Broken Enagement_A Second Chance Secret Baby Romance

by Gage Grayson

  “Madeline, would you like to eat at L'atelier after this? Or Del Posto, maybe?” I want to get the suggestions out before I forget about them, and I also want to keep this evening going as long as I can.

  Maddie turns her head around, her eyes now set on me, ravishingly.

  “The first one, L'atelier. No hurry, though.”

  “‘No hurry.’ The two most beautiful words in the English language,” I mumble, maybe loud enough for Maddie to hear, or maybe not.

  “It’s our turn to order,” Maddie declares loudly, the vested bartender now looking at us. “Island Punch, right? Is that right for this place?”

  “Yes, Island Punch. Two of them.” I direct my words to the bartender, and he wastes no time securing two cups and running what sounds like a blender under the bar.

  “A blender,” Maddie remarks. “I wonder if they have pineapple here, too.”

  I blink hard. Did she really just say that?

  Is she referencing something that she’s been trying so hard to avoid?

  “The pineapple’s really good here,” I state dryly.

  “Oh, just like in Hawaii?”

  Hearing Maddie say the name of the state is enough to shoot my pulse up into the triple digits. It’s like a mini cardio workout.

  “Not quite that good,” I croak mechanically.

  “No fresh fruit here, guys. Sorry.” The bartender hands us our two bright green drinks while breaking the news.

  “No problem, I forgot what longitude we were in,” I mutter, passing the bartender a pair of twenties.

  I notice the leisure suit guy taking his drink outside.

  “Hey, can we drink outside?” I ask the bartender.

  “Sure. Do you want change?”

  Maddie is on her way out the door with her Island Punch, and I start trotting to catch up with her as usual.

  “No, change is never good,” I exclaim as Maddie and I slip out the door.

  We start walking down the stairs just in time to watch the guy in front of us walk out of the park and onto the street with his Merlot and cola.

  “Hey, I don’t think Leisure Suit Larry is supposed to leave the property with that beverage,” Maddie observes.

  “And I don’t think that’s under the jurisdiction of the SEC,” I counter.

  “Hey, I’m not fucking going after him, am I?”

  “I guess it’s his lucky day,” I say as we reach the AstroTurf at the bottom of the stairs.

  “I guess it is. Come on, let’s go to the beach.”

  The empty west side of Manhattan starts to feel increasingly enchanted the moment we step onto the little patch of sand.

  After we take our spot on the bench facing the Hudson, I know I must be dreaming.

  “Could you pinch me, Madeline?”

  Madeline obliges. She doesn’t even look at me, she simply grabs a bit of my forearm between her thumb and forefinger and starts squeezing tighter, then tighter, then even tighter without mercy.

  “Damn, okay, Maddie, I just wanted to make sure that this is reality.”

  “What makes you think it is?” asks Maddie, not letting go.

  “Only reality could hurt this much.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Maddie releases her grip, and we stare at the twinkling lights just across the state line.

  “I bet the view’s better looking from that side of the river,” posits Maddie.

  “It is.”

  “So, do you think Snooki’s just chilling across the water right now? Is she enjoying the view?”

  “No, that’s Hoboken. No Snooki, just the Cake Boss.”

  “Are you sure about that, Ethan? You don’t think Snooki’s hanging out in Hoboken with the Situation, Bon Jovi, Bruce Springsteen and the ghost of Tony Soprano? What the hell else would be going on in New Jersey?”

  “You got me, Maddie. Maybe we should stop looking at it.”

  “Agreed, L’atelier it is.”

  The walk to L’atelier is much too short. It’s only few blocks down Tenth Avenue and after a few minutes of wonderful, nonsensical conversation, we’re already being seated.

  While Maddie joyfully peruses her menu, I watch a very inappropriately dressed couple slow dance, even though there’s no music coming from anywhere.

  “Hey, does that look like David Foster Wallace to you?” I point over Maddie’s shoulder, and she turns around to examine the dancing couple.

