by Lee, Nadia
I really should’ve thought things through more carefully.
Chapter Twenty-One
Erin
For dinner, we pick up Chinese, since we had Italian last night. I offered to whip something up, but David declined…rather forcefully, it seemed to me.
“We’re tired after work. There’s no reason for you to cook. Really. I know a great Chinese takeout. My treat.”
“But I’m imposing on you by staying at your place,” I said. “Dinner would be something nice for me to do for you…”
“No! No, no. Ridiculous. You’re my fiancée, not my cook. And I most certainly didn’t agree to the engagement to have you feed me. Please. I feed my guests, not the other way around. Hospitality. It matters.”
Maybe David’s just old-fashioned about stuff like this. Is it just the way he is, or was it his upbringing? His mom seems pretty laid-back and modern, but I’m certain she had a ton of influence in his becoming the man he is now.
But I also wonder just how much he loved Shelly that he became such a player after breaking up with her. She’s really pretty. And so self-assured! I kind of want to look her up, but at the same time kind of don’t. It’s wrong and unprofessional. How would I feel if David Googled the few exes I have?
Violated and annoyed. That’s how. So I should stick to the Golden Rule.
We arrive back at his place and split the food. He has Peking duck and crab fried rice; I have shrimp and veggies in a rich black sauce and sweet-and-sour soup.
He offers me wine, and I accept a glass of white. Some Chardonnay from Napa. Since it comes from his collection, it’s probably going to be good.
I watch him twist the corkscrew in, forearm muscles flexing like tiny bridge cables under his skin. It’s somehow mesmerizing. I never thought a male forearm could look this enthralling.
Then there’s the quiet concentration on his face as he pinches his eyebrows. My index finger itches with the need to reach over and rub the furrowed spot. Not because I want to undo the frown, but just because I want to feel the bare skin of his face. I want to know if it’s as soft as it looks.
My fingertip between his eyebrows wouldn’t appear intimate or bold. Definitely not sexual, either.
Nor would it be professional.
A flutter of nerves passes through my belly, and my cheeks and neck feel warmer.
I squirm. Stomach cramps and PMS, I decide. Must be. Why would it be anything else, even if he does look unbelievably hot under the kitchen lights?
A soft pop jerks me out of my reverie. He has the cork out of the bottle and sets it aside, then pours me a full glass.
I take a quick sip to cool my body. But it doesn’t seem to work very well. I take another, then wonder if we’re going to talk, and if so, what we should talk about.
Something not too personal.
So I bring up a presentation we’re doing for a new advertiser tomorrow as we eat. David goes along, probably because it’s on his mind, too.
The marketing team has spent so much time and energy working on wooing this particular account from Korea. The Ivy Foundation is a charitable organization that funds education for aspiring classical musicians. Currently it’s offering scholarships to over fifty students. The person in charge—Yuna Hae—wants to use our app’s video capability to have the students who are accepting money from the foundation post their performances, and use that to promote her foundation’s mission and expand its reach to more would-be musicians. Based on our demographics and technology, she thinks our app will be a good fit.
“I already double-checked everything,” I say, then finish the last sip of wine. “But I’ll check again tomorrow so nothing goes wrong.”
“Thanks,” David says. “It’s a big deal, and Alexandra’s watching it closely.”
“But why? It isn’t like the foundation’s offering the most money.” We have other corporate advertisers that spend more than the Ivy Foundation. And since Alexandra isn’t doing it for free, I presume her motive isn’t charity, either.
“It’s the market,” he explains. “Our app is the second most downloaded in its category in Korea.” He takes a big bite of fried rice.
“But isn’t Korea…small? So the market is small?”
He nods, then swallows his food. “Yeah, but Korean users are super active on social media. They love to share photos and videos with each other, so they’re very profitable. We want to be number one in the market.”
Hmm. My research only dug up basic facts like the size of the market, but not this level of detail. “I need to be more careful when I analyze our international markets. I missed that.”
