Shopping for a CEO's Fiancée
She sighs and smiles, nice and wide.
“Your breasts were just the closer,” I add, flinching, ready for the punch that I know follows.
The kiss surprises me, a welcome substitute for the punch I deserve.
“Why?” she asks, talking against my mouth. “Why did you wait so long? Why did you steal kisses and make me live with ambiguity?” I can tell she needs to know, and my own murkiness makes me feel inadequate. I owe her the truth, but what do you do when you don’t even know your own truth?
“Because I didn’t know how not to live with ambiguity. It’s all I knew.”
“What changed?”
What changed?
“I tortured myself for those few days before Dec and Shannon’s wedding. Got Vince to take me out for some more desensitizing sessions.”
“De-what?”
“Never mind. I’ll explain later. It’s not important.”
“Every part of this is important.”
“You are important.”
“We are important.”
And our future, too.
You aren’t supposed to know, with great certainty, that an idea is true. High school and college philosophy teach that absolute truth is impossible, a sign of weakness, a warning bell that someone is rigging the system in an effort to meet some non-truth goal. Certainty is an illusion, ever-morphing, and in the absence of absolute truth, all you can do is work to be as anti-fragile as possible. Flexibility and pivoting are hallmarks of a resilient mind.
But the heart is different.
Absolute love is real.
Ask me how I know.
“What if I told you I don’t have words to explain it?”
“Andrew James McCormick, if you tell me I have to live with ambiguity, I am going to rip your nipples off and turn them into human jerky.”
I stare at her. “Are you related to a guy named Vince Retigliano, by any chance?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” I blow out a puff of air, buying time. Willing my shoulders to relax, I try to go blank, so I can find some space for my emotions to line up and make sense.
Fat chance.
Instead, they all dance and hoot and holler like they’re at a Mardi Gras parade, flashing boobies and beads and everything.
Emotions Gone Wild.
“I am a walking paradox. My life is about reducing uncertainty. Carefully crafted procedures weed out as much fragility and exposure to risk as possible. In business, I can go on gut instinct. In life? No.”
She just watches me, carefully silent. Some part of her knows I need space. Lots of space. If she talks, the space fills, and then there’s no room for my heart to roam and find its way to the end game.
In space, no one can hear you scream.
But they sure can watch you fumble for homeostasis.
Bzzzzz.
“Damn,” I hiss, all the bravado leaking out of me.
The spell is broken. Amanda stands, straightening herself, and gives me a hard-to-read look.
“I have to get back to my office. Greg’s going nuts with all the procedures involved in selling the company to you. By the way, what’s going to happen to the cars?”
“Cars?” The topic change has me reeling, but I harden. Go with it. Don’t show any weakness. She’s probably weirded out by me already. I don’t understand how I can manage a nine-figure deal but can’t get a single conversation about love to make sense.
“The promotional cars?”
My mind goes blank.
“Turdmobile?”
“Ugh. What about it?”
“The contract for the cars lasts for nine more months. Greg has a marketing contract for—”
“Anterdec sure as hell doesn’t want them!” I say dismissively. If I don’t look at her, I can pretend she’s just another worker.
One eyebrow twitches. “That’s a hard no?”
Our eyes meet. I can’t help it. “A hard no?” I repeat, my voice turning up in a question, but my jaw’s clenched tighter than my dad’s tennis grip. Great. I’m turning into an angry Gina.
Her gaze locks with mine for seconds, then minutes, an eternity passing between us in the blink of an eye. I keep my eyes hooded and impartial, steely and protected.
“A hard no. I’ll act accordingly.” She repeats my words in the declarative, turning away, leaving the faintest scent in her wake, and the firm no that feels like a stone slab across my chest.
No.
Ridiculous.
Chapter Eleven
Six days after returning from Vegas, I’m no longer wearing a wedding ring, the Sultan has agreed to an in-person meeting with me in Dubai, and I am surrounded by Subaru Outbacks with roof racks and COEXIST bumper stickers.
Still better than Amanda’s Turdmobile.
My brother Terry lives in Jamaica Plain now, where Dad claims young hippies go to turn into parodies. He owns a duplex I’ve been to exactly once before, and that was a few years ago, when he insisted I come up and see some painting he did in Mom’s honor. He travels a lot, a guy in his mid-thirties who looks like he was the first hipster ever. For years, he rented out both apartments in his building, but he’s returned to the city recently. Dad doesn’t do big family holidays, and as we’ve gotten older, we’ve just drifted.
We’re not exactly close.
He was in college when Mom died, and never came back.
With Declan gone, and Vince out of town on some fitness boot camp retreat thing, I have two choices for hanging out with friends.
My chauffeur, and my biggest brother.
If I were dating again, I’d just have Gina arrange a business meeting with some local female executive I could charm into bed.