by Roxy Reid
“Don’t you look right at home.”
I jump, startled by the sudden appearance of Lucy, who floats into the box wearing a billowy lilac gown, her copper hair spilling in ringlets across her slender shoulders.
I hastily cram my shoes back onto my feet. “Sorry,” I murmur, feeling my cheeks burning. “My feet were killing me.”
Lucy sits next to me and kicks off her own shoes. “Tell me about it,” she says, stretching her feet out before her. “Don’t worry. No one can see our feet from here.”
Relieved, I remove my shoes again and sit back in my seat, and offer my glass up to toast with her. “Cheers.”
“To antiquated traditions,” she replies with a smile, clinking her glass against mine. “God. I absolutely despise ballet.”
“Really?” I’m surprised, given her ballerina-like physique and tendency to surround herself with all things lovely and sublime. “I love it. I haven’t seen a ballet since I was a kid, though. This is kind of a treat, uncomfortable shoes aside.”
She shrugs and sips her champagne. “I guess I should say I despise coming to the ballet,” she corrects herself. “The ballet itself is all right.”
“That’s fair,” I reply, hiding a smile.
She glances at me sidelong, her pale eyes unwavering. “I meant to apologize, by the way, for what I said at the rehearsal dinner. I feel very protective of my big brother. Counterintuitive, I know,” she adds with a smile. “It wouldn’t be the first time a girl went after him for his money, let’s put it that way.”
This surprises me, but I try not to let it show on my face. “Well, you don’t need to worry about that with me,” I say, even though that’s literally the reason I married him, but not in the way she thinks. “I’m trying to convince him to spend our honeymoon in the Mexican jungle rather than at the Iberostar.”
Lucy laughs her bell-like laugh, delighted. “Good luck with that,” she says, cheersing me again.
Slowly the rest of the Banks clan trickles in, including Barbara, Maximilian and a couple of other folks I don’t recognize and whom they don’t introduce me to. My husband joins us finally, carrying another two champagne flutes, and sits on my other side. “Long line at the bar?” I ask, accepting the extra flute. “The show is going to start any second.”
“Got to talking with a city councilman,” he replies. “I have news.”
“Oh?”
“The councilman, Councilman Abraham, is in charge of a district in Washington Heights,” Max explains. His eyes are bright with excitement. “I’ve approached him a couple times over the past week or so, but I think I may have finally convinced him.”
“Convinced him of what?” I ask, as the house lights start to dim around us. The theater fills with applause, and we join in politely.
Max leans over the whisper in my ear. “I think I convinced him to let Banks Industries buy the block that the community center you showed me is on,” he explains. “We can build them something bigger and better and also bring some revenue to the neighborhood.”
“What?” I cry, earning a few harsh shushes from surrounding boxes.
He takes my hand and kisses it. “We’ll talk after,” he says, and turns his attention to the stage, where a few ballerinas have emerged to begin the show.
I sit in that seat, next to that man, watching the ballet but not really seeing it, for a whole two hours. I feel numb. There’s no way Max could mean what I think he means. There’s no way he could have interpreted my showing him that building as encouragement to gentrify the area. There’s absolutely no way.
When the lights finally come up for the interval, I make a beeline for the ladies’ room, forgetting to put my shoes back on in my haste to escape. I no longer care, though, if some rich society woman scoffs at my stockinged feet as I make my way through the lobby. These are not my people. How could I have been so stupid?
Locking myself into a stall in the massive washroom, I take several deep breaths. Maybe I should give Max the benefit of the doubt, let him explain himself properly.
Or maybe he hasn’t changed a bit, a harsh voice somewhere within me hisses. Maybe he’s still just a rich white guy who only thinks of himself and his business.
I shake my head furiously, feeling some of the hundreds of bobby pins in my hair start to come loose. I take care of my business and then go out to wash my hands, hoping the warm water will stop them shaking. I’m shivering all over and feel somewhat sick. Benefit of the doubt, Diaz. Benefit of the doubt.
I’m suddenly very glad I insisted on keeping my last name on all my legal documents. No point in changing them all when I’m only going to be a Banks for less than a year.
Somewhat more composed, I wait until I hear the bell signifying the end of the intermission before I head back to the box. This conversation will have to wait until this stupid night is over. I can’t deal with it in front of all these people. I already feel like I’m suffocating.
Max shoots me a questioning look as I take my seat next to him, but I quickly engage Lucy in a conversation about her dress before he can say anything to me. I avoid looking at him during the entirety of the second act, though I still can’t say what’s happening on the stage, I have no idea.
When the thing is finally, finally over, I put my shoes back on and follow the stream of people exiting the boxes, with Max on my heels. He catches me by the arm once we’ve reached the lobby and pulls me aside, away from prying eyes and ears. “What’s wrong?” he asks bluntly. “You’ve barely looked at me since the show started.”
“What exactly are you planning to do with that block in Washington Heights?” I demand in a harsh whisper. “Build more condos? Clean up the streets? Hero Max Banks is going to swoop in and, and—restore the neighborhood?”
He holds up his hands, a confused frown creasing his brow. “Where is this coming from? You’re making a lot of assumptions.”
