by Anna Yen
“And meditate,” Jonathan added. “It opens a new dimension to our lives and is a means to tap into a deep source of positive energy and joy. Just try two minutes at a time, Sophia.”
“Yes, meditate. I’ve told you that before,” Scott said.
Well, bring in the circus of experts.
I recalled the meditation workshop they’d forced me to attend shortly after the holidays—it was held at the meditation center that Scott and Jonathan personally funded, then opened to the public. The center was in a beautiful building in a beautiful setting . . . and yet I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Bunch of yogis. Sitting still and focusing on my breath . . . when there was so much I could be getting done. But it had been three weeks since the breakup, and I’d been thinking a lot about how other people got through things like this. There were the sweatpants-and-ice-cream people, the gym-till-midnight people, the bury-yourself-in-work people, the vibrating yogis. Who was to say that the yogis were any more or less effective than the rest of us?
I didn’t have a method. Self-help just wasn’t my style. Journaling was as far as I could push that approach. For me, it just took time. Slowly, I allowed myself to mourn the loss of Daniel and the possibility that he brought to me. He had been my evidence that I was doing what I was supposed to be doing: creating the life that Audrey had. But I reminded myself I wasn’t Audrey, and I certainly wasn’t the same person whom Daniel fell in love with. The person I was “supposed” to be—sweet, happy-go-lucky, giggling at my boyfriend’s jokes. Everything that the stereotypical rules of “How to Catch a Man” evangelized. I had become more than that. Something inside me had shifted and I had found the part of myself that felt most natural to me. I still wasn’t sure what I really wanted, but I knew that I deserved more. Someone who would love all of me.
Chapter 11
More than a year later, I stood in front of Legoland’s snack pavilion on a scorching San Diego day, trying to remember why I used to love places like this so much. There was something about the “Lands”—Legoland, Sambaland, all those types of Lands—that filled kids with pure joy, but as an adult without children, their attraction escaped me. I realized these theme parks were all the same: kids running amok as though they were on Red Bull IV drips, the frenetic pings and pongs of overpriced boardwalk-style games, loud rides, long lines, and jumbo sticky snacks that were a diabetic’s worst nightmare. I would have gladly been somewhere else, but a few months earlier, as casually as I might say, “I’d like to try this in a size four,” Scott beckoned me into his office and told me to “do some research on amusement parks.” Amusement parks.
“Ha! Oh, right. I’ll get on that straightaway,” I said sarcastically. I held my pen to my yellow notepad then, and waited for Scott to tell me what he really wanted. But he was silent and seemed puzzled by my tone.
My chin tilted down toward my shoulder and I frowned. “You can’t be serious. I wouldn’t even know how to get started on something like that.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Scott said confidently before turning to his computer to check his email.
“Do you have any idea what happens when you ask me to do something?” I huffed, feeling the weight of the work I already had piling up. Scott didn’t answer, so I continued, “Let me show you.”
I stood and took two steps to his whiteboard, then pushed up the long sleeves of my gray silk dress. Using a dry-erase pen, I listed all the projects that were on my plate, none of which included what I was actually hired to do—manage Treehouse’s relationship with existing and potential investors and analysts. Next I scrawled various internal and external resources—marketing, PR, graphic design, engineering, finance, Samba—in the shape of a hexagon and shouted while drawing circles around each of them, “When you casually tell me to do something, all these wheels get set into motion.” I stopped and took a breath, noticing that Scott still didn’t understand what the big deal was, so I turned back to the whiteboard and drew lines connecting the projects to the various departments, but more dramatically and furiously this time. When I was finished, my masterpiece looked like the diagram of a molecule. “You are distracting me from my day job and forcing me to send teams of people off on tangents! Yet I can’t tell them exactly what’s going on because God forbid it gets out to Wall Street. So my coworkers think I’m an insane pain in the ass! You have to understand that there’s a snowball effect every time you open your mouth!”
Scott tried to say something, but I interrupted.
“You didn’t hire me for any of this. I’m not qualified to study the overindulged children at Legoland.”
Scott was trying not to laugh, which made me even angrier.
“Oh, yes. This is really funny. Send me on wild goose chases just for yucks. Clearly you overestimate me.”
Scott looked at me impatiently, which meant I’d pushed far enough and he wasn’t going to change his mind. “Don’t give me that shit, Sophia. You’re underestimating yourself. Instead of being so focused on the to-do lists, take a moment to ask yourself what I’m teaching you.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but found myself with no words. Defeated, I stormed out of his office, wishing I weren’t wearing the dark stiletto pumps that slowed me down. I could hear Scott laughing behind me, shouting, “Hey, take it easy.” Then, louder, “And don’t be mad, but I forgot to tell you that we’re building a brand-new campus. I’ll need a press release, but give as little detail as possible.” I stopped in my tracks, turned around, and walked back.
“What did you forget to tell me?” I asked, using my hands to make air quotation marks as I said the word forget. It was actually Jonathan’s job to tell me these things so I should have directed my anger at him.
