by Lisa Suzanne
King Contributions?
Executive director?
The pieces are very slowly starting to come together in my mind.
I thought King Contributions was some sort of financial business. It’s a charity?
My initial feeling is one of anger. Why didn’t he just tell me?
Then, as I listen to him speak, a multitude of emotions hit me. I can’t help but feel a wave of sadness for all that could have been, and I can’t help but feel a little ashamed that I wrote him off so quickly. I never really gave him the chance to explain because I was so sure I was in the right and he was in the wrong.
I suppose the people we’re mad at think they’re right, too.
“Thank you,” he says. His eyes flick over to me, and I’m sure shock is reflected back at him. “I’m honored to be here tonight presenting to six colleagues who spend their days making the lives of others better. We can only hope that the next wave of young adults will give back to our community the way these six people do. They all began with a dream, and I’ve actually had the privilege to sit down with each of them over the past couple weeks to talk one on one about how we can work together to create a stronger community of charitable efforts. I’m excited about what the future holds for all six of these organizations, and I’m thrilled to get to work with each of them through King Contributions. Incidentally, if anyone here is looking for volunteer opportunities, please come talk to me. I’m happy to set you up with the best fit for your interests. Now that I fit in my shameless plug, let’s talk about tonight’s philanthropic honorees.”
A chuckle waves through the crowd, and then he continues.
“First I’d like to introduce the executive director of Soup on Fourth, Mr. Brandon York.” We all clap for Brandon as he kisses Vickie, and then Carter gives some details about the organization while Brandon makes his way to the stage for his speech.
“The doors for Soup on Fourth first opened six years ago when Brandon was just twenty-two years old, and he has since turned a small soup kitchen into a shelter for the homeless. He helps countless individuals every single day by providing food and a place to stay. He gives them an address to use and does everything he can to help them find a job and get on their feet. After seeing a family member struggle after losing a job, Brandon knew he needed to find a way to give back to a part of our community that is largely ignored. Today his goal is to ensure that every single person on the street knows they have a refuge not just in his physical building, but in himself as a friend.”
I listen with rapt attention, not necessarily to the words he says, but to the timbre of his voice. It rumbles through my chest just like it did when my head rested on his naked chest after a particularly exhausting fuck.
I’m also impressed that he isn’t using any sort of notes or prompter to deliver his speech. He’s comfortable up there, as if he has spoken in front of large groups his entire life.
Which, I realize now, he probably has.
“I would congratulate you on all your success,” he continues, “but it’s not just your success. You’ve shared it with hundreds of people, and we can’t thank you enough for your generosity of spirit and charitable contributions to San Diego. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Brandon York.”
I watch as they shake hands, and then Brandon takes the microphone while Carter steps back. I try my hardest not to watch Carter, but it’s really difficult considering his eyes are laser-focused on me.
So he’s into charity. He’s into giving back. He’s the damn director of a huge organization focused on helping others.
I feel a bit like a fool after I wrote an entire article detailing how he rolls around in his family’s money all day.
God, I’ve been so stupid.
It doesn’t erase the fact that he only wanted to be with me because of my blog. It doesn’t erase the fact that he took his ex on a date after he’d made promises to me.
But it does paint him in a new light, and considering my own penchant for benevolence, I sort of wonder if maybe I should’ve listened to Axel when he tried to explain.
It’s also possible—though not probable—that I’m wrong about the other things, too.
* * *
“Ms. Courtney Sanders!”
The applause sounds raucous as I make my way to the stage. My hands shake nervously, but I don’t think it’s because I’m getting up to speak in front of the rather large crowd here tonight. I think it’s because I’m getting up to speak and Carter is here.
The speech I wrote flies right out of my mind.
I know what I have to do, and I’m going to use this public platform to do it.
I take my trophy from Yvette Milner, the well-known film producer who is presenting the media category.
“Thank you, Yvette,” I say to her, and then I turn toward the crowd and pump up my enthusiasm. “And thank you, San Diego!”
The crowd cheers again, and I find my comfort zone, which just so happens to coincide with finding Carter’s eyes across the crowded venue.
“I’m so flattered to be chosen as one of San Diego’s top Thirty Under Thirty. As most of you know, I speak nearly every day from the heart. Like many of you, I prepared a speech tonight. I had all the right things to say, and I spent time memorizing it, getting nervous about it, thinking it was all crap, and then just going with it. Come to think of it, that’s how a lot of my blog posts seem to go, too.”
The crowd laughs at my honest assessment of what I do for a living, and I find Carter’s eyes again. He’s not smiling, and that only spurs me on. I keep my gaze on him as I speak so he knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“Sometimes when I write from the heart, I say things that hurt others. I’m impulsive, and I always have been. It’s one of the things my mom hated about my childhood because I came home with more animals I wanted to keep and more scrapes on my knees than she cared to count. Sometimes that impulsiveness causes me to publish something out of anger, and while I believe every word is true when I publish it, there are times when other facts come to light after those words have been posted. This is media, after all. This is entertainment. I hope you use my calendar of events and meet new people. I hope you see what I’m doing as I stumble through life and you learn from my mistakes as we celebrate my wins together. Most of all, I hope that what I do brings a smile to your face or a man to your bed, because what’s life without laughter and good sex?”