“What are you going to do, Max?” I ask.
“Construct a new building for the Community League of the Heights, first of all,” he says, crossing his arms. “A bigger, better one, with commercial and residential space which will contribute to the neighborhood’s economy.”
“They were just built a new building,” I protest. “It’s only six years old.”
“Why are you yelling at me?” he asks, even though I am doing my very best not to yell. “I thought this was what you wanted.”
“Washington Heights doesn’t need luxury condos, Max,” I snap. “Obviously that’s not what I want. Were you even listening when I took you there?”
“Of course I was,” he retorts, looking outraged. “They wouldn’t be luxury, they’d have to be affordable for the residents. It could even be a retirement community, I don’t care.”
“That’s the problem,” I cry, not caring that my voice is rising. “You don’t care. You don’t know anything about the neighborhood or what they need.”
“And you do?” he counters. “It’s not like you grew up there, Ella.”
“That’s not the point,” I hiss.
“My sister told me what you told her,” Max says. “Don’t act all high and mighty about a neighborhood you’ve never even lived in and pretend you’re some saint by marrying me, literally for money, despite what you’re trying to tell my family.”
“Says the man who bribed me to marry him so he can keep his elitist company,” I spit back, too angry to care who hears us. “What is the society supposed to do when you put them out for three years while this thing gets built?”
He drains his champagne and sets his glass down with such force I’m surprised it doesn’t break. “You need to get over yourself, Ella,” he says. “The poor girl act is really unattractive when you’re not poor anymore. Excuse me.” He goes to walk away, but I catch him by the arm and pull him back round to face me.
“I want to go home,” I say, as calmly as I can.
He gestures to the door. “Be my guest. I’d love to explain to my mother why my ungrateful wife st
ormed out of the benefit she’s been preparing for weeks. It’s a fucking fundraiser for charity, Ella. You clearly have an opinion of my family that differs greatly from reality, but that’s your problem.”
Hearing blood rush in my eyes, I storm by him and head for the door, not looking forward to the long process of searching for the Bankses’ town car in the sea of other, identical cars. “Fuck it,” I whisper to myself once I’m standing in the courtyard of the Lincoln Center, and pull my phone out to call a cab.
The cab arrives a grueling ten minutes later. I’m about to give the driver directions to the Waterford building, but instead ask him to take me to the nearest train station. I don’t fit in in this world, and I never will. I’d rather be paying off loans for the rest of my life than cater to Max’s enormous ego for one minute longer.
Once I’ve boarded the train, ignoring the strange looks I’m getting for how I’m dressed, I pull out my phone and dial the familiar number. “Hola mamá,” I say as the tears finally begin to fall. “You were right. I’m coming home.”
11
Max
The resignation letter arrives on Tuesday, nestled among the other daily mail as though it isn’t the physical representation of the end of my marriage.
I suppose I should have seen it coming, given that Ella didn’t show up for work yesterday and hasn’t answered any of my calls or messages since the benefit on Saturday night. At first I was mildly annoyed by her pettiness, but now my body is slowly feeling her resolve. The finality of her resignation is the nail in the coffin. She isn’t coming back. To the company, or to me.
I’m still not sure what the hell I did wrong. I thought Ella would be ecstatic about my plans in Washington Heights, I really did. Since that night I’ve been turning that conversation over and over in my head, and trying to understand what my true intentions were. Yes, I probably did it primarily to impress her. To make her happy. And to bring Banks Industries to a new neighborhood we haven’t touched yet. Those are definitely the selfish reasons why I did it. But part of me genuinely wanted to help that neighborhood out …
Ah, and there it is.
I wanted to help the neighborhood for Ella’s sake. Because it means a lot to her, not because I necessarily care about the neighborhood itself. She was right.
I should have known that kind of gesture wouldn’t sit right with Ella. How could I have been so stupid?
I have my epiphany in the middle of a meeting I have been paying zero attention to for the past half hour. Luckily my father isn’t around this week, so I excuse myself and simply exit the office, shoving Ella’s resignation letter into my back pocket. I take the elevator down to the parking garage and get into the company car, then type Ella’s mother’s address into my GPS. If she didn’t want me to find her, she wouldn’t have put the address on her letter. Right?
It takes me an hour just to get out of the city, and then another four hours on the highway. I’m so focused on my task and figuring out what I’m going to say that the drive seems to pass in the blink of an eye, and then I’m there, outside a gated residential complex in Central Falls.
The small townhomes, likely built in the late sixties or early seventies, are looking worse for wear. I park my car on the street and walk in, grateful that the pedestrian gate is unlocked even at seven in the evening.
I find her house and hesitate outside the door, wiping my sweating palms on my slacks. Now or never. I raise my fist and knock, loudly, on the door. A few moments go by before I hear a stirring inside, and the soft sound of approaching footsteps. Finally, the lock turns and the door opens, and Ms. Diaz blinks up at me, a foreboding look of disapproval on her slightly wizened face.
“Good evening, Ms. Diaz,” I say politely. “I’m looking for my wife.”
“You’ve got the wrong house,” she says coldly. “You have no wife here.”
