"Excuse me?" Surprise had me straightening up, gaping at my mother.
"I can't stand here and watch you rip apart the first thing that's made you happy in years."
I stared at her. Was my mother really going to insert herself into my disastrous love life?
"I don't know what's going on between you and Max Winchell, but I do know that since you met him—before this week when you've reverted to a homeless version of Madonna with your weird off-center ponytail and ripped sweatshirt—you've been happier than I've ever seen you. Ever. Even when you were dating Austin. Something clicked, Tate. Don't you see that? It's like maybe he was the piece missing out of whatever puzzle you've been working on forever. And now you're going to take that piece and just shove it back into the couch cushions so you can continue being miserable?"
Weird analogy, I thought, but I did understand what she was saying. "Mom, I don't have a choice. If I'm linked to Max romantically—well, technically that already happened, but if I'm not careful to make sure not to give them any evidence to prove there's something going on—then I could lose everything I've worked for all these years. All those years of hard work and sacrifice will have been for nothing."
"Instead, you're going to make sure they lead to more years of hard work and sacrifice." She sank into the cushion next to me, her stern-mom lecture evidently over. "Tate, what are you sacrificing? Have you ever wondered? Is it your own chance at happiness?"
I leaned forward and dropped my head into my hands, exhausted. I wanted to tell her she was wrong, but a tiny part of me thought maybe she had a point. Still, I couldn’t give up everything I’d worked so hard to achieve. "I can't do this with you, Mom. I'm a grown woman and I make my own choices. Just because you've decided to become some kind of retirement-age party girl the men around her can call for a good time doesn't mean I'm going to do the same. Some of us have important work to do."
Mom sucked in a breath and moved away from me, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see the hurt on her face. "Fine," she said softly, and she stood and went outside with Charlie, leaving me to stew in my misery alone.
I didn't want to think about her words, or the fact I'd just hurt her feelings. I was drowning in my own feelings right now, and didn't have the capacity to think about anyone else's. I went into the bedroom and threw myself on the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling over me.
Being around Max was torture. Every part of me—my heart, my mind, my traitorous body—pushed me to run across the hall at the office and throw myself into his arms. But I was not going to give into that impulse. How could I? How could I imagine destroying everything I'd built over the past decade for a relationship with a man who lived six hundred miles away from me, who was not looking for a relationship himself, and who was a client? Hadn't Max assured me he would never date someone who wasn't his mathematical match? Hadn't he told me he didn't date in general?
And none of that was the point.
The real point was that when my stint as temporary CEO was through, I had to go back to Palo Alto, back to the office, and I had to be able to look those men in the eye and hold my head up. I was not going to be another weak woman who put her heart and her need for companionship over her success in the business world. I was good at my job, and I wasn't going to let them forget it.
Going downtown each morning now was like torture.
Max was always there—I got the feeling he was getting up extra early and keeping long hours just to make it even harder for me to pretend I was just the CEO, doing a job and nothing more. After that first morning where he'd tried to get me to talk, wanted to address whatever this thing had been between us, he'd swung to the complete opposite end of the spectrum. He was the consummate professional now, maintaining a reserved distance and only speaking to me when absolutely necessary.
It was killing me.
He'd also taken on a terse tone with the developers and with Megan, who I think he suspected of leaking details about Mr. Match to the press.
As someone well-versed in corporate research, I had my doubts about any of the twenty-somethings working here actually being a leak. They all appeared completely dedicated to Max, wowed by a combination of his star-power as a Sharks player and his general charisma around the office. I sensed that they were loyal, and I knew it wasn't that hard to dig up a paper trail when it came to company ownership.
Friday morning I was in at eight, and Max was already there. Alone.
"Good morning," I managed, walking by his open door without looking in. I didn't need to see the way his hair waved perfectly over his face, the way his forearms flexed under the rolled oxford sleeves. I already knew those things had the power to bring me to my knees and I was barely hanging by a thread as it was.
Mom wasn't speaking to me now at home, communicating with me through veiled remarks made to Charlie, who was clearly caught in the middle. This morning, she'd wandered through the kitchen as I'd had my first cup of coffee, and she was annoyingly bright and cheerful. "Good morning, Charlie," she'd cooed. "What a pretty day for a walk. I guess I'll have to take you down to the beach, since Tatum doesn't run any more. She just works now, huh, boy? Very important job." She'd poured herself a cup of coffee and gone out to the backyard, letting that little spear stick into my side without acknowledging me directly.
If this was what doing the right thing felt like, I was beginning to wonder if it was worth it. After a week of the right thing, my soul ached. The two people I had felt closest to since coming to San Diego—my mom and Max—were both giving me the silent treatment.
But my job was secure.
Max appeared in my doorway, startling me out of my self-pity. "Need to go over a couple of these expansion ideas," he said, dropping a folder on my desk. "You have time today?"
"Uh, yeah," I said, turning away from the email I hadn't actually been reading. "Now's good, I guess."
We hadn't made eye contact yet. Max moved into my small office, taking the chair next to my desk and dropping one royal-blue clad elbow to its edge, letting out a pained sigh.
