by Alexa Davis
I’m being bucked-up by two of the more important people on the planet. It almost makes up for everything.
“Well, I asked Nick here if that would be a possibility—having her shot—but he told me there’s all kinds of paperwork,” I answer.
They laugh. I’m actually making these people laugh.
“How charming!” Tim says, and while it’s not exactly how I’d characterize my remarks, I’m more than happy to be called charming by this man.
I look over at Nick, who gives me a nod of approval, and in spite of everything, I feel pretty good about myself right now.
Tim says, “I don’t know a great deal about what kind of work you do, but if you’re ever interested in changing careers, we could use someone like you on the board at Minder. The people we have now are among the most apathetic, timid masses of quivering flesh in the media business. What we could use is someone with your type of gumption.”
“You know, Tim,” I say, “if I weren’t certain you were just trying to hit on my boyfriend’s pocketbook the long way round, there, I’d consider it.”
Whoa. Oh, please tell me I didn’t just say that. Here we are having a perfectly amicable dinner and that’s what comes out? “Hit on my boyfriend’s pocketbook.” What does that even mean?
The table is silent for a second and Nick places a hand on my upper thigh. The gesture is hidden by the table, but I feel no less exposed.
Then it happens. It starts with Darla, but within a few moments, Tim and even Nick are boisterously guffawing. I smile and squeeze out a few chuckles, but I’m the death row prisoner getting a last minute call from the governor.
Under the table, I find Nick’s hand with my own and give it a squeeze.
Wiping his eyes, Tim says, “Nick, she’s a firecracker. You hang onto her.”
“I plan to,” Nick says and smiles.
The rest of the dinner is me finding not just my confidence, but my ability to feel confident. It’s funny how people draw these imaginary lines between themselves and anyone they see as somehow different, but after sitting down to dinner with the kind of people that are supposed to have everyone peeing their pants, I’m finally starting to feel like there’s somewhere I belong.
When we get home, I’m not thinking about the picture. I’m not thinking about the store or what I’m going to do with it, and I’m not thinking about all the fickle people who find it so easy to hate me. For the first time since that shopping trip on Fifth, I actually feel comfortable in my own skin again.
Nick’s quiet, though.
I go to the kitchen and fix up a couple of drinks and Nick follows me into the kitchen.
“You all right?” I ask after a few minutes pass without a word spoken between us.
“Yeah,” he says. “I don’t know, I guess I just didn’t expect dinner to go the way it did.”
I stop pouring the vodka and look up at him.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Were you hoping the evening was a disaster?”
“No,” he says, “not at all. I just mean, you know, you were different tonight.”
“I know,” I say, “isn’t it great?”
He says, “I’m glad you got along with Tim and Darla, but—”
“But what?” I ask. “I thought it was a wonderful evening.”
“It was fine,” he says, “it’s just—” His cell phone starts to ring in his pocket. He pulls it out and looks to see who’s calling. “I’m sorry,” he says. “This should just take a minute.”
Whatever’s got his panties all in a bunch, I feel great about the evening.
Nick answers the phone and moseys out of the room while I finish up making what I’ve decided to call a vodka sunrise martini. I was shooting for something else, but mixing drinks isn’t quite my forté.
I’m sipping and cringing when Nick comes back into the kitchen. “That was Marly,” he says, “there’s a problem at the office and I’m going to have to get over there for a little bit. Are you all right here?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Me and this place are becoming fast friends.”
Nick leaves and I’m finally able to pour out my drink. All of the flavors would have been okay individually, but together—I don’t even know how it happened, but it tasted like a cat burp.
Blech.
I spend a while looking at the amethyst countertops in one of the bathrooms, but the liquor I did manage to choke down is making me lightheaded.
I’d probably be fine, but the floor in here is a bit disorienting since an article I found guided me to the floor projection control. There’s no reasonable excuse for me to select a live feed from an orbiting satellite for my floor-viewing pleasure, but the Earth is spinning beneath me. Twice.
