by Cat Carmine
“Okay…”
She doesn’t sound convinced, of course, but I’m not going to spend any more time arguing with her. I have to stick to my convictions on this one. In fact, tomorrow I’m going to do the thing I’ve been dreading — I’m going to tell Kyla everything, and let her know that we need to get out of our GoldLake contract. I know she’s not going to be happy about losing out on all that money, but it’s the only thing we can do.
I chat with Celia for a few more minutes and then let her go when she has to head off for dinner. By the time I hang up the phone, I’m feeling my resolve strengthen. Wes can spend his money on charities and helicopter rides if he wants to, but I’m not going to take another penny of it.
Forty
On Monday morning, I wake up with less resolve than I would have hoped. I trudge through my apartment in a trance, pulling on yoga pants, a royal blue tank, a grey hoodie.
When I get outside, I find New York City mirrors my mood. The sky is grey and the air is so hot and humid, it’s like walking through soup. Even though my hair is piled up on top of my head, wisps of it are already sticking to the back of my neck.
I descend into the subway and find the odors are particularly ripe today. Garbage, urine, and something that smells distinctly like it might be a decomposing animal. Lovely.
For a second I let myself imagine what life might be like if I had never come here, to the city. If I had stayed in Highfield, working at my parents’ flower shop the way Blake still does. Life would be easier there. Simpler. With about a hundred percent less Wes. That sounds like a dream come true.
The train is late and I wait on the platform as it gets more and more crowded. The heat is seeping down into the underground, and I start to feel dizzy and light-headed. I squeeze back through the crowd and inch out a spot against the wall, so at least I can lean against something. I press my head against the cool wall and try not to think about what kind of grime is on the tile.
I close my eyes and try not to think of Wes and of what a mess my life has become. The sick feeling I’ve had since the wedding refuses to go away. I sip at my take-away coffee, feeling more nauseated with every swallow.
When the train comes, everyone pushes forward, trying to cram on even though the thing is already packed. I stay leaning against the wall. After all, I’m not in any hurry to get to work today, because once I get there, I’m going to have to tell Kyla about Wes, and that we have to get out of the contract. So yeah, I’m happy just standing here, leaning my head against the grimy wall for now.
Another train comes by, and then another. I wait until half a dozen have come and gone, and then, when the next train is empty enough that I can no longer justify standing here any longer, I board and let the rhythm of the train lull me into an uneasy stupor.
I get to the office half an hour later and find it, as always, a good ten degrees hotter than the outdoors. Buttercup is rumbling away down in the laundromat, and the scent of spring fresh breeze adds to my sickly feeling.
“Morning,” Kyla says, yanking off her headphones and turning around to greet me.
“Morning.” I decide there’s no point in putting it off anymore, so I pull out one of the chairs at the conference table in the middle of the room.
“There’s something I have to tell you.” I take a deep breath and flop down into the chair. I want to bury my head in my hands already — or actually, maybe stand up and walk back out of the office. Kyla is going to kill me, and she has every right to.
“What’s up?” She sets her headphones on her desk and pulls her chair over to the table with me.
For a minute I don’t say anything, but Kyla’s face grows more concerned.
“Rori, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”
“Argh. Okay.” I take another deep breath. “I have some bad news.”
“Would you spit it out, already, Holloway?”
I blow out the breath. “We have to cancel our contract with GoldLake.”
“What? Why?”
This is when I put my head down on the table and groan.
“Because I’m an idiot,” I manage.
Kyla doesn’t say anything for a minute. The room goes quiet, with only the hum of Buttercup, rumbling away downstairs. Finally my curiosity gets the better of me, and I sneak a glance up at her.
She’s rubbing her temples and staring at me. “What did you do, Rori?”
“I slept with him.” I say the words, but they’re muffled by the green felt of the poker table.
“I knew it!”
Now I sit up. “What?”
“Oh, come on, Rori. You’re about as subtle as my mother’s floral print blouses.”
I give her a weak smile. “That bad, huh?”
“Yes, that bad. But we’re not cancelling the contract. You’re just going to have to suck it up.“
“We have to.” I shake my head. “Shit went down, Kyla. Wes isn’t who I thought I was, and the whole contract — it was a lie.”
“What do you mean, it was a lie? There’s no money?”
“No, the money’s real. The job’s real. But the stupid hiring initiative, it was just to cover up a deal they’re doing that’s going to get some pretty bad media attention. They were using us to make themselves look better.”
She’s quiet for another minute. I can’t bear to look up at her, so I keep my head pressed to the table again and concentrate on the feel of the dryer downstairs, rumbling up through the soles of my feet.
“That sucks,” she says.
“Yeah. Tell me about it.”
She doesn’t say anything else, and when I look up, I find her gnawing on her nail thoughtfully.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I say. I know she’s got something on her mind and I’d rather know what it is than have to sit here and wonder.
She presses her palms into the table, running her nails along the felt, scratching out fine lines in the weave.
“We still can’t cancel the contract.”
“We have to,” I say immediately.
“No, Rori. We can’t. The first check’s already been cashed. Some of the money is spent already.”
