by Anna Yen
“The event is next weekend.”
“Yes, it is.” It hurt me to break the news to Scott that once again he couldn’t seem to get one of the few things that he wanted—an invitation to the Sundance Conference, which brought media and entertainment, political, and philanthropic leaders (and their private jets) descending on Park City, Utah, at the end of August. These powerhouses would spend the coming weekend talking about God knows what, and it drove Scott crazy that every single year he was excluded.
In the blink of an eye, Scott’s voice went from soft to eardrum-bursting loud. “THAT’S IT! THIS IS AN ACT OF WAR!”
Scott went on shouting combinations of expletives that were, candidly, very creatively strung together. He screamed so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear; I closed my eyes and waited until he was finished, knowing he probably felt like the kid who didn’t get picked for a team. I had done everything I could to get Scott into that damn conference—even tried my (usually) fail-proof plan B, the ol’ “send a bottle of wine with a note that says, Are you ever going to call me back?” trick. I tried dangling Treehouse’s banking business in front of the Sundance bankers—people who would probably sell their souls for any sort of banking fee. The only thing that might have worked was if Scott called the conference owner himself. But his ego was too big for that, so there we were without an invitation. I wanted to tell Scott to screw them all. He didn’t need to be part of their hoity-toity conference. None of that would have made Scott feel better, though, so I deflected his attention to another topic.
“I think those herbs are really doing a great job. I’ve got more energy than I had even before the surgery,” I said.
Silence.
“Just forget the conference,” Scott said, and I could tell he was doing his best to calm down. “Listen, I want you to know I’m inspired by you and how you’ve handled the cancer thing. You just plowed through it and didn’t miss a beat.”
“What choice did I have? It was either get better or be forced to suffer through more of that herbal stuff you sent. Anyway, it’s all mind over matter, as you say.”
“Well, I think you’re just built that way. Welcome back, Sophia.”
I hung up the phone and felt a pit in my stomach. It was as though something, or someone, were tugging at me. I questioned my decision to meet Andre and then remembered something my parents always said: “You’ve got to be riding a horse to find a horse.” I told myself I was just keeping my options open, but then fear and indecision nagged at me again. I wondered if I had become one of those Silicon Valley dreamers—the ones hanging out at Starbucks whom I used to make fun of. The ones who spouted off terms and phrases coined by some slick venture capitalist, the ones who couldn’t have normal conversations because every thought in their heads, every word out of their mouths, had something to do with the modern-day gold rush.
Have I become so shallow that the real reason for leaving the people and place I love is that I want to make more money? Or is it something else? What is it that I’m chasing?
Chapter 19
The two-bedroom flat on Greenwich Street was within walking distance of San Francisco’s trendiest restaurants, shops, and exciting nightlife. Although it had only one bathroom (pink-and-green tiled), and the furniture belonging to the current tenant was not well suited to my taste (bright and floral), the place was perfect for me: sunny, charming, with Victorian-style details and just enough living and dining space for the parties I imagined hosting. Since the day Scott and I had our buying versus renting discussion more than seven months ago, I’d been scouring Craigslist’s Apartments for Rent section. This one was the twenty-second apartment I’d looked at, but the first that felt like home. A nervous feeling took over my stomach as I imagined moving fifty miles from Peter, but I began to pace and wring my hands as I realized that telling my parents would be an even greater challenge. Yikes. Still, I took a deep breath and jumped in with both feet.
“I have a completed rental application here,” I said, handing the three-page document to the husky landlord, who had been tailing me while I self-toured the apartment. Kate had warned me about the city’s competitive rental market and suggested I arrive prepared: professionally dressed, bearing a completed application and a blank check.
Mr. Landlord looked impressed and said in a thick Russian accent, “You know there are many people interested in this place.”
“I’m sure there are. It is a beautiful flat and I would take very good care of it.”
“Do you have family? Children?”