“No big deal. You aren’t an analyst, and this is new to you. You’ll get better at it.” David smiles. “By the way, here are your keys.” He pulls out the keys to my apartment. “The people moved everything into your closet here. They said they left the boxes upstairs.”
“Thanks. I should organize everything before going to bed.”
“Need any help?” he asks.
“I don’t think so. I don’t have that much stuff.” It shouldn’t take more than half an hour. And I don’t need him seeing all my things. Not that there’s anything embarrassing, but it just seems too…revealing. He’s going to wonder why my wardrobe is so meager, and I don’t need that kind of speculation.
I help David clean up, then go upstairs. But I don’t see anything in the room or the closet. How weird. If it had been anyone but David who took care of it, I might suspect a screw-up, but David doesn’t hire idiots. I go back downstairs.
“I don’t see my things,” I say.
He frowns. “They said they did it, and they’re pretty reliable.” He gets up, goes into my room with me and looks around. “You’re right. What the heck?”
A possibility occurs to me. “You think they put my stuff in your room?”
“Might have. Let’s go check.”
We go to his room together. Sure enough, three huge boxes are stacked in front of his walk-in closet.
He sighs. “Guess they got confused.”
“At least they aren’t lost or misplaced. Like that time the airline lost my carry-on,” I say lightly.
He snorts a laugh. “That was ridiculous. I mean, how the hell does a carry-on bag disappear?”
“Sure was. You know I finally got it back?”
“Did you?” His eyebrows rise. “I thought it was gone.”
I shake my head. “Took them four days to locate the bag, no explanation as to how it happened.” And they didn’t care that I was on a business trip with my boss. “I’m sure it’s some kind of legend at the airline now.”
I reach for one of the boxes, but David stops me. “Let me carry those. They’re big and probably packed full.” He shakes his head. “They didn’t have to do it this way.”
Actually, they probably didn’t pack the boxes full. But I say nothing as David picks one up.
He frowns. “Either this is lighter than I thought or all those hours in gym are making me stronger.”
I laugh as he flexes his arm, showing off his biceps in a parody of a bodybuilding routine. “Maybe it’s both.”
David places the first one in the closet in my room, so I start unpacking while he goes back to get the other two. He brings them in, then places his hands on his hips.
“So…this is it?” he asks, staring doubtfully at the clothes I’m hanging.
“I told you, it isn’t that much.”
“But… I mean, did they forget something?”
“Doesn’t look like it. I only need a few skirts and tops I can mix and match. Plus a few pairs of shoes.”
“Well, yeah, but shouldn’t they have packed your other stuff? Weekend clothes or pajamas or something? This doesn’t compute.”
Maybe I should’ve expected him to be weird about it. My closet isn’t exactly overflowing. More on the lean side. “I do have casual outfits and pajamas. In fact, I have two sets of each.” Because that’s all I need. “It totally does comput
e, David.”
“Okay.” He’s still skeptical.
“Let me put away some other stuff.” Like my underwear, which I’m not going to pull out in front of him. “Why don’t you go relax? Maybe watch TV?”
“Okay.”
He backs out of the closet, finding it hard to tear his eyes away from my dearth of clothes. But he shouldn’t be so surprised. Or maybe he’s just made certain assumptions based on his cousins. I’ve met Cora, and she’s a fashionista. Jan, too, to a lesser degree. They always put on something unique and interesting and colorful.
Unlike them, I don’t need much. And it isn’t because I’m saving for my golden years. Every month, a quarter of my income goes to a charity for funding medical care for children. I have a will that specifies that everything I have is to be gifted to charities or given away when I die. My body is to be cremated after whatever usable organs are donated.
And like I told David, it only takes half an hour to unpack. Then I realize I left my purse downstairs and go to the living room.
David’s watching TV. He turns around when he hears the clack of my shoes on the floor. “You like crime shows? They have Criminal Minds reruns.” He gestures at a huge bowl. “Got popcorn, too.”
