I got so pissed.
“Anthony—” I say.
He reaches out, grabs me by the hand, and pulls me inside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ANTHONY
I’VE BEEN TENSE ALL DAY.
I didn’t want to cancel on Caitlin — especially considering I don’t take orders from Alexa Fucking Mathis. But I know myself enough to know I need time to think.
I’m a disciplined person, but I wasn’t always and never remain so for long. I tend to get myself in order, then slowly fall back into disarray. As time passes, my brain resists the schedule and the efficiencies my team imposes on me, and every once in a while I need to grab myself by the lapels, tell myself to Come to Jesus, and reset things. I trim my excess, remind myself of my priorities, and recover the discipline required to do what I do.
Today was one of those days. I needed time to reassess. I called Amber and told her I needed a full recalibration of my mission, my values, and my priorities. Amber and I have been through this enough that she knows the drill. She runs interference on my email, phone calls, and texts, and then she steps back and leaves me alone.
Usually I go for a walk, or sit somewhere beautiful with only my planner by my side. Then I think about my life — what I want to accomplish personally, professionally, and for the world. I check my goals. I check my daily actions. I try to square it all, so that what I do in each moment harmonizes with what I want to accomplish.
I cancelled everything except for a meeting I had with an educational charity that simply couldn’t be moved. I placed only two calls outside of that meeting for the entire day: one call to Amber to announce my intention to black out and recalibrate and another to Jamie, to try and get some numbers tha
t would make the charity meeting finish faster. Other than that, it was just me, myself, and I.
I didn’t like what I found when I began introspecting.
I didn’t like what I realized about what I’d told Caitlin with my words versus what I’ve shown her with my actions. I didn’t like that the feelings in my heart didn’t square with the goals of our physical-only relationship.
And worst of all? As I tried to shove all the bits of my mission and life back into their proper boxes, I found that the Caitlin piece didn’t want to fit.
Objectively, I knew that the proper action was to break things off with her.
I lied to Alexa. After a day of pondering, I doubt that I can go back to seeing this whatever-it-is with Caitlin as purely physical. There’s too much to it, and I can’t begin to untangle the ends. I know there are roots between us that go back years — that began growing well before Fate in Your Palm. I know that, despite how I figured things were, I’ve been attracted to Caitlin for a long time. I know we’re friends, even though her primary friendship is with Jamie. I know, now, that I can’t end our “almost-relationship” without breaking our friendship, too.
The clock can’t simply be turned back. The pieces of this puzzle will never fit the same way again.
But no matter how all of that strikes me, I can’t flee one unescapable truth:
The mission comes first.
Always.
It doesn’t matter what I feel. It doesn’t matter how Caitlin has flavored my thoughts and dreams. I only have 24 hours in each day, and the mission needs most of them.
And yet, I refuse to just cut this off with Caitlin. I refuse.
For an hour before she showed up at my door, hours after Amber texted me on my emergency phone and I told Amber to arrange this break-up meeting, all I could do was to stare out my wall of windows. That wall looks out on the valley, and as I let myself gaze through it, zoned out, I almost couldn’t see the valley.
It felt like I was nothing. I was floating, just a spirit in the wind. I certainly wasn’t a man of flesh and blood. Men are bound by normal physical laws. Men must understand that if two things compete for the same time, only one can be done. Only one can get his attention.
The Guru (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 6) Page 15