“No, no. It’s just me. I plan to live alone,” I answered, hoping Mr. Landlord would view my solo occupancy as less wear and tear on his property.
The man nodded, then glanced through the application. “I rent to you. I like the Chinese. They’re very quiet.”
You’ve never met my mother.
The landlord continued, “Very responsible people. You’ll pay your rent on time, I know.”
I did nothing to temper the wide, teeth-showing smile that had taken over my face as I pulled my checkbook out of my purse and asked, “How much is the deposit and when can I move in?”
It felt odd waking up to a duvet cover scattered with red rose petals. My first reaction was This is not my bed! But then I slowly, suspiciously turned my head to look at Peter, who, by some miracle, had Labor Day weekend off. He was fast asleep next to me, so I didn’t move any farther—I just happily watched him breathe in and out, in and out. When he stirred, I said, “Good morning, sunshine.”
“Good morning,” he said groggily but with a contented smile.
“When did you have time to do all this?”
“Do you like it? You fell asleep really early and I was bored so I went and clipped a bunch of roses from your mom’s garden.”
I snuggled deeper into the sheets as the flowers’ fragrance filled my senses. Then, rather suddenly, I exclaimed, “Oh shit, I hope you didn’t damage those rose bushes. She loves those.”
Peter looked alarmed and threw back the covers to hop out of bed—he was terrified of my mother, mostly because she spoke to him through me because she wasn’t confident in her English. “Shit! I just wanted to celebrate your new apartment.”
“I’m just joking. She won’t be back for a few months. They’ll grow back,” I said reassuringly, pulling him back into bed.
My boyfriend sighed in relief and plopped his head back down on the soft feather pillow. “Just think. By the end of this month, you’ll be in your own place. I’m so happy for you.” He sounded genuine, which meant a lot because my move to San Francisco would make seeing each other very inconvenient. But to me it was just logistics. Being an hour away from each other didn’t have to be forever. Peter still had to do his fellowship before we had to decide on anything permanent, so I wasn’t concerned.
“I assume you realize that if you get the job at Ion, you’ll be creating a long commute for yourself? You’d have, like, a ten-minute commute if you stayed at your parents’.”
I kissed Peter tenderly and said, “Let’s not think about any of that right now,” moving my hand down his thigh. But he stopped me.
“I don’t think we should be messing around yet,” he said, looking very, very grim.
“Why not? What’s wrong?”
“It’s just that your scar is still very raw, and—”
“It’s okay, Dr. Peter. I’m fine,” I whispered as I brought my lips close to his again. But Peter put both hands on my shoulders and pushed me gently away.
“I’m serious, Sophia. Let’s just wait a little longer.”
“Like how long?” I asked, feeling somewhat humiliated and rejected. “You’re sort of ruining the romantic rose moment here.”
“It’s just not fair. You got so sick, so fast, and then you just bounce back like nothing ever happened. I’m still reeling over here. I need time to recover.”
I threw my arms around my boyfriend, but pulled my head back so I could get a full view of his face. He wa
s definitely serious.
“Peter, I’m fine. Really. I am. What’s bringing this on? The cancer? I thought we agreed we’d leave my medical care to my doctors. Fat, dumb, and happy, remember?”
“No, that’s not it,” he answered.
“Well, then what’s wrong?”
“I just told you.”
I wanted to downplay my health risks, not only for him, but for me as well. Don’t worry about something unless there’s actually something to worry about. Wasn’t that what Scott always said?
“Look, I’m fine. And I have to leave soon to meet Andre. So do you want to sit here and be worried, or should we enjoy our morning and roll around in these rose petals? I assume you picked them because you were being romantic, but you certainly don’t seem very romantic right now.”
Peter softened. “I picked them because I love you and I wanted to talk about our future. What is it that you want from us, Sophia?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what is it that you want? We’ve been together over a year now, and we really should talk about our next steps.”
