Auctioned to Him 6: Damage

by Charlotte Byrd

  I shake my head. No, no, no. It makes sense, but it doesn’t. Something feels wrong.

  “I don’t understand why you don’t believe me,” I finally say. “I was there when he was on the phone. And it wasn’t a lie. He was really scared. Really upset.”

  “Annabelle, you have to drop this.” Gatsby’s face grows stern. All color banishes within a moment, and all that remains is the stranger I first saw in the pages of the gossip magazine.

  “I can’t.” I shake my head.

  “You have to!” Gatsby slams his hand on the desk startling me. “Dammit, Annabelle. You just met him. Yesterday! You think that makes you some sort of authority on him? On our family? You don’t know anything about us!”

  I nod and look away. I am not getting through, and the more I push, the thicker the wall gets. I hate Atticus for doing this to us.

  “What is it that you think you know about Atticus?” Gatsby continues. Now, he is ranting. I turn around and go to the living room. He follows me.

  “You think you heard him curse someone on the phone, and that means you know everything there’s to know about him. Is that how you feel about me? You’re so fuckin’ judgmental, Annabelle.”

  I hate the way he’s talking to me. I can’t stand it.

  “No, I never said that!” I turn around to face him.

  I will not stand for how he’s talking to me. I don’t mean to yell, but the words just come tumbling out.

  “All I’ve been trying to convince you of is what I saw and heard. I don’t know what it means. But you know what hurts the most? I’m here. I’m standing here, trying to protect you. Because that’s all this is.”

  “Well, I don’t need your fuckin’ protection!” Gatsby shouts across the room. “Who do you think you are, anyway? You’re not in any position to protect me. You don’t know anything about me!”

  “I don’t need to know anything about you to protect you,” I shout back. His words are starting to make less and less sense. And mine are completely incomprehensible. All I want is for all of this to stop. I can’t stand the drama. The strife. I’m not this person. We’re not this couple. We’re not at a couple at all. Just two people on their first date. First date! Oh my god, I can’t believe it’s our first date.

  I grab my bag and start gathering my things. I don’t have much. My phone. My iPad. My work clothes. Skirt. Blouse. Jacket. Panties. Maggie Mae’s high-heeled shoes. Can’t forget those.

  “What are you doing?” Gatsby walks over.

  “I’m leaving,” I say calmly. As far as I’m concerned, our fight is over.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” he says mockingly.

  I look up at him. Our eyes meet, and for a brief moment, I remember how nice it was to get lost in the blueness of his gaze. But then the moment passes, and I see the person who is staring back at me. A stranger.

  “Home.”

  The mocking expression on his face vanishes. He collects himself, and his face returns to its natural color.

  “Okay,” he nods. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

  I wait for him to call me a car to take me to his plane. I watch the way he moves as he talks on the phone, confident, self-assured, honest. More than anything, I wish for that person to return to me. He is there, within arm’s reach, but I just can’t go to him. I can’t apologize. I have nothing to feel sorry about. I can’t go back.

  26

  My heart is breaking into a million pieces. It takes all the power within my body to hold back my tears. After we get out of the car, Gatsby walks me to the plane. I want to go by myself. I want him to leave so that I can cry in peace. But I say nothing.

  There’s a moment when I think our hands will touch. My body pulls for him as if he were a magnet. I am about to run my fingertips over his hand. But he grabs the railing.

  “What, you don’t think I can make it into the plane by myself?” I am angry. I’m not afraid to show it.

  “I need to tell the pilot where you’re going,” he says nonchalantly.

  Coldness is emanating from him. I hate this side of him. I hate all of him.

  I drop my bag on the floor and take a seat. Less than twenty-four hours ago, we were both in this exact seat doing something else completely. I look out at the runaway at the empty pavement. He’s talking to the pilot, but I feel as if I’m all alone. As if no other soul exists in the world.