“We’re building a new campus,” he said. The smile on his face told me this was something he was really excited about. It also explained why he’d never bothered to make his office nicer; he knew this would happen someday. It was another milestone in his grand plan—whatever that was.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Does Jonathan know?” I sneered.
“Yes, of course. We’ve been working on it for a while.”
A while? Thanks for keeping me in the loop.
“You know what will happen when Wall Street hears about this new, enormous expense, right?”
He shrugged, sending me storming out of his office once again.
In late May I found myself wandering around the Lands estimating park attendance, number of employees, property costs, average number of times people rode each ride, average concession and merchandise spend per park attendee, etc. All while remotely juggling the day-to-day demands of my IR role. Maybe it was just in my head, but I was actually getting a stomachache observing the massive amounts of money being spent on unhealthy food and cheap plastic toys that I knew would end up in a landfill. My prolonged loitering around the Big Shop in Legoland very likely convinced the hoodied guy manning the cash register that I was either stalking him or planning the world’s largest heist of toy sets. I knew I should have been honored and flattered that Scott trusted me with these projects. But it was hard to feel that way while standing in the middle of the chaos, sweating like a pig in my black capris and cashmere-silk-blend T-shirt.
The mind-numbing work was getting old, so I let my thoughts wander to Kate and to our outing just before I’d left for the theme parks. It was the first we’d had in weeks; I was becoming a terrible friend, and I knew it.
“Why the rush to get your lip and brows waxed?” she’d asked as I pulled her toward the pink-and-white Benefit Cosmetics store on Chestnut Street. Her pursed lips told me she wasn’t particularly excited about spending her Saturday afternoon running my errands.
“I need to get this done before family dinner tomorrow, and then I’m leaving for San Diego,” I responded. Then, pointing at my furry lip, I added, “Last time Audrey saw me, she asked whether I thought I was a cat.”
Kate laughed. “Love your sis
ter! Hey, how’s Ava?”
Ava was nearly four years old now, and although I often spoke to her on the phone, we had spent very little quality time together over the past few months. I kept telling myself I’d see my family and friends more often, but the truth was that Treehouse satisfied something deep within me, so I began to neglect everyone and everything else that I loved. I felt guilty that work had become my priority, guilty that it had kept me from conversations like this one.
“I suck. I’m a terrible aunt, and a terrible friend.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just busy,” Kate said, but there was something in her tone that told me she was trying to convince herself of this just as much as she was me.
While we waited for the cosmetologist to help me, I pushed work out of my mind and did my best to make up for all the time Kate and I had lost. She updated me about her law school applications and her family back east.
“What about work? How’s it going there?”
“It’s slowed down a lot,” she answered.
“Or you’re just getting better at it.”
“What about you? What’s going on at Treehouse?” Kate asked.
“Where do I even start? Jonathan and Scott just blurt things out at me and expect me to be able to figure them out. Things that are totally unrelated to investor relations!”
“Like what?” Kate seemed fascinated by my job, which made it all that much more fun for me to talk about.
“Like Friday, for example. Scott picked out these extremely expensive modern chairs for our new theater, and Jonathan said they were too pricey, so he asked me to find other options to show Scott. Who do I look like? Ty fucking Pennington?”
“He’s a contractor.” Kate laughed heartily, correcting my reference to the home-improvement star and dissolving my rabid expression immediately. I do love to entertain. “How’s the new building coming? When will it be finished?”
“I don’t know, but the planning, permits, and designs had been secretly in the works long before our IPO, so evidently it’s moving along in record time. That is, unless Scott discovers something that isn’t quite right and makes the team tear it all down and start over again.” I laughed.
“Who won on the chairs? Scott or Jonathan?”
“Scott, of course. I went and sat in one yesterday and told him they were uncomfortable, but he didn’t seem to care. With him, it’s all about the design. Since he didn’t like any of the ones I picked, we bought the expensive ones.”
I’d hated this construction project because as soon as we announced it, Wall Street complained about the budget and worried that Treehouse management would be distracted. I did my best to address their concerns and to hold the hands of a lot of investors. But to no avail, because our stock took a hit anyway, which was made worse when a rumor began circulating that Scott had hired the famous (read: outrageously expensive) I. M. Pei as an architect. To pick up all the pieces, I went on my own version of a roadshow, meeting with institutional investors to quell their concerns. “No, no. That’s ridiculous! It’s not going to cost a hundred million dollars!” Just ninety-nine million! “Yes, the building is on schedule.” Give or take a few quarters. “Yes, our next film is progressing as expected. See? I have a clip here for you.” Forget that we have no idea what the ending will be.
Didn’t I say there was a snowball effect?
But as the building came together, I marveled at Scott’s vision and understood why it was so important to him. At least, I thought I did. The building itself was huge—about five or six times what our 150-person company needed. I couldn’t see why or how we’d ever get that big, but he did, and I had to respect him, and his confidence, for that. From what I could tell, the building was going to be the very essence of Scott: simple, creative, and elegant. It was his contribution to Treehouse, and I couldn’t wait for it to be finished.
With my brows neatly shaped and the skin above my lip bare and smooth as silk (and stinging), I could finally focus on what Kate and I originally intended to do—shop. We ducked into our neighborhood favorites: first Dress, and then Intermix, before hopping into a cab to treat ourselves to sushi in Cole Valley.