I laid my head on Peter’s shoulder, incredibly surprised by my lack of enthusiasm to have this discussion. I was deeply, madly in love with Peter, but the timing for this conversation didn’t feel right. There was part of me that wondered whether he was bringing this up now because he felt sorry for me. It was that nagging feeling inside of me again. Damaged goods.
“I don’t know what to say. You celebrate every one of our month anniversaries, and it’s very sweet of you, but I’ve been trying really hard to not put pressure on this relationship. Isn’t that what men want?”
“You’re stereotyping, Sophia.”
“Well, I think also because I got burned so bad last time.”
“I understand that, but I think that’s unfair. I am not Daniel and you know it. What we have is different—special—and I need to know what you want for us long term.”
“Well, I just assumed we’d wait until you finished your fellowship to talk about it. Lots of people date for years before they get married! And what does this have to do with us having sex anyway?” I asked, trying to lighten things up and make Peter laugh.
Peter sat up and leaned over me; his big blue eyes looked uncharacteristically frustrated. “I need to know if you’re looking for the same long-term relationship that I am.”
Aha! How’s that for putting out the right kind of energy, Scott?
“I am. Peter, I am. I want to get married. I’ve always wanted to, ever since I was a kid.”
“To me?” Peter asked.
A year ago I would have jumped on Peter and screamed, “Yes!” It’s what my parents raised me to do. And while I knew my own insecurity was partly what was weighing on me, something else brewed inside my head—I was afraid of what yes would mean. An end to my career? I’m not ready for that.
“Can you see us spending the rest of our lives together?” Peter asked, staring at me for an answer. But no answer came out of my mouth. Instead, questions flew through my head: Would my job cause constant disappointments for Peter? Would he “turn,” just like Daniel had? If I got the job at Ion, would it be possible for me to maintain my relationship and have my career? Could women really have it all? What if I got sick again? Would that be fair to Peter?
“I just can’t answer that right now. I think we have to have a longer discussion about it. I mean, what time frame are you talking about here?”
“Forget it, Sophia.”
“No! No. I just think we should talk about it when we have more time. I should get ready soon to meet Andre for an interview, for God’s sake.”
“You’ll be back tonight, right? We can talk then?”
“We’re going to family dinner night—we’re barbecuing with Audrey, Ava, and Hank,” I reminded him. “But we can talk about it after, okay?”
Wearing an angry and hurt look, Peter climbed out of bed, which sent more rose petals falling to the floor. “I’m going to go make us coffee.”
A black sedan was parked in our driveway when I walked out the front door. I was five minutes late because it took me way too long to decide on a dark gray Alexander Wang jersey dress, jean jacket, and strappy black sandals. Very appropriate for my interview. As I headed toward the waiting car, there was a knot in my stomach, a feeling of sadness and nervousness. The image of Peter silently drinking his cup of coffee in the kitchen, then mumbling, “See you later,” before shutting the door behind him. He didn’t even kiss me goodbye.
“Good morning, Ms. Young. I assume you don’t have any luggage?”
“Hi. No, I don’t,” I said before adding a “thank you” as he opened my door.
It wasn’t until we pulled into San Jose International Airport that I noticed my cell phone ringer was on mute and there were five voice messages. My heart beat faster. Please, please, let there be one from Peter.
Message 1 (8:34 a.m.): “Hi, Mei-Mei, this is Mommy. We’re calling from Taiwan. It’s really late and Daddy is still sleeping, but I haven’t heard from you in a few days. Are you okay? Please call me back.”
Message 2 (8:39 a.m.): “Sophia. It’s Mom. Where are you?”
Message 3 (8:47 a.m.): “Hey, Sophia! It’s Kate. Your mom called me, but I missed the call because Mark and I were trying to figure out the waffle maker you gave us for our wedding. Her message said she’s looking for you. Oh, and Mark says hi. Call us back.”
Message 4 (8:55 a.m.): “Sophia, it’s Daddy. Mommy is very worried. Please don’t make us worry and call us back.”