Deep breath. “May I please speak with Ella?”
“She doesn’t want to speak to you,” Ms. Diaz snaps, moving to shut the door. “Go away.”
I put a hand out to stop the door from closing, trying my best not to appear threatening. Ms. Diaz looks even more frail than she did at the wedding, and I don’t want to frighten her. “Please, Ms. Diaz,” I plead. “I drove all the way here. I just need to talk to her for five minutes.”
A male voice barks something in Spanish from within the house. Ms. Diaz calls back, “Es el esposo!” I recognize the word esposo as husband; Ella called me that a couple times.
I hear a rustling from within the house, and José comes around the corner, wheeling himself towards the front door, a less than friendly look on his face. “You’re not welcome here,” he growls, rolling himself in front of his mother and glowering up at me. “Leave.”
“Nice to see you again, José,” I say diplomatically. “I need to speak to my wife. Can you call her for me, please?”
“She’s not here,” Jose replies, but just then a small voice calls from the top of the stairs.
All three of us look up as Ella descends the stairs. Her hair is wet from a recent shower and she’s wearing sweatpants, but she looks beautiful as ever. “Está bien, José,” she says quietly. “Gracias.”
Somewhat reluctantly, Jose and Ms. Diaz retreat into the house, each giving me the stink eye before they vanish from sight.
Ella steps in front of me, arms crossed over her chest. “What do you want?” she asks, not altogether harshly, but definitely not in a friendly tone.
“To apologize,” I say sincerely. “You were right. I didn’t want to buy that block for the right reasons. I was trying to impress you.”
“You thought that would impress me?”
“It was stupid, I know. I realize that now. But I hope you know it was just ignorance on my part, not some blatant disregard for the people in that neighborhood.”
She sighs. “Okay.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Okay?”
“Apology accepted. Anything else?” She puts a hand on the door, poised to close it.
I pause, startled by her abruptness. “Uh.”
“Bye, Max.” She starts to shut the door.
Once again, I put a hand out to stop it. “Ella.”
“What?” Now her tone is snappier.
“Will you come home? Please?” I ask, staring intently into her eyes.
Her jaw clenches as she swallows. “I am home,” she says quietly. “I assume you got my letter.”
“No one else saw it,” I reply, taking it from my pocket and holding it up. “You can come to the office tomorrow and no one will be the wiser. We can … we can discuss a new position for you, something with more responsibility, more clout. Not because I was a jerk, but because you deserve it. You deserve everything,” I add, but I already know by her expression that I’m not winning this.
She shuts her eyes for a moment. When they open again they are hard, uncompromising. “I’m not coming back, Max,” she says. “I don’t belong there. It was stupid of me to get involved in this. I mean we’ve only known each—other for, what, now? A month? It’s ridiculous. I’m putting this all behind me. I don’t care if I have to live in debt, it’s better than living a lie.”
“Ella,” I call out before she can shut the door. “I love you.”
She freezes, but her eyes betray her. They fill with tears, but she blinks them away furiously. “Good bye, Max,” she says again, and closes the door.
The sheets still smell like her. How is that even possible? She was here for such a short amount of time. And yet, she made an enormous impression on me and my home. I was just getting used to it being “our” home. Her red chair is still here, and most of her belongings. She’ll have to come get those at some point, right?
I roll over again, frustrated that sleep is still evading me after hours of lying in bed.
I’ve never told anyone that I love them. Not even my family, that I can recall. Definitely not a partner. I didn’t even realize it’s true until I said it, catching both of us by surprise. But
it’s true. I love Ella. Whatever higher power brought us together, it did so for a reason, no matter how far fetched the initial cause was. She annoyed the hell out of me when we first met because she challenged me. Once we were married, though, I enjoyed the challenge.
But of course, in typical Max Banks fashion, I fucked up what was likely the best thing that ever happened to me.
Embittered, I climb out of bed, padding down the hall to the kitchen, where I pour myself a generous finger of whiskey. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the kitchen window, and no longer recognize myself. I thought I was so sure of who I was, what I wanted. Ella threw a wrench in all that, and now I have no idea who the man staring back at me is.
Who do I want to be? I have a choice now, at this crossroad.
I need to get her back. This much is clear. But how?
I go back down the hall and into my office, flipping up my laptop. I take a good sip of whiskey and then arrange a wire transfer to Ella for all the money I promised her, from my personal account. It’s a start, and I try and convince myself it’s a gesture rather than an amount. Hopefully she sees it that way, too.
Clearly money is not the way to win Ella over, though. I need to do something bigger. Not just to get her back, but to get back in touch with myself, too. I liked who I was when I was with her.
I open my email and start a new draft addressed to Mr. Abraham, asking for a meeting sometime this week. Damage control.
Then I email Julia and set up a meeting with her and Carrie, our PR lead, for tomorrow. Going big is something I’m good at.
I’ve never really had to fight for anything in my life. My sister has had to fight a patriarchal world for her voice to be heard. My brother fought for his country. But me? My father bought me in to the best schools, my mother bought me good grades I didn’t deserve so I could move ahead in the world.