That garners me another laugh, and then I finish up. “Thank you to the San Diego Business Weekly and to Steven Forester. Thank you to my friends and my family, and thank you to my readers. Without you, I wouldn’t be able to do what I love every single day. I wouldn’t be able to learn from my mistakes and work to correct them. Here’s to another year of Courting Sandy Eggo and to all of you.”
I step down to more raucous applause, and when I look over at Carter, he’s standing as he applauds with the rest of the crowd. I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking, but I don’t get the chance to find out.
After I step off the stage, I’m ushered over for a quick photoshoot while the next honoree is announced. I have to wait until everyone in my group has been announced so we can take a photograph together, and by the time I return to my table, Carter’s chair is vacant. I look around for him and spot him by the bar. He’s chatting with some woman who has her cougar eyes turned on him, and I try to convince myself it’s business-related. Thinking otherwise just hurts my already fragile heart.
It doesn’t really matter, though.
He blew it first, and then I blew it second. At this point, even with apologies, I’m not sure how to get him back.
COURTING SANDY EGGO
posted by Courtney Sanders
FROM THE HEART: SORRY, CARTER
Last night I was honored to be recognized in front of my peers as one of San Diego Business Weekly’s Thirty Under Thirty.
It’s rare to be recognized for your work when you work for yourself. I’m the only employee of Courting Sandy Eg
go, LLC. I have no boss to answer to and no peers to tell me I did a good job. I’m judged by my readers; sometimes that’s a good thing, and other times I cry into my Cheerios for an hour before I can actually face the day.
What I do is highly personal, and sometimes (though it’s a rare occurrence for me to actually admit this) I’m wrong. Sometimes I make mistakes.
I can’t take back the majority of what I said in Volume Three of the DBs of SD, and I don’t want to. I can’t take back the hurt I felt when I found out Carter’s true intentions with me. I can’t take back the shock I felt when I found out he went with his ex to an event after he told me things were over between them.
From my perspective, all of that is still true—and more, the hurt and the shock are still deeply rooted in my heart.
But, I badly misjudged Carter’s career path. I said he’s content living off the money someone else made, but that isn’t true. I didn’t know it at the time—and I still don’t know why he didn’t tell me about his actual career—but he’s the director of a charity. He spreads good in the world when I assumed he just spread the legs of women wide open.
Maybe he does both. I don’t know.
Because I don’t really know him at all.
I thought I did. I thought we were on a track to getting to know each other, but he kept a huge part of his life secret, a part that honestly would’ve only served to make me fall harder for him.
So while I refuse to retract the article because most of it is still true, I do owe him an apology for what I said about his job.
I was up half the night researching his company, and I found that he has singlehandedly raised millions of dollars for the less fortunate. He works personally with several charities in San Diego, including a shelter for abused women. When he told me I was ruining his life because of the article I posted, I had no idea what he meant. Now I understand.
He was trying to make a name for himself in San Diego as a charitable person who gives back, and here I was calling him someone who manipulates women. Surely a women’s shelter wouldn’t want to work with a man deemed a womanizer, regardless of the resources he could bring to them.
While I was hurt by what he did, I shouldn’t have accused him of being a horrible person, because he’s not. He’s just a guy who isn’t over his ex, who wanted her to see that he’d moved on in a new city with a new woman.
Maybe he has, and maybe he hasn’t. It doesn’t matter to me anymore because it’s over now. I’m moving on.
That’s right, boys. This blogger is back on the market.
Carter, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. Thanks for a great couple of weeks, and I wish you the best as you start your career here in San Diego.
Ladies, I’d still give him a little bit of time to be sure he’s over his ex before jumping into bed with him.
CHAPTER 20
My mother raises her eyebrows and purses her lips at me, and I think I’m in shock.
I don’t know what’s more shocking: the fact that they’ve discovered my blog or the fact that they figured out how to hook up their printer.
Regardless, several of my most recent articles have been printed and are fanned out on the table in front of me. “From The Heart: Sorry, Carter” sits on top of the stack and stares back at me in black and white.
Well, in navy and white. They didn’t quite figure out the black ink, just the color cartridge.
“Why did you lie to us?” my mom asks.
“Because, Mom, I write about sex for a living. I write about dating and relationships. I write about things we don’t talk about.”
My eyes edge over to my dad. He looks uncomfortable with the entire conversation.
“Don’t look at me,” he says, holding up his hands. “I told her to let you keep your secret. I don’t want to know what man set your sheets on fire. It’s not natural for a father to know these things about his daughter.”
“Jerry!” my mom scolds.
“Lori!” my father replies, matching her tone.
I roll my eyes at the both of them.