Fumbling with the controls, I finally give up and crawl out of there. Once there’s a less interesting floor beneath me, my vertigo begins to fade. I’m still lightheaded, though, so after slowly rising to my feet, I find Nick’s bedroom.
We haven’t exactly “reconnected” since I’ve been back, and while sex is unlikely tonight, it’d be nice to feel him sleeping next to me.
I hedge my bet and dress down to my underwear. Slipping under the covers, I feel like I’m lying on a cloud, assuming that cloud was also warm and safe and perfectly supported every inch of my body like a womb. That’s it. The mattress feels like a womb if a womb wasn’t closed off and messy. It’s kind of like what it’d be like sleeping on a cloud in a womb on another cloud.
Maybe I am a little drunk.
As I drift off, my thoughts play over fantastical visions of lavish cocktail parties and all the glorious excess I’ve been telling myself I’m somehow morally above. Tim and Darla would be there, of course. That gentleman from Microsoft, perhaps he’d be there as well. I’m especially interested in his charity work.
I wake up feeling a little silly, the memory of how I drifted off still somehow fresh in my mind. The next moment, the covers on the other half of the bed are being pulled back and Nick is climbing into bed.
It occurs to me Nick might not be where I am. He’s been much more amiable since Amelie and that mess, but when I first got here, he had some things on his mind and we haven’t hashed them all out yet.
In a whisper, he asks, “Are you awake?”
Not knowing how to answer, I say nothing. My back is to him. Still, I feel exposed lying here.
My act of doing nothing apparently does the trick, though, and he settles in not too close, but not too far from me.
“It’s hard, you know,” he says, whispering. “There are some things I’ve wanted to tell you for so long and when I finally work up the courage to say them, you don’t want to hear them. If I don’t say them to you sooner than later, I’m going to go crazy. Maybe this will have to do until you can trust me enough to hear it.”
Could be I’m still dreaming. I open my mouth slightly to see if the motion feels real, but I didn’t brush my teeth before bed. My eyes start watering, the inside of my nose burning. I’m awake all right.
I close my eyes, but only after I close my mouth. Yeah, sex is not an option tonight.
Not feeling the usual dip in the mattress as he moves, I’m nearly startled “awake” when I hear Nick breathing so close to me. My eyes are closed. His lips softly brush against my forehead, and he returns to lie somewhere at least a foot away from me, though it’s impossible to tell with precision just how far.
This bed is fantastic.
“What I wanted to tell you,” he whispers, “is that we didn’t meet in the store. I didn’t just happen to spot you through the window. I know you don’t recognize me and you may not even remember me, but we went to school together for a while back in eighth grade.”
I feel like I should say something, but I can’t move.
He whispers, “At the office, everyone’s heard me say at least one quote from my dad. They’re great for inspiring fear and discipline, but the truth is I hated my dad. It’s easy to turn a threat into advice if you word it right.
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“We were always moving and I was an alien to everyone I met. As soon as I’d get to where I almost had the courage to try to reach out and maybe make some friends, dad would get new orders. We were never allowed to argue. Orders are orders, and I get that. Even where I was supposed to get some sense of comfort, or at least belonging, though, was just praying dad wasn’t home. If he was, all I could do was pray he was in a good mood. He wasn’t in a good mood often.
“There was a lot of stuff that I don’t want to talk about from back then, but after a while, everything was just so bleak,” he murmurs. He takes a breath.
Does he know I’m awake?
He whispers, “When we were in school, I knew who you were, or at least I’d seen you, but we hadn’t crossed paths except in the halls between classes. I was so young and it was so stupid, but at that point in my life, it just didn’t seem like there was any point in going on. Things at home kept getting worse and those who did know who I was at Mulholland Junior High were just brutal. Whether it was because I was the new kid or because I never said anything, it didn’t matter. It feels a little stupid thinking about it now, but back then, that was all I saw. Truth is, it was stupid, but you get beaten down in so many ways, you start believing you deserve it.