  The man is wearing an olive-green hoodie and a red bandana on his head. His date, maybe his wife, is dressed in sort of a biker getup: distressed black jeans, a white top, and a black choker.

  “You mean the author of Infinite Jest?” Maddie asks, turning back to me. “I don’t think he’s alive anymore.”

  “He’s not, but that looks like him.”

  “You’re not one of those Infinite Jest guys, are you?”

  “What’s an Infinite Jest guy?”

  “One of those guys who tries to read Infinite Jest, only makes it a couple hundred pages in, but then displays it on his bookcase like he’s fucking proud of it.”

  “Maddie, I barely know what Infinite Jest even is.”

  “That’s refreshing,” Maddie says, smiling, looking at back at her menu for just a moment before locking eyes with me suddenly. “We should dance, though.”

  Maddie and I put down our menus, rise from our seats, and do our own slow dance, accompanied only by the sounds of the restaurant.

  Ethan

  Sometimes it’s weird riding an elevator to the top of a century-plus-old skyscraper.

  They do a thorough job keeping this place clean, but some days I swear I can smell the history—some musky scent that’s been embedded in the oak since 1915 or some shit.

  It always hits me on a random day like today—just an average Wednesday when I’ve been doing nothing but working all fucking week. Stepping out of the elevator and into the office hallway, I’m hit with an odor like I’ve never smelled before in this building.

  It doesn’t smell bad, and it actually doesn’t smell like history either.

  It smells like masala dosa, and palak paneer...and it’s coming from the boardroom.

  I think this is the morning to break my habit of walking past the boardroom like it doesn’t exist. Before I even get to my office, I need to see what the hell is going on in there at 9:00 a.m.

  I’m too baffled by this change in atmosphere to even bother knocking. I enter through the squeaky boardroom door to see a cheap, generic Welcome banner thumbtacked up above two windows.

  There are three fresh-faced upstarts—two guys and one woman—looking like it’s their first time wearing sharp business suits.

  Actually, there are four. The three suited kids are huddled in a circle, talking to each other over paper plates of Indian food.

  Those three are in their early twenties, and they nervously look over at me for a second as I walk in.

  They’re all new hires—interns, most likely.

  There’s another lady, a couple years older, sitting by herself at the conference table. She’s eating a large, plain naan—and nothing else—and her hair is dyed bright blue.

  Why does she look so familiar?

  The group of suited kids look relieved when I ignore them, and they go back to whispering anxiously at each other.

  I sit down in the seat next to the blue-haired lady. She’s wearing a frilly black dress with a leopard-print trim. It might be the most casual thing anyone’s ever worn in this office.

  “Good morning,” I greet her.

  She turns to me with a mouthful of naan, so I keep talking.

  “Are you one of our new interns?”

  “No, I’m a financial analyst,” she mumbles with her mouth still full.

  “I can get you some water if you’d like, and we have coffee out in the hallway...”

  “No, I’m fine,” she responds after swallowing. “I just didn’t want you to think I’m an intern.”

  I glance over at the interns huddled
away from the table.

  “I see. I’m Ethan Barrett, if you didn’t know.”

  “I did know. I’m Kallie…Kallie.”

  Kallie picks up her naan and takes a big bite. I guess that’s all the introduction we need.

  “I just wanted to say, Kallie, I admire your fashion choices.”

  Kallie thankfully puts her naan down before responding.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, the hair especially. That’s quite a color.”

  “Well, thank you. I appreciate that. I put a lot of work into it.”

  Where do I know her from? I don’t want to ask, because she might misinterpret that and see that as inappropriate.

  The interns all leave abruptly, dropping their plates and plastic forks into the trash can set up by the door.

  “Friends of yours?” I ask.

  “What?” Kallie responds, picking up her naan and putting it back down. “Of course they’re not. Why would they be?”