  Gatsby walks towards me and sits in the recliner opposite from me. He looks me straight in the eyes. Sadness and disillusionment looking back at me.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I’m sorry for raising my voice. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry for getting so mad. But most of all, I’m sorry that you’re leaving.”

  Ask me to stay! Ask me to stay!

  “I’m sorry too,” I say. “For everything.”

  I want him to touch me. If we were just to touch again, everything would go back to normal. The chemistry between us would take over. But I can’t move. Something is holding me back. It’s as if my body is stuck to the seat. When I finally break free, he’s already walking down the runway.

  Run out there after him! I scream to myself. Go! What’s stopping you? Don’t think. Just act!

  But I remain motionless. My mind and my heart are fighting an epic battle within me, leaving me completely powerless.

  Suddenly, I start to choke. Big fat tears start rolling down my face. I can’t catch my breath. My throat closes in. I gasp for air, but no air enters.

  My sobs are so loud. They echo off the walls of the plane. I bury my head in my knees and rock from side to side.

  I cry for everything that I have lost. I cry for losing what we had and for what we could’ve had.

  Regret is a dark storm cloud that swirls around me, turning everything black.

  Slowly, my thick, all-consuming sobs turn into a stream of tears. My pangs of regret over Gatsby morph into other regrets.

  I regret never telling him about my sisters and how much I love them despite everything that has happened.

  I regret not telling him about my mother’s death and how much her passing affected me.

  I regret not telling him how alone I feel all the time and how retreating into nature actually makes me feel less alone than when I’m with people.

  I regret not telling him about my father leaving when I was young and how I act like it’s nothing, like everyone goes through that, and yet I hate him for it.

  But mostly, I regret all of these regrets.

  If only I knew that we would have so little time together, then I would’ve spent more of it being who I am. Showing him who I really am. The good, the bad, the ugly. It’s not like I want to show him the bad and the ugly, I just wish that he knew the deepest parts of me. Maybe then he would see me as…no, maybe then he would just see me for me.

  I am more than his personal assistant. I am more than this girl with whom he has amazing sexual chemistry. I am layered, dimensional, and complicated. And now, all those parts of me seem lost or gone.

  When the plane starts to taxi down the runway, the constant flow of tears slows down to a trickle. But then the plane stops. I look out the window.

  Is it Gatsby? Is he stopping the plane so that he can get on and reverse this whole, horrible thing?

  The plane makes its way back to the beginning of the runway.

  My hopes soar.

  Why would we be going back were it not for Gatsby? I didn’t ask them to return. It has to be him!

  I wait anxiously for the door to open.

  My heart feels like it’s about to jump out of my chest. I’ve wiped my tears. I am ready to run into his arms. The doors finally open.

  A beautiful, poised young woman walks in. My head starts to spin. I wait for Gatsby to follow her inside, but he’s not there. Stacey closes the door, and the woman walks towards me.

  She looks about Gatsby’s age, late twenties. Her short, black hair makes her look like that actress from the 30s. She’s smoking
an e-cigarette and carrying a Birkin bag on her arm.

  “Oh my God, sweetie, what’s wrong?” she plops down right next to me and puts her arm around my shoulder.

  I shake my head. I don’t know what’s going on. Where’s Gatsby? Who is she?

  “Nothing,” I mumble. I’m so embarrassed.

  My face feels puffy, and my jeans are wet from when I buried my face in my lap. My hair is a total mess.

  I don’t even dare think about how bloodshot and awful my eyes must look right now. Or how black my cheeks are from all the smeared mascara. I just want to pull the hoodie over my head and hide. But I can’t.

  “No, seriously, I want to know. What happened?” she insists.

  How can she be this perfect? Each strand of her hair lays neatly in place. Her lips shimmer in the light, and her manicured nails are painted blood red.

  I don’t know her, but something about her looks familiar. I have seen those eyes before. Almond shaped and inquisitive. And her lips are turned up just a little at the corners. A straight, pointy nose completes the look. If she were animated, she would be a fairy.