“That doesn’t matter now, though,” he mutters. “All that’s lead up, but you’re not awake.” He waits a beat. “Are you?”
I’ve already waited too long, so I don’t respond.
“The first time we ever spoke, I had my belt off and I was standing on a milk crate beneath the limb of one of the oak trees way back behind the school. It was already summer and no one was there, I figured it’d be the best place to get some privacy,” he whispers. “I was holding the belt and just starting to thread the end through the buckle before attaching one end to the tree and the other around neck and I heard footsteps coming through the dry leaves.
“When you first saw me, I was sitting on the milk crate, trying to put my belt back through my belt loops,” he stifles laughter. “It didn’t work so well. When you came around that last tree and saw me, you stopped. I figured I was caught, or at very least that whatever was going to happen would only be more reason to climb back up on that crate once you’d gone again.”
My heart is slamming against my ribcage. I remember him, only his name wasn’t Nick or Nikolai or Nicholas or anything like that. The man lying next to me hardly bears any resemblance to that scrawny little kid with the glasses so thick his eyes looked twice as big as normal. Still, when I saw something familiar in his eyes, is that was I was remembering?
“That didn’t happen, though,” he continues. “You just said, ‘Come on,’ and kept on walking through the trees. I didn’t know what else to do, so I stood up, finally got my belt around my waist and followed you. I don’t think I talked once that first time we went for one of those walks, but I didn’t need to. Right from that moment, it was like you and I had grown up together or something, only I’d somehow forgotten everything I knew about you and you had to fill me in again.”
We had a very different experience of that day. It’s mortifying to think now, but I thought I’d walked up on him either getting ready to masturbate or just finishing. The way he was messing with the front of his pants, I had no idea what was really going on.
It was awkward, but I didn’t want him to hate himself like I was pretty sure I would in his shoes, so I passed it off like nothing was wrong. I’d been in enough knock-down drag-out fights with Naomi, I was confident I could take him if he tried anything. I was embarrassed, though, so I talked.
What embarrassed me most of all was as we kept walking, I became painfully aware that I was getting a little crush on him. The bespectacled, quiet, dorky kid I thought I caught pulling his ding-dong wasn’t exactly who I thought I should have any interest in, however unconscious.
“That’s how I know so much about you,” he says. “After that first day, I thought I’d never see you again. Dad had already gotten his orders for his next assignment. He’d already left, and mom and I would have to follow in a week or two once they’d gotten things going with the house. The next day, though, I went back out to that grove. I didn’t understand why I felt like I had to do that. When I went the second day, I didn’t wear the belt.
“I was out there under that same tree for a while, but sure enough, there you were, saying, ‘Come on,’ and then we just picked up where we left off,” he whispers. “I didn’t even tell you my name until the third day. My first name is Nikolai, but my dad always hated that mom talked him into it. He picked my middle name, he said, because it was the name he ‘should have gotten,’ being that his life was the military.”
As he says it, I mouth, “Cornelius.”
“My little history lesson at the diner was me testing the waters,” he says. “Actually, you’re not awake, so I don’t have to play it cool: I was nervous out of my skull, and I just grabbed the first thing my mind put in front of me.
“Two weeks, though,” he continues. “It was the best two weeks of my life. For the first time, I had a friend. The day before we left, I wanted to tell you I was going, but I didn’t know how. I was thrilled to have someone see me, but didn’t know how to deal with that and having to move the next day. I thought it would be weird to make a big deal about me leaving, so I just didn’t say anything.
“You don’t know this yet, and I don’t know how long it’ll be before you decide you’re ready to, but you saved my life,” he whispers. “Those two weeks gave me a glimpse into a world I didn’t think I was meant to have any part of, and I have loved you for it ever since. All of this is for you. I went to college, intending to make something of myself before I tried to reconnect with you to prove I wasn’t that gangly nobody anymore.” He chuckles, “I didn’t anticipate ending up roommates with Jacque.”