That sounds like just the thing. I love crime shows, especially when it’s guaranteed that the bad guy is going to pay. I like to believe justice is real, and people who do bad things are eventually—inevitably—punished.
“Sure.” I sit next to him because he’s occupying the only sofa that faces the TV and watch the FBI’s finest hunt for a serial killer.
Except this turns out to be a rather disturbing episode. I don’t remember seeing it, which means I must have missed it when it aired the first time. There’s no way I could forget this particular plot.
The mother of the killer was packed off to an asylum some decades ago. It’s likely she was misunderstood. Back then people often locked women up for all sorts of made-up reasons, like to get at their money and so on.
The son, who grows up without his mom, starts murdering women whom he deems to be “Satan’s brides.” Toward the end of the show, it’s revealed that the son has some kind of mental illness. Are they hinting that the illness is genetic? I bite my lip.
I pray that the woman’s daughter only appears odd because she’s being abused by her killer brother. But at the end of the hour, after the son has been caught and carted away, the girl starts hallucinating in the same way her brother did.
My stomach burns. Maybe I shouldn’t have had so much sweet-and-sour soup.
The entire family—from mother, son and daughter—have the same kind of mental illness, one that makes them see and hear things that aren’t real.
You’re going to end up like your mom. Why can’t you see I’m trying to make sure you’ll be taken care of?
Dad’s angry, frustrated voice rings in my head. I stiffen.
“Creepy, huh?” David says with laugh. “Scared?”
“A little. The fact that the mom cut off the girl’s arm…” My mouth is bone-dry. To hide my reaction, I munch on more popcorn.
“Yeah. That part was really disturbing.” He shudders. “And the worst thing is, I don’t think the show writers were making it all up. A lot of crime shows are based on true events, even though they change the details.”
Ugly tremors run through me. The popcorn feels like grit on my tongue.
“So you think insanity is really inherited?” I ask, doing my best to sound casual. Say no, say no, say no…
“Could be.” David’s tone is careless, like he’s stating the obvious. “Lots of stuff is genetic. That’s why my mom said I better marry a smart and beautiful woman so we can give her superior grandchildren.”
I know he’s half joking, and what he’s saying isn’t wrong in any way. But every word stabs like a knife—painful and deep. I wonder if you can die from words alone? “But don’t you think it’s possible that it isn’t genetic? I mean, if all mentally ill parents had mentally ill kids, you’d have exponentially more and more mentally ill people in the world,” I say, unable to stop. It’s so, so important that David doesn’t say what Dad told me for so long, all the things that made me afraid to be close to people because… What if they noticed something wasn’t right? And what if David sees that something might be broken inside me? And that it’s becoming more and more obvious?
“Sure. It’s like anything else; you have parents with dark hair who have blond kids. So there wouldn’t be a hundred percent transfer through the generations. Just look at the show.” He gestures at the TV. “Reid’s mom has schizophrenia, but he’s fine. I mean, he’s a little weird. But perfectly sane.”
But that doesn’t make me feel any better. Reid’s mom isn’t that bad in Criminal Minds. Her love for her son keeps her alive and behaving as normally as possible. My mom was different. Too ill to care about me—her only child. That’s why she hung herself—or so my dad explained, over and over again.
Abrupt cold grips me, and I hold myself tightly to ward off the chill.
David’s smile slips. “You okay? You went really pale there all of a sudden.”
I can’t tell him. I don’t think he’ll mock me or shun me. But I don’t want him to pity me. Or treat me differently.
“I’m fine,” I croak, then clear my throat. “Just a little tired. I should get some sleep.”
Without giving him a chance to respond, I rise to my feet, take my purse and walk in a calm, deliberate manner up the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-Two
David
“Good morning,” I say, walking into the kitchen.
Erin jumps. “Oh! David! You startled me.”