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” I say clearing my throat.

  My voice comes in more powerful this time. I’m not mumbling. I wipe the rest of my tears away with the back of my hand.

  “Oh, of course! I’m terribly sorry. I’m O.” O extends her hand. We shake hands, and I am keenly aware of how cold my hand is. It’s as if it belongs to a dead person!

  “O? Is that short for something?”

  “Yep, O like the letter. Ophelia.”

  Ophelia. What a beautiful name! What a tragic character! Definitely more tragic than I am, I think to myself. I’m not tragic, just pathetic.

  “So are you going to tell me which one of my brothers did this to you or what?” O looks me straight in the eye. I’m taken aback. So that’s why she looks so familiar!

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Oh, c’mon, please.” She bounces up and down and grabs my hand. Her pale face and severe hair cut are a complete mismatch to how warm and kind she comes off.

  “All three of them are assholes. I just want to know which one you fell for.”

  “Gatsby,” I whisper, embarrassed. I shake my head.

  “But it’s not like he did this to me.” I’m trying to gain some of my dignity back, but all efforts are in vain. “It just happened.”

  It. What was it that happened? I can’t call it a breakup, we were just on our first date! But something did happen, and that’s why I’m now sitting on his private plane all alone. Well, not all alone.

  27

  O shakes her head. “Honestly, I didn’t expect that. Gatsby never brings anyone here. And he should know better. He is the oldest.”

  “Oldest of all of you?”

  “No, oldest of the guys. I’m the oldest oldest.”

  I nod. She must be close to thirty, but she could easily pass for twenty-one. I want to shift the conversation away from me. I tell O my name and ask her why she’s in Montana.

  “Charity event for the American Prairie Preserve.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Oh, it’s an amazing organization. They are buying up land and letting a herd of buffalo roam around it, in the wild, just like they did a hundred and fifty years ago. Before they were all almost slaughtered to extinction.”

  She hands me a pamphlet. The buffalo on the cover looks just like the one I saw outside our window last night. Oh, how I wish that I could go back to that moment. There would be so much that I would do over. So many things that I wouldn’t say or say properly.

  After an hour or so of flight time, I start to feel groggy and take a nap. When I wake up, O is asleep. I don’t know much about her, but I really like her anyway. She has a calm demeanor about her, the kind that puts me at ease right away. Her haircut and dark clothes don’t go with her sunny personality. But there must be an explanation for that as well. I hope that we will see each other again. However unlikely.

  When we start to descend towards the lights of Los Angeles that span toward the horizon as far as the eyes can see, O grabs my hand and asks to exchange numbers.

  “If you ever want to talk, please call. I live in Malibu, but I’ll be right over.”

  People in LA always promise to call and text but never do. But something about O makes me believe her.

  “I will,” I say. “You too. Call or text whenever you need anything.”

  I have no idea how I could help someone who has a bigger monthly spending allowance than I will probably make in a lifetime, but I want to be of use as well.

  “I’m serious,” she says. “I know we all say that, but I really mean it.”

  “Everyone says that, too,” I laugh.

  “Well, I want to stay in touch. I kinda like you, Annabelle. And I don’t like too many people.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you’re not stupid. And I know you’ll make me laugh when you’re not so heartbroken.”

  Her words cut right through me, and I gasp.

  “How do you know?” I whisper.

  “How could I not? Look at you. If you look like this in your every day life, you have some things to answer to.”

  I smile. I’m surprised at myself. Only a few hours ago, I didn’t think that I would ever, or could ever, laugh again. Yet, after a flight with O, I was on my way back to being my normal self. Gatsby didn’t take it all out of me. No, I’ve been through a lot. But I’m more resilient than that.

  I may have been falling in love with him, but at least it stopped before it actually got that far. I gasp again. Falling in love? Was that what was happening?

  “Isn’t life amazing?” O asks. “Just when you think you’re going to be spending the whole evening alone, being bored, you end up meeting a friend.”