Chapter Eighteen
Culture Shock
Nick
Reeves is droning on about something I stopped paying attention to about ten minutes ago and my cell phone buzzes in my pocket. The man hesitates a moment when I pull the phone up and check the message, but he picks up again after a few seconds.
Ellie just sent me a text, asking if she and Naomi can stay at the beach house again for a few days. She says she wants to get out of the city.
As much as I don’t want to see Ellie’s sister ever, I write back, “Sure thing. There’s a card in my nightstand. Use that when you book the ticket and Trevor can get you the keys.”
“Nick?” Reeves asks.
“Yeah,” I say, “so basically what you’re telling me is that you did such a good job smearing me, if I don’t leave the company, it’s going under no matter what, huh?”
“We didn’t smear you, Nick,” he says.
“I’m sure after a couple more weeks in jail, my former housekeeper is going to get tired of lying awake, wondering if her cellmates are going to shank her in the middle of the night; she’ll open up about everything,” I say.
Reeves exhales. “Can we continue, please?” he asks.
“Sure,” I answer. “You know I can’t say no to you people.”
Reeves eyes me a second and continues, “The problem is we’re at scandal overload right now. Even the picture, which is definitely breaking more your way, isn’t doing anything to slow our plummeting stock price.”
“What you want me to do is the same thing you’ve wanted me to do since before I brought up the idea of the Mulholland office,” I say. “You want me out of the way without any more hassle so you can quietly fire everyone and put the company somewhere you barely have to worry about wages.”
“Nick, we’re past the point of pride here,” he says. “You picked up some friends with the picture, but those friends are pointing all their animus at the company, and are boycotting Stingray and its products in protest. Nick, no matter how you look at it, we’re going to need you to resign or we’ll be forced to start removal proceedings. We’re at that point now, and we can’t afford to wait much longe
r. The company’s going under.”
“Just out of curiosity, what would that look like: me resigning?” I ask.
“We’d want to make sure you were taken care of, of course,” Reeves says. “We had hoped to discuss those terms with you. Nick, we’re not your enemies here. We just don’t want to see the company go under, and I think you can respect that.”
“I do respect this time it wasn’t a maid with a camera,” he says. “I’m glad you people are starting to grow the courage to stand up for your convictions, bravo.” I start clapping, but for some reason, nobody joins in. Huh.
“Nick, this is serious,” Mason Handler says. The guy may be cold evil wrapped in a wrinkly exterior, but he does have a great name.
Slowly, I nod. “Yes, it’s serious,” I respond, “but I’d rather see this company financially implode than stand idly by while you undermine everything we’ve been trying to do—”
“So you’re saying you want Stingray to go under?” Geraldine, my CFO asks.
“No,” I answer. “What I’m saying is I’m not the one who’s trying to damage the business. You know a big part of the reason we’d kept the public’s trust as long as we have is because of the promise never to take the company overseas or cut salaries to employees below the level of upper management, right? As much as I’d like to take credit for everything good that’s ever happened to the company, that is what made us stand out in the early years. Even when everyone was telling us you couldn’t run an American company like this without outsourcing something. We’ve been proving them wrong for years, and now you’re telling me because you have betrayed that confidence and that you have been doing whatever possible to hurt my reputation, I should be the one to step down?” I ask. “Pull the other one.”
“If it meant the company would rebound, I’m sure there’s not a member of the board who wouldn’t step down,” Reeves says, “but that’s not what we’re looking at here.”
“I know,” I answer. I point at Reeves, saying, “You never trusted me. When the company first started, I knew about the meetings to try and convince Jacque to throw his support behind someone else as CEO. I don’t blame you. When I first started, I didn’t know anything about being an executive, and I had a hell of a learning curve in front of me. You still see me that way. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”