  “Why wouldn’t they be?” I’m trying not to sound too outraged, but seriously. What the fuck?

  “I’m just pointing out the assumption you made, Mister Barrett. That’s all.”

  Mister Barrett. That’s someone’s thing, but it’s not Kallie’s.

  “You can call me Ethan. Please.”

  “Okay, Ethan.” Kallie pushes her plate with the naan away from her, and I get a physical sense of relief. “I didn’t skip that part of my career. I’ve put in my time at several lesser firms. I’ve interned.”

  “Lesser?”

  “I’ve worked right on Wall Street. My first job was with RF Lafferty...”

  “Then why didn’t you stay on Wall Street?” I hear the apprehension in my own interrupting voice.

  “Because there’s only one Ethan Barrett in this neighborhood, and he’s not on Wall Street. I wanted to work with the best, so I walked down the block, and here I am.”

  I’ve seen plenty of analysts come and go, but Kallie has a rare talent for making me feel uneasy.

  Kallie stands up with a confident smirk. Her expression stays in place while she looks down at me.

  “Who hired you, Kallie?”

  “I’ve met all the senior partners, but the offer came from Mister Rosen last Friday.”

  “Rosen,” I repeat quietly, looking at Kallie’s unfinished naan.

  “You okay?” Kallie’s voice sounds like it’s coming from the ceiling, and it has an edge of derisive laughter.

  I force myself to look back up at Kallie’s smirking face and meet her gaze.

  “I’ll see you around the office, then,” I state in a monotone voice.

  Kallie’s smirk drops, and she nods. I feel a bit of remorse as Kallie leaves the room.

  She’s still young and still at the start of her career. She’s probably trying to project confidence and use flattery, but she’s struggling with it.

  Kallie’s leftover naan is sitting awkwardly on the table. The greasy, empty bag from the 24-hour Indian place on Chambers Street is settling on top of the wood a couple feet away.

  Who set up this whole event anyway?

  It could’ve been one new of the interns, walking up from the subway and stopping at the first restaurant they could find on their way here.

  I doubt they brought their own welcome banner, though.

  I don’t know what’s happening in this office.

  I stand up and start cleaning the goddamn table. No matter how well things are working, no matter how smoothly things are going, shit just changes over time.

  There’s no fucking way to avoid it. Even if I holed myself up in my apartment and worked from home for the next few decades through retirement, I couldn’t steer clear of the merciless winds of change.

  I pull the welcome banner down with a tug. My first instinct is to crumple it and throw it in the trash, but I end up folding it neatly and placing it on the table.

  Even if I retired now, I couldn’t get away from it.

  I could get out of the game. I could sell my condo and put everything in a low-risk index fund.

  I could buy a cottage in the Berkshires and live out the rest of my life there. I’d never even have to leave.

  But shit would still change. I would change, whether I wanted to or not.

  And I’d still have to adapt.

  So, I may as well stay in this increasingly weird fucking office and let the chips fall wherever.

  I drop the plate and all the empty packaging into the trash can before carrying the can out of the room with me.

  The cleaning staff here is, naturally, overburdened and underpaid, so I don’t mind pitching in whenever I can.

  The hallway is abuzz with weird energy the moment I step outside. Not that jittery, nervous ambiance that Maddie inspires; this is the feeling of new people coming into the fold.

  Interns, analysts—they’re all throwing themselves into the craziness and bringing their own craziness along for the ride.

  That’s all alright with me.

  Carrying the garbage all the way to the refuge room and emptying into the chute myself is also alright with me.

  Who am I kidding? It’s the highlight of my fucking day.

  The weird energy is already dying down when I walk back through the reception area carrying the empty trash can. Most everyone is squirreled away in their respective offices as usual.

  I toss the trash can back into the empty boardroom; it lands right side up in the perfect spot.

  I start walking back to my office at the end of the hall. Back to the old routine.

  I wouldn’t mind a routine rest of the day, or a routine rest of the week. I’ll admit that sounds pretty fucking comforting.