  She’s talking about herself, but I feel the same way. Yes, life is amazing.

  I arrive at work early the following Monday. I set my alarm extra early, take a shower, and spend time picking out my outfit and doing my hair and makeup. I have to look as normal as possible. I don’t want Ms. Greaves to be alarmed. And most of all, I don’t want Gatsby to know that anything is wrong. The best way to deal with all of this and keep my job is to act as professionally as possible. And that means to pretend that nothing is wrong.

  Ms. Greaves and her perfectly coiffed hair and impossibly high heels are already there. She must be pushing sixty, and yet she has more energy than I do most mornings. I’ve never seen her drink a cup of coffee. What is powering her? Caffeine pills? ADHD? Coke?

  I nod hello and sit down at my desk. We rarely exchange any more pleasantries than that. I tried, but Ms. Greaves thinks that everything is gossip. News, politics, entertainment. Even regular water cooler talk is gossip to her. “And this office has no space for gossip.”

  Maggie Mae wasn’t home yesterday, and today, of all days, I really regret that no one else works with me at the office. It would be nice to talk to someone about something to take my mind off things.

  “I’ve got good news for you, Ms. York,” Ms. Greaves says, standing over my desk. She moves as quietly as a mouse. How long has she been there? I minimize Facebook and look up.

  “You’re moving to your new office today.”

  “New office?”

  “Close to Mr. Wild.”

  “Really?”

  After this weekend, I wasn’t even sure if I would still have my job, let alone get the promotion a week early.

  “I know. You’re not the only one who’s surprised. Personally, I don’t think you’re ready. But it’s all up to Mr. Wild.” She shakes her head.

  “Are you sure?” I ask. I still can’t believe it. How can this be? Perhaps, it’s a request that he put in last week when everything was fine. Yeah, that must be it.

  “I wouldn’t be doing this otherwise. Got strict instructions from Mr. Wild this morning. Guess you made an impression.”

  I shake my head. This mo
rning! What kind of impression could I have made this weekend? Not a good one, that’s for sure!

  My chest grows tight, and my throat closes up. I feel like I’m about to lose my job. Last night, I wasn’t sure. But now I’m certain. What if this is some sort of ruse to humiliate me? What if he wants to fire me but make a big show first? No, that can’t be it, Gatsby wouldn’t do that. Would he?

  “You ready?” Ms. Greaves asks.

  “For what?”

  “To see your new office?”

  No, no, no. I get up and follow her through the double doors. Just keep calm. Keep cool. Act professional. Everything will be okay. I say these things to myself over and over without believing a single word.

  The elevator doors open. Gatsby walks in. He is wearing an impeccably tailored gray suit that accentuates his narrow waist and wide shoulders. The collar of his white shirt is so starched that it looks like it would stand up to the worst desert heat.

  He nods hello. First to Ms. Greaves and then to me. I give him a little nod back. When he grabs the stack of paperwork off Ms. Greaves desk, his cufflinks sparkle like starlight. Each cufflink is a parallelogram made of white gold with a wavy line of diamonds going down the middle.

  Gatsby’s perfectly polished Italian shoes squeak right before he goes through the double doors, breaking my concentration. He pauses for a moment as if he’s waiting for something. I don’t know whether I should follow him inside.

  “We’ll be right in, Mr. Wild.” Ms. Greaves stands up from her chair. Without a word, he disappears into his office.

  “Well, c’mon.” Ms. Greaves waves to me. “Let me show you to your new place.”

  “What? Now?” I’m not ready. I can’t.

  “Yes, now!”

  I take a deep breath and follow her through the double doors.

  28

  I enter a room the size of a football field. I had no idea that this floor was even that big. I thought that our room was unnecessarily large for two people, but this one is even bigger. The ceiling is close to twenty feet. The office has only one real wall and that one houses the elevator. The rest of it is glass, from floor to ceiling.