“I did? Sorry. Um, you want some breakfast?”
She shakes her head while averting her eyes, then picks up her mug and starts gulping coffee.
I watch her throat work. No good morning? No smile? Barely even a look my way?
Something’s wrong here. And maybe it’s been wrong since last night. She started acting strange after watching TV…
Did she notice my reaction to her?
Shit. Her nearness sort of got me distracted. I’d seen that episode already, and wasn’t paying much attention. Instead, I was enjoying having her close, sharing the popcorn and feeling the nearness of her small, beautiful body, enjoying the sweet, fruity scent of her. It’s not a perfume, but it’s more captivating than any of the fancy brands my exes liked to spray on themselves.
Aaand I got hard. I had to shift position a little to hide it from her. Thankfully, she was too engrossed in the episode to notice.
So why was she so jumpy at the end there? And why is she still jumpy?
My phone beeps.
–Mom: I texted Erin yesterday afternoon, but she hasn’t responded. Can you ask her to check her phone?
Uh-oh. Better get a handle on this before Mom asks her to do something outlandish. This is new territory, so there’s no telling what she might want.
Matt’s voice surfaces inside my head. “New territory”? You talking about the lying or the engagement?
I scowl. “The lying” is necessary because of the circumstances, i.e., Shelly’s sudden reappearance in my life. So technically, she’s the one who’s lying.
Wow, that logic is ridiculous, even for you.
Whatever. I’m not wrong, though. Besides, this isn’t a major issue. If the engagement ends in three months… Well, Mom will just have to deal. And I’ll… Ah, I don’t want to think about that yet. We aren’t even through the first week.
I turn my attention back to the text. Mom’s waiting for a response.
–Me: What do you need?
–Mom: To talk to her about the party. Alexandra’s the star, but so is Erin. And you too, of course.
I almost smile. There’s an engagement, and all of a sudden her son’s an afterthought.
–Me: I’ll ask her to get in touch. She’s been really busy.
I tack that on at the end so Mom doesn’t think Erin
was ignoring her on purpose.
–Mom: Thanks, hon. Can’t wait to see you two!
I pocket the phone and turn to Erin, who’s putting her empty mug in the dishwasher. “Mom wants you to answer her text,” I say. “So if you can take a look when you get a chance…”
Erin glances at me, her eyes wide. “She tried to contact me? I don’t have a phone yet.”
“You don’t? I thought you took care of that yesterday.”
“They’re delivering it today or tomorrow. At the office.” Now she’s apparently talking to her hand on the counter. The one without the ring. “I’ll set it up and answer her today.”
“Something interesting on your hand?” I ask, mildly irritated that she isn’t meeting my eyes.
She shoots me a nervous glance before looking away again. “Huh?”
I sigh. “Did something happen?”
“No.” She jumps up and grabs her purse. “I don’t want to be late. Bye!”
Late? I check the time. She’d have to drive ten miles per hour to be late.
But she dashes out. She’s moving so fast that if she put on just a little more speed, she’d be trotting.
What the heck is going on? She’s acting really weird. Maybe she did notice my reaction last night…
Shit.
When I arrive at the office, Erin’s already at her desk. She must’ve driven like Satan’s pet bat to already be checking her email and have taken so many notes.
Although Erin and I are both early, the marketing department is already busy with people putting the final touches on the presentation. Everyone knows how important this is, and how much Alexandra is looking forward to a good outcome. Nothing less than a closed deal will do.
Erin’s skittish, and still hasn’t made eye contact, which isn’t good. Is she going to be like this in the meeting, too?
I want her to be there. It’s going to be a good learning opportunity for her. On the other hand, if she does something that jeopardizes the deal, Alexandra’s going to be furious. I don’t know what the Ivy Foundation people will think if they see that my assistant is refusing to look at me. My grandmother is as protective as a lioness when it comes to her family, but at work, we’d better prove ourselves over and over again. Nobody gets a free ride.