  There’s something askew in the usual corridor of closed doors.

  There’s only one door open, but it’s a door that’s never open.

  I don’t remember the last time I was in Barrister’s office.

  John Barrister and Leroy Rosen are as close to the upper echelons of NYC finance as anyone in this firm, or this building.

  Barrister and Rosen, with their gray hair, suit vests, and general air of having been around for-fucking-ever, are like a classic cartoon of old executives.

  Like if Mr.Dithers from the “Blondie” comic strips came to life, and he had a twin brother.

  They’re cartoony, but they’re also pretty intimidating, especially for rookies at the office.

  Right now, Barrister’s office door is open, and I can hear his brandy and cigar–seasoned laugh.

  Now I hear Rosen laughing too. Uproariously.

  I don’t know what the fuck’s going on in there, but now I have to see it.

  Literally—the door’s open, and I have to walk past whatever crazy fucking scene is happening to get to my office.

  I keep pace walking by Barrister’s office, moving my head only slightly to get a look inside.

  There’s Barrister and Rosen, alright, both of them standing by Barrister’s desk and guffawing up a storm.

  I feel like I must’ve stepped through a time warp back to the fifties or sixties, because I see three glasses of brandy sitting on the desk as well.

  Not two. Three glasses.

  One for Rosen, one for Barrister and one for Kallie—the only one of the trio who spots me as I walk by.

  Kallie and I make brief eye contact. I nod at her; she turns back to the two executives.

  Walking into my office, I hear Kallie saying something.

  I can’t make out a word of it, but it sends the two partners into more hysterics.

  I should’ve given Kallie more credit. She weirded me the fuck out earlier, but apparently she’s got schmoozing skills like I’ve never fucking seen.

  Shit’s getting weird today, but maybe tomorrow can be nice and boring.

  Oh well, time to get to work.

  Ethan

  This is all I needed right now. Just this one cup of coffee from the deli, as massive as this fucking thing is, is delivering the perfect degree of comfort, hea
t, and caffeine.

  The copious amounts of raw sugar and half and half are completing this wonderful salve for my tired-ass soul.

  It’s a sunny Thursday morning. The grid of streets and sidewalks I can see though my window is glistening, buzzing, and pulsating with the life of a new day.

  There’s plenty of energy to go around. Yeah, I only got two hours of sleep, but that’s plenty.

  My laptop, tablet, and business phone are all glowing on my desk. They are powered up, powered on, and ready to power through another long, quiet day of work.

  That’s right. Plain, run-of-the-mill, boring old fucking routine is winning out over the weird David Lynchian shit that keeps threatening to overtake this whole office.

  Like yesterday, I’m in market analysis mode today.

  I know it sounds thrilling.

  But fucking seriously, after spending almost an entire day and night delving deep into global market analysis and weighing investment options, I am honestly thrilled to spend the rest of the week like this.

  Eventually, people are going to want to talk. Partners, analysts, investors—they all want to make certain that I’m earning my four percent.

  But I don’t want to talk to anyone today, and no one wants to talk business on fucking Friday, so to repeat myself, I’m goddamn thrilled to wait until Monday for any of that shit.

  I close my eyes for just a moment, resting them, before getting back to work.

  I’m standing by the window, but I feel my whole body relax. I let my mind slip into blankness for a few seconds, focusing on nothing but the faint sound of a phone ringing in the distance.

  I open my eyes, completely refreshed. Who needs regular, time-consuming sleep anyway?

  Fuck, I dropped my coffee on the fucking floor, though.

  I close my eyes for a few more seconds, hearing indistinct conversation somewhere in the hallway.

  I open my eyes again.

  The tan ocean of coffee, cream, and sugar is slowly expanding and seeping into the carpet by my feet. Time to get to work on that shit so I can get to work for real.

  I jog out into the hallway. It’s especially loud and crowded all of a sudden.