I risked a look at his face. He looked tired, and sad. And so handsome my insides twisted at the memory of running my fingers along that perfect jawline, wrapping myself around him. The pain I glimpsed in his eyes gave me a jolt too—had I put that there? Was this about us? I wanted to ask him. Wanted to move closer to him, see if I could help.
But I was the problem. We were the problem.
"I don't think the same tactics are going to be effective in the Midwest that we're using in the more urbanized coastal areas. This phrasing here," he pointed to one of the initial concepts for copy I'd gotten from the in-house marketing folks in Palo Alto. "This seems really specific to the Bay Area."
I took the paper he was pointing to and read it more carefully. He was right. This was the problem with being distracted by whatever it was that was happening inside me. I couldn't focus. And even though I'd managed to keep my job, I wasn’t doing it very well. "I'll have the marketing people think again," I told him. "And I think doing an agency search would be a good idea. But if you want to remain anonymous, you probably can't be part of the process."
He nodded, and I let my eyes rest on his face. He was staring at the surface of my desk.
For a moment we sat still, silence ringing around us. Something was hanging in the air, some glimmer of opportunity, and I knew I couldn't address it, knew if I let myself acknowledge it, that would be the end. I couldn't be this close to Max and sit here, impassive. I needed him to move, to leave, to do something. I cleared my throat, and it seemed to break him out of the trance he'd been in. But he didn't stand up and walk away.
Instead, he looked up at me, his hazel eyes meeting mine. And something snapped.
"Tate," he whispered, his voice like a ragged piece of twine, a tenuous connection dangerously close to severing.
Before I could think, he shifted, his hands reaching for me, and my body responded. I was in his lap without thinking about it, my
hands cupping the back of his neck, my lips pressed to his. He pulled me closer, my legs to one side as his hands gripped my hips, my back. Our tongues met and I saw stars, felt something release inside me, and I gave in to it, let myself melt into Max.
But it had to be the last time.
Like a drowning woman taking her last gulps of air before finally giving in to the deluge that would end her, I kissed him. And then I pushed myself away and stood, moving to the corner of my office to put as much distance between us as I could. "I can't," I told him. "I can't do this. I can't be here. I can't ..." I trailed off, something desperate and pained rising inside me. A tear actually slipped down my cheek.
Oh God, I was crying at work.
"Tate, I—"
"Please don't, Max," I told him. "Look, I've still got the list of potential interim CEOs. There's a good one locally who we should have chosen in the first place. I'll set it up. I have to go back to Palo Alto. I can't stay here and do ... this. I can't risk my job, and I clearly can't be here." I shook my head, turned away from his narrowing eyes.
"Tate. There's something here. I can't explain it either, but I don't think denying it will make it go away. If you leave now—"
"You told me there was little chance of an impulsive match working out in the long run," I reminded him. "And that's what this is—impulse, right? There's no logic here. We weren't matched by your algorithm, we just have some kind of chemistry, some kind of physical connection."
"I think we both feel more than that." His voice was solemn, his mouth a hard line when I turned back around to look at him. Why was he saying his now? I needed him to stick to his guns, to tell me that only logic and math could assure success in love.
“No. It doesn't matter. It would never work. I'd lose my job, or at least my reputation, and I'm only here temporarily anyway. Even if it could work, the distance between us—"
"Could be worked out," Max said. "I get that you're scared."
I stared at him, wishing I’d never come to San Diego at the exact same time I felt like I’d never actually breathed before I’d taken a breath next to Max. "I'm not scared. I'm just the only one in this room who's willing to look at this from a logical perspective. It doesn't make sense, Max. It's a bad idea. We are not a match." Why did I have to tell him this?
"Maybe we are," he said. "I haven't run the algorithm."
I shook my head. "It wouldn't matter. I can't stay. This way I'm just leaving a little earlier than planned, making it easier on both of us." I gathered up my things and shoved them into my bag. "I have to go."
"I think you're making a mistake," Max said, his voice flat. "I think we are."
There was nothing left to say. My soul shredded into pieces I’d never repair and I was fighting tears with everything I had. I picked up my purse and pushed past him, out the door.
"Goodbye Max. I'm sorry for ... " he followed me up the hall. No one else was in yet. I paused at the front door, looking at him one last time, standing there looking impeccable and so painfully sad, with his strong arms crossed against his chest as if to protect himself. "I'm just sorry."
I walked out into the relentless cheer of San Diego's sun and felt something inside me crack.
Chapter 142
Traversing a Goat Path on a Pogo Stick
Max
There is one thing I am not used to being, and that is an optimist. I'm rarely anyone's bright shiny beacon of positivity, and having Tatum walk away from me is just one more reason why.
I begged her to stay, and she still left.
And I only begged her because I'd let my stupid heart lead the way. I'd let myself feel things, and made decisions based on those feelings. That was basically like blindfolding yourself and then deciding to take a little walk on one of those terrifying swinging bridges you see pictures of in Brazil. Or that little goat path along the side of some mountain in Mongolia. Blindfolded. And on a pogo stick. With a rabid vampire kangaroo on your six.