A twinge of guilt hit me as I brought a tako roll to my watering mouth. Scott wouldn’t approve of this nonvegan meal. But one bite was all it took to make me forget about Scott, Jonathan, Treehouse, and Wall Street. We were laughing over my latest dating nightmare.
“Do you remember the guy who approached us the last time we were at Balboa Cafe having burgers?” I asked.
“Yes. The cute one?”
“Exactly! So, evidently, I had my Treehouse badge on that night, so he found me by guessing my email,” I said.
“Well, it’s not rocket science. [email protected]. Not too creepy. Go on.”
“So he asked me out to dinner the following night. He took me to that really good place in the Castro that’s impossible to get a reservation for.”
“Wait, what does he do?” Kate asked.
“He’s a venture capitalist. And you know I love my venture capitalists!”
“Yes. You do. Okay, so what happened?”
“Well, during dinner he reached across the table and took my hand.” I reached across Kate’s sushi-filled plate and grabbed her hand. “He had this really serious look in his eyes and said, ‘I really like you and would love to see you again, but I want to be clear about something that’s really important.’ Then he says, ‘You’d need to wear a kimono when we have sex. It’s the only way I can have an orgasm. Is that going to be a problem for you?’”
Kate’s eyes widened. “You’re joking! Please say you’re joking. No way! What did you do?”
“I stood up and shouted, ‘I’m Chinese, dammit!’”
“That’s it? That was the best you could do?”
“Hey, I was under pressure.” I laughed. Then I added, “All us Asians look the same.” My best friend laughed heartily as I continued. “Trust me, you’re so lucky to have Mark!”
Suddenly, Kate stopped laughing and her expression changed from happy to glowing. “Well . . . that’s a great segue. Mark and I are engaged!”
I felt like such a narcissist. Me, me, me. “What! When? Gosh, have I been so busy that I didn’t know?”
“No. No. Just last night! We went to Blue Line Pizza for a quick dinner and he asked me! It wasn’t romantic or anything,” she said. “But actually, it was. It was perfect!”
“Okay, so tell me everything. What did he say?”
“Well, we ordered—you know how I like the thin crust but he always insists on their deep dish,” she said. “So we ordered both, then after the server left, Mark said, ‘It’s funny. I used to think I wanted to be with someone who was just like me. Someone who wanted to do the same things, talk about the same things, and even eat the same things. But even though you’re thin crust and I’m thick, even though you hate big events and I love them, I love you. And I want to spend my whole life with you.’ Can you believe it? It’s so dorky but so Mark. Anyway, at first I thought he was breaking up with me—the whole ‘just like me’ bit—but when I realized that wasn’t what was happening, I just started bawling.”
I said all the right things with glee: so happy for you, so exciting. Inside, though, a different tape was playing: Oh, shit. I’m going to lose her forever.
“And of course you’ll be my maid of honor,” she said.
“Yes! I’d love to! This is going to be great! I’ll do a shower, and the bachelorette for sure!”
Kate looked happier than I’d ever seen her. “We want to have a small destination wedding, but we aren’t sure where yet,” she said.
“Where’s your ring?” I asked, looking at her bare left ring finger.
“Oh, he doesn’t have it yet. He wants us to go shopping together,” she said.
“Are you going to show him that one in the store on Union Street? The one you stare at every time we walk by?” It was a simple platinum band with three modest-sized diamonds, and it fit K
ate’s understated style perfectly.
Kate smiled. “No. I wish. But it’s too expensive, and I don’t want to make him feel bad if he can’t afford it.” I knew Mark could afford it, and Kate must have known, too. She was being considerate of Mark, though. That’s true love.
I was happy for her, but it forced me to take stock of where my own life was going. Once again, all my friends were moving on—new husbands instead of new jobs this time—and here I was, still single and still dedicating my life to evangelizing the virtues of animated characters.
But as the roller coaster operator’s voice snapped me out of my reverie, I remembered that I was doing a lot more than that. I was helping Scott Kraft build his legacy. While I’d been daydreaming, it had gotten dark at the Legoland snack pavilion, and the toddler crowd was slowly changing to rowdy teenagers who were out on dates or roaming free from their parents.
It was time for me to go.
I weaved my way through the children, the parents chasing the children, and the adult children, the ones who surely spent the most here by buying special edition Lego sets in the Big Shop. I exited through the turnstile, hoping not to return. Until Ava was old enough, that is.
After five days at Legoland and Sambaland, I finally met Scott and Jonathan at the place they believed most closely resembled their Treehouse-theme-park vision: Universal Studios. Scott made his way through the property like a private investigator, stopping often to absorb whatever caught his eye. Sometimes he stared almost too long at a woman with a camera around her neck interacting with her telephone; other times I could tell he was comparing the lines for two rides, trying to gauge which one attendees preferred. I’d provided him with pages of analyst reports and industry reports, both of which highlighted the most popular attractions, but he wanted to see it all himself. At every moment, Scott seemed to be asking himself, What is working, and what would make that better?