Message 5 (9:02 a.m.): “Sister, it’s Sister. Mom wants you to call her right away. I told her you were flying somewhere for an interview today and that you are fine, but now she’s mad that you didn’t tell her you’re flying somewhere. Call her as soon as you can. And good luck today!”
Jesus H. Christ!
The black sedan pulled into a side area of the airport and through a security gate. Behind it was a private jet.
Wow.
The driver stopped the car and in a confident, smooth rhythm climbed out of his seat and opened my door. There was no one on the tarmac, so I stood there alone for a moment, unsure of what to do. The airplane was an impressive eighty or so feet long and the jet bridge was down, inviting me to step inside. A handsome, sandy-blond-haired, blue-eyed man with a boyish grin and slightly slouched posture appeared at the top of the stairs. Although he was dressed simply, in a leather jacket and jeans, his confident energy was magnetic and I was immediately drawn to him. This was the CEO of Ion, Andre Stark, and as he stood up there in the door of the jet, he looked like a superhero ready to conquer the world. “Welcome, Sophia. It’s time to leave,” he said in a slight South African accent that was so sexy that my knees wobbled for a moment.
Andre’s private jet and save-the-world persona added to his attractiveness and intimidated me for a split second. As I stepped up into the aircraft, I reminded myself that he put his pants on one leg at a time and that no matter what, I had a job to go back to.
A flat-screen television showing CNN Headline News was mounted on the glossy walnut divider separating the cockpit from the main cabin, which was flanked by two pairs of cream-colored leather recliner chairs, and matching long leather couches placed directly opposite each other. Even their seat belts looked fancy. A small galley kitchen was tucked toward the rear of the plane, just big enough to hold a sink, fridge, and compact espresso machine. On the counter were two large platters wrapped in cling wrap—one filled with sushi and the other with exotic-looking fruits and cheeses. Another partition separated the kitchen from the “private” area: a double bed and a bathroom stocked with individually wrapped miniature toothbrushes, toothpastes, earplugs, and sleeping masks.
Andre instructed me to have a seat in one of the white leather recliners. “It will be easier for us to talk that way,” he said. I buckled myself into the one closest to me and assumed Andre would sit facing me. Instead, he strapped himself into the le
ft-hand pilot’s seat and began flipping all sorts of levers on the cockpit dashboard. Holy shit, he’s going to fly this plane? Another, more professional-looking pilot was seated to his right, but it was clear that Andre was the one in command. I watched as the two of them ran through various safety checks and suddenly understood why Andre was such a woman magnet. His voice was quiet, not loud like mine, but it was confident and demanding of respect at the same time.
“We’re going to Burning Man,” he said matter-of-factly.
“What’s Burning Man?” I asked loudly, twisting awkwardly in my seat and leaning closer to the cockpit so I could hear his response. He was approximately four feet away from me, and although the luxury jet’s engines were quiet, it was hard to hear him when the two of us were basically seated back to back.
“You’ve never heard of it?” Andre asked, contorting his face to express his disbelief. And disgust.
No, jackass. I’ve never heard of it!
“Nope. Can’t say that I have,” I replied.
“It’s a crazy tent camp in the middle of the desert. Money is no good there—it’s all about sharing what you have with others: water, drugs, sleeping bags, everything. You should come.”
“Oh yeah? You going to share this jet of yours? Because if you are, I’m in!”
Andre grinned with embarrassment. “No. We’re flying to Reno and then I’m driving to the campsite just for the day.”
“Aha! So you’re cheating?” I exclaimed, forgetting for a moment whom I was speaking with. Filter, Sophia! I contemplated going with Andre, but when he said he planned to be naked the entire time, I burst out laughing and turned bright red.
“I can’t go hang out with you while you’re naked! I’d never again be able to look at you with a straight face.”
“Well, you could go naked, too,” he said so matter-of-factly that I couldn’t even have taken it as suggestive or offensive.
“It’s all sounding a bit orgy-ish now. Thanks, but no thanks.”