“Don’t you roll your eyes at us!” my mom says.
Okay, I get it. Clearly she’s mad I lied, but you know what? I did it to protect them from seeing things they don’t want to see.
That’s a lie.
I did it because I want to be honest in my blog. I need to be. My readers depend on my candid stories about my life, and if I know my parents are reading what I write, I’ll censor myself. I don’t want to do that. I’m an adult, and it’s time I assert my independence.
“You want the truth?” I ask.
“Yes!” my mom says at the same time my dad says, “No!”
I pick up the article I posted this morning. “As this article says, last night I was honored in front of my peers as one of the top people under thirty years old in media in San Diego. I am a respected member of this community. My blog has exploded exponentially over the past couple years, more than I ever dreamed possible, and my marketing degree has come in handy on more than one occasion. I’m sorry you don’t like it or approve of it, but I’m really proud of what I do.” By the time I’ve finished my impassioned diatribe, I have tears forming at the corners of my eyes. I refuse to let them fall, though. It’s important for me to prove to them that I’m a capable and stable adult.
They both stare at me for a few beats. “Say something!” I finally yell.
“You received an award?” my mom asks.
I nod.
“And you didn’t tell us?” Her eyes mist over.
“Lori, I think you’re missing the point.” My dad looks to me with pride in his eyes. “Good job, honey. I understand that it’s an odd thing to tell your folks about, but I’m proud of you nonetheless.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I whisper.
“I’m proud, too,” my mom says, a bit of defeat coloring her voice. “I’m just disappointed that we couldn’t be there to support you.”
“Maybe next year, Mom.”
She nods. “Okay.”
“Don’t read my articles.”
My dad laughs. “No worries there.”
My mom shoots him a look. “How about I just don’t tell you if I do?”
I sigh. “Fine.”
“Now tell me more about this Carter guy, sweetheart, because despite what you wrote today—which, by the way, is more than you’ve ever told me about him—I don’t think you’re over him.”
“Mom! Can we just not?” I roll my eyes. Good God, not her too.
* * *
There’s a car I don’t recognize parked on the street in front of my house when I pull into my driveway after the third degree over at my parents’ house. It’s a black Tesla with heavily blacked out windows, and the only reason I recognize the logo is because Harrison was freaking obsessed with the brand. His Tesla is silver, but maybe he upgraded to the latest and greatest.
I pull into my garage and hear the Tesla’s door slam shut as I walk to the back of the garage to greet Harrison, wondering why he’s here anyway—maybe to drop Shelby off for a playdate, though I can’t imagine he’d allow her in his new car.
Imagine my surprise when I find that it isn’t Harrison at all.
It’s Carter.
And he’s standing at the curb of my driveway holding a box of pizza.
“Hey,” he says across the space that spans between us. When I don’t respond, he says, “I came with a peace offering.”
I feel an uncomfortable shiver race down my spine.
“Pizza?” I nod to the box in he’s carrying. “Not exactly the way to win me over.”
“Just give me a chance to explain myself.”
“Now why would you want to do that?” I ask.
“Because of what you wrote this morning, and because of last night. Because you wrote mean things about me, so you owe it to me to listen to what I have to say.”
“I owe it to you? I don’t owe you a damn thing, Carter King.” I clench my car keys so tightly in my fist that
I’m a little worried I might puncture my skin.
“You’re right, but I’d really prefer not to listen to you hit on men for my benefit at The Port every time I run into you for the rest of our lives. At least this way, we can clear the air and maybe even be friends.”
I redden at his “for my benefit” comment. I thought I was being so smooth that night I hit on Brandon, but clearly he saw right through my façade.
I don’t hate the idea of clearing the air, but I really don’t think Carter is the kind of person I can be just friends with.
“Can I…?” he asks, nodding toward me as if asking if it’s safe to approach.
I stare across the space he’s closed by stepping closer and closer while we’ve been talking. Our eyes lock, and even though I proclaimed an apology in the blog this morning, that doesn’t diminish the hurt and anger I still feel. I also can’t ignore the quiver that grabs hold of my spine any time I’m in his presence.
I finally heave out a heavy sigh, nod, and motion with my head toward my house. “Come on in.”
He follows me in and sets the pizza down on my counter. We stand at my little kitchen peninsula, one on each side, facing each other. I stare at the box with unmasked disgust.
“Open it,” he goads.
I lift the lid, and it isn’t pizza.
Instead, I find four individually wrapped packages, a bunch of small plastic containers, and a brown paper bag. I look up at him.
“You once told me that if I ever needed to find a way onto your good side, all I had to do was bring you a breakfast burrito.”
I giggle—I can’t help it. It’s a joyous little feeling that bursts out of me unexpectedly.
“I remembered that much, but I couldn’t remember what kind, so I ordered one of each. One has sausage, one has chorizo, one has bacon, one has just egg, and there are chips in the bag and every heat level of salsa in the plastic cups.”
I don’t know what to say, and it’s rare to find me speechless.