“No.” I shake my head, straightening. My coffee sits forgotten beside me. “We just ... we have to do it.”
“We can’t, Rori, that’s what I’m telling you. You read the terms of the contract. Almost all the money would have to be refunded, minus the few hours we put in on the presentation and research. How are we going to come up with that kind of money?”
I push my chair back and stand up, then pace the room. “We have to. We can’t do this. I can’t do this.”
Kyla doesn’t move and doesn’t answer. She’s not letting me off easy, and I can’t say I blame her. But I have to find a way to make this right.
“How much money have we spent so far?” I force myself to sit down and try to discuss this rationally. After all, there has to be some way we can make up the difference. If I have to beg, borrow, or steal to do it, I refuse to spend another minute working for GoldLake.
Kyla shakes her head. “I don’t know. I’d have to add it up, but we paid off all our outstanding bills, plus we’ve used some of it to fund other campaigns.”
“Rough estimate?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe fifteen, twenty thousand?”
My stomach sinks. It’s more than I thought. I press my head down against the felt of the table again. I brace myself for Kyla’s wrath, but instead my phone rings, saving me from whatever she was about to say.
I look at the phone and then look at Kyla.
“You might as well get that,” she says, shrugging. “If we aren’t going to be working with GoldLake, we better make damn sure the rest of our clients are happy.”
“Right.” I swallow as I reach for the phone and press it to my ear. “Rori Holloway.”
“Rori, it’s Maria.”
“Maria, hi!” I find myself brightening. “It’s really nice to hear your voice. How are things
going?”
If nothing else comes out of this, at least Maria was able to get a good job. Wes’s hiring initiative might be a sham, but the jobs are real enough, and the experience and opportunity will be great for her.
“Oh, goodness, Rori, things are amazing. I’m just calling to thank you.”
“Thank me for what?”
“For everything. For connecting me with this job. It’s changed my life, and now Bruno’s too.”
“That’s great … but what are you talking about?”
“They established a scholarship fund at the Sacred Heart private school. For Bruno. Well, not just for Bruno. They’re going to take ten kids a year, from the Elmwood Gables community. It’s a full ride, Rori, can you believe it? My baby’s going to get to go to private school.”
For a minute I sit there shocked. Kyla gives me a questioning glance, but there’s no way to explain it quickly.
“Wow, Maria, that’s great.”
“Oh, I haven’t even told you the best part — they’re going to name it after my husband. The Luiz Costa Memorial Scholarship.”
I can feel the pride and elation in her voice, even through the phone. My eyes fill with tears.
“I’m so happy for you. Wow. Who did this, exactly? GoldLake?” I ask incredulously.
“Yes, GoldLake. Well, I think it was your friend Wes. That’s what the director of the board at the school told me. I met with him yesterday, and I think the school is going to be an amazing fit for Bruno. They have all kinds of art classes and music and even a rugby team. Can you imagine my little Bruno, playing rugby someday?”
“I can totally imagine it,” I say, smiling through my tears. “That’s unbelievable, Maria. I’m so happy for you.”
“Well, none of it would have happened without you, Rori, so thank you. From the bottom of my heart.”
“Oh God, Maria, don’t thank me. I had nothing to do with it. It was all … Wes.”
The word trips a bit coming off my tongue, but there it is. Wes. Again. Always.
“I have to find a way to thank him,” Maria muses. “If you can think of anything he’d like, let me know.”
“I don’t think there’s anything he needs,” I say honestly. “Maybe something more personal, like a card.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ll get Bruno to draw something. Maybe I’ll make him a pie too.”
“I think he’d like that,” I say softly.
“Good. That’s what I’ll do. Anyway, I need to get back to work but let’s catch up soon.”
“I’d like that.” We’re just about to hang up when I say, “Wait, Maria.”
“What?”
“Lemon meringue.”
“What?”
“He loves lemon meringue pie.”
I can hear her grinning. “I think I can manage that. Thanks again, Rori.”
When I get off the phone, I feel shellshocked. Not to mention more confused than ever. Every time I make up my mind to walk away from Wes completely, something comes along and knocks me flat on my ass again.
Kyla nudges my shoulder, dragging me out of my thoughts.
“Everything okay?”
“I … honestly don’t know anymore.” There are tears in my eyes and I don’t even know what they’re for, whether they’re for Wes or for me or for Maria.
Kyla rubs my shoulder. I don’t deserve her sympathy, and yet somehow, after all this, she isn’t mad at me. Or at least not irreparably so.
“We’ll figure this out,” she says.
“Thanks.”
“Do you want to get some coffee?”
I shake my head. “Too hot. I think I’m just going to throw myself into work, if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure. That sounds like a good idea for both of us.”
We spend the rest of the day heads down, fingers on keyboards. I actually plow through my to-do list, and am starting to feel better about today. I don’t stop until almost five, when I stretch and realize how dark and grey it’s gotten in our office. The humidity is worse than ever, and my skin peels off the vinyl of the chair with a gross sucking noise. Downstairs, Buttercup rumbles away.
“Ugh. It has to rain soon, right?” I re-knot my hair, trying to get rid of all the frizzy wispy bits. A futile task, obviously, but I manage to capture some of them.