That's how ludicrous it was to decide to govern your life based on feelings.
I knew this. I'd learned it the hard way and still I'd let myself do it.
And God, it hurt. I’d sat in the office practically whining into the phone to Cat for the better part of an hour. I'd honestly rather be stabbed than feel this way.
"Don't say stuff like that, Max. Surely you can salvage it? You're Max Winchell! Soccer star and certified genius. Figure it out." Cat was the optimist in our family.
"There's nothing to figure. She left. She's gone. Going back to Palo Alto." I sighed dramatically and kicked myself for doing it. "Whatever this was, this lunacy ... it's over."
"Max," Cat said, her voice softer. "I think you need to go after her."
"Why? So she can punch me and add some physical pain to the misery I already feel?" The thought had crossed my mind, but chasing someone who keeps pushing you away can only end in more pain.
"No, because I think you might be in love with her."
I leaned back in my desk chair, staring out the dark window at the street beyond. No one could see in, but I could watch people moving on the sidewalk outside. People out there looked annoyingly happy. Like their souls weren't shredded and ripped out. I hated them all. "I'm not in love. I'm just a slow learner. This is Samantha all over again."
"It's not. I saw you then, and I saw you with Tate. Tate made you happy. Samantha made you neurotic and miserable."
"I'm miserable now."
"Noted. Listen, did you ever get her to fill in the profile?"
"Kind of. She used a different name."
"Why?" Cat asked, sounding confused.
"She was just going through it to see what the questions were like, so she could understand the consumer facing side of the business."
"But she answered the questions?"
"All but the last page."
"Run it. Run it against yours and see if you're meant to be a match." Cat sounded weirdly excited. "I can't believe you haven't done it already."
I'd thought about it. Many times. But while things were good, I'd been afraid to find out we weren't a match. And now? What difference would it make? "Why bother?"
"So you'll know."
"Fine." I started loading the profiles. Maybe she was right. I’d know definitively, and then I’d be able to move forward. "I'm going to go, okay?"
"No! I want to know!"
"Speaker phone," I said, putting the phone on the desk so I could use both my hands. I loaded the profiles, ran the software and waited. A few minutes later I knew the answer. "Done," I said.
"And?"
I took a deep breath and pushed away the searing disappointment I felt. I didn’t want to be on the phone with my sister. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I actually wondered how I would even be able to stand and get myself out of the office. I felt like a vacuum of humanity, an absence, a black hole. "We're not a match, Cat. Not even a little bit. About eleven percent. It would never have worked anyway."
"Oh," she said, sounding disappointed. "Okay. Well, call me later, okay?"
"Yup." I hung up, and if it was possible, I felt even more unhappy than I had when Tate had walked away from me. Despite all the years I'd spent proving this algorithm worked, demonstrating its validity time and again, I found myself doubting it now.
How could it be possible that Tate was not my match? I could feel the rightness of our connection in my heart.
I'd denied it right up until now, but if I was truly honest with myself, I believed we were a match.
Even if it defied logic. Even if it wasn't mathematical.
I knew Tate was the woman for me.
But it was too late.
The season officially began that next week, and I started practices less motivated and excited than I'd ever been. This was the game I loved, the thing I excelled at. And the joy was gone.
The same had proven true about just about everything since Tate had left. I didn't enjoy sitting on my back patio with a book. I didn't enjoy shooting t
he shit with Fuerte and Trace. I didn't enjoy our last pre-season night out at McDaughtry's. I didn't even enjoy a long shower with my own cock.
Tate's absence from my life had colored everything in shades of grey and olive green. Dark, dank and depressing.
"You cannot go on like this," Cat told me, walking through the house tossing takeout containers and protein shake bottles into the trash. Cat had come out to the last practice this week before the first game in Sacramento this weekend. "You're turning into a slob. And a hermit. A hermitty slob."
"I don't care."
"You do care, that's the entire problem. You care and you won't do anything about it."
The number of times I'd picked up my phone to text Tate in the past week was ridiculous. But I'd never gone through with it. I wanted to do something about it, but Tate had been clear. And as much as I wanted to try again, I wanted her to be happy. And if being apart was better for her, I couldn't ask for anything else. I hoped she really was happy.
I didn't think I ever would be again.
"You played like shit today," Cat said, finally sinking beside me on the couch.
"Thanks. Great pep talk. Very motivational." I leaned back farther into the cushions, wishing Cat would go away, but also dreading being alone again.
"You have to do something, Max. You have to go after what you want!"
And here we went again. "No. The only thing I have to do is get my head on right for the game Sunday. And I'm going to go up and get to bed early and try to do that."
"It's seven thirty."
"I'm tired."
"You're depressed. Possibly heartbroken."
"Good night, Cat. You can see yourself out." I knew I was a lousy brother, and a generally lousy human being in this state. But at the moment it felt like all I could do to keep myself conscious and going through the motions. Any more than that was more than I could handle.
Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 77