“Dear God, I hope so,” Kyla groans.
And, as if we summoned it ourselves, the sky chooses that exact moment to open up. Kyla and I both move to the window, drawn by the sudden rush of noise from outside. The rain comes down in a torrential downpour, and as we watch, the sky lights up with a sudden fork of lightning.
We stand there in silence for a minute, awed by the force of nature right outside our window. The sidewalks have nearly emptied and the rain splashes down so hard it comes off the pavement in great waves.
Like all extraordinary bursts, it quickly tapers off and settles into a regular downpour. The room seems to lighten slightly, as if the weight of the day’s humidity is already starting to be washed away.
“I have an idea,” Kyla announces, turning away from the window.
“What’s that?”
“We need to dance it out.”
I lift my head up. “Dance it out?”
“You know — like on television. Hold on.” She gets up and goes to her computer, then a few seconds later, music is blaring out her speakers.
I laugh as I recognize the song. “I’m too old for this,” I shout, as a Taylor Swift song pumps through our tiny office. But Kyla grabs my hand.
“No such thing!”
So even though neither of us have idea what’s going to happen with Marigold, and even though I still kind of want to cry, we dance. We dance till I’ve almost forgotten about the money, and the contract, and Wes. It feels good to fling my limbs around like a crazy person, and I get so into it that I lose all sense of time and place. Kyla and I are dancing machines with no off button.
Which is why the voice from the doorway catches me completely off guard.
“Hello, Rori.” Just like with the rumble of the dryer, I can feel the timbre of his voice right through the soles of my feet. I freeze, mid-ass-shake, then slowly spin around and come face to face with the man who broke my heart. Wes.
“Son of a ... Buttercup,” I whisper.
Forty-One
My heart beats against the inside of my chest, so hard and fast I swear it’s going to burst out of my ribcage. I can feel Kyla whipping her head back and forth between Wes and I, but I can’t take my eyes off the man standing in front of me. Despite everything, all the things he’s done and all the things I now know, he still has the power to make my knees turn to straight-up jelly.
“Hello, Rori.” His voice fills our tiny office, ricocheting off the four walls and lancing straight through me. His hair and the shoulders of his jacket are wet from the rain, but he seems oblivious to it.
I fold my arms. I won’t give him an inch. Mostly because I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll fall to pieces completely. And this time, I might not be able to put myself back together again.
Wes seems to be able to sense my new iron will, because he clears his throat and then straightens his tie, something I’ve come to recognize as a nervous habit of his.
For a second, my resolve weakens, just a hair. But I force myself to stay steadfast. Rock solid. I don’t even speak, because I don’t trust what might come out of my mouth.
Wes runs his hand through his wet hair.
“I was hoping we could talk,” he says. Once again, the deep rumble of his voice fills the room, enveloping me like a warm blanket.
“I’m not sure we have anything to talk about.” The words tumble like dry stones out of my mouth. Why oh why oh why does he have to have this much effect on me? I should be furious with him, but being confronted with the sight of him, up close and personal like this, is undoing me completely.
“Please, Rori,” he says. His voice is earnest, almost sad.
My tongue sticks to
the roof of my mouth. I try to spit out the word no, but I can’t seem to form even that one simple syllable.
That’s when he holds out a small white box I hadn’t noticed he was carrying. My throat constricts, and I swallow down a lump. I recognize the box right away, the small green and white sticker on the side that says Bloomers. It’s from my parents’ flower shop, and judging by the size of the box, I know exactly what’s in it.
Wes keeps holding out the box, but I don’t move to take it.
“This is for you,” he says, as if I couldn’t tell by the way he’s offering it up towards me.
“I know.” I still don’t touch it. It’s not until Kyla elbows me in the ribs, hard, that I reluctantly step forward and take the box from him.
“It’s from your parents’ shop,” he says. He runs his hand through his damp hair again as I ease open the box. My throat forms a lump that I try to swallow. Inside the box is a corsage. A wrist corsage, like the one Wes was supposed to bring me for our prom, so many years ago. It looks just like how I always pictured it — small white roses, greenery, little silver beads like the ones I wore in my hair that night.
“I had your mom recreate the same one I was supposed to give you that night,” he says. His voice sounds thick, and I have to lean against the conference table as I stare down at the arrangement.
Kyla is still staring at me — even without looking up at her, I can feel her eyes boring straight into me — but I don’t acknowledge her. Instead I force myself to speak to Wes.
“It’s a sweet gesture,” I tell him. “But it’s not enough.”
“I know,” he says hastily. “I just wanted you to know that I remember, that I’ve thought about that night every day of my life, that I’ve regretted my actions more than anything else I’ve ever done.”
I raise one eyebrow at him, and he looks away.
“Well, up until recently,” he adds.
Downstairs, Buttercup chooses that exact moment to end her cycle, and the sudden silence that fills the office is deafening.
“All I want is to talk,” he says now. He’s starting to sound less composed, like it’s suddenly occurred to him that I might just say no. “Please, Rori. At least let me explain, and then you never have to talk to or see me again, if that’s what you want.”
