The One That Got Away (14 page)

“That cousin was
hot
.”

“I don't know, maybe he's not into banging strangers?” I suggest
with an exasperated sigh. “Why don't you just
ask
him why he didn't sleep with anybody?”

“I don't need to ask him, because I can tell,” she says smugly. “He has a thing for you.”

“He does not. That's ridiculous. Where the hell is this coming from, by the way? Chris sent me that photo he took of us at the reception, with some incomprehensible message about ‘rocking my boat.' Why have you two suddenly decided there is something illicit going on with Eamon and me? Is this what married people do when there's no good TV?”

“So you would have no problem showing that photo to Noah. You wouldn't feel weird about it at all.”

Goddamnit. She's got me, and she knows it. “Okay, yes, I would feel a little weird about Noah seeing that picture,” I admit. “Especially given that Noah didn't like him when they met. Listen, I like Eamon very much, and yes, I find him attractive. You'd have to be in a coma not to. But nobody has a thing for anybody.”

“Does Noah know that you two slept together?”

“Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth? No, he does not. There was no reason to tell him, because it is a nonissue.”

The long silence at the other end of the phone betokens profound skepticism.

“What do you want me to say, Nicole?” I demand.

“Nothing. Clearly I shouldn't have said anything, 'cause now you're pissed at me. I just thought I picked up on something between you guys. I know things haven't been great with Noah lately, and obviously there's always been a connection between you and Ame, so…”

“So nothing. Okay, Nic? Nothing to see here. Move along.”

We chat for a moment more, then get off the phone. I'm relieved to have successfully distracted her from the issue of Eamon, though I know if I give her the slightest opening at any point in the future, she will be on it like a terrier digging for a buried bone.
Because despite what I said to her, Nicole is not the kind of person who enjoys inventing drama out of thin air—the far more horrifying truth is that she is uncannily perceptive. Nagging me about marrying Noah has been her pet project for years; the fact that she has abruptly veered off course in favor of nagging me about Eamon worries me.

So what exactly is it that's going on with me? I slap my pencil down on my desk, knowing I won't be able to concentrate on my work until I've cleared out my head. I change into running clothes, crank up my workout mix until the music is mainlining into my brain, and slam the front door behind me. The scorch of the sunlight on my air-conditioned skin fuels my skittery mood.

So I have a crush on him. That much is blindingly obvious. I think about him constantly. As I move through my days, I've been catching myself making little mental notes of things to tell him later, jokes or stories he would appreciate. I've been listening to Phoenix incessantly for weeks, because he loves Phoenix. It's stupid, and girlish, and more than a little embarrassing, but there it is. I have a big old crush on my friend and client. I shake my head in disgust. I ought to be able to keep myself from mindlessly responding to him; I mean, how old am I, sixteen?

Now, to address Nicole's second charge, that he is interested in me—she's wrong, that much I'm sure of. I've known men like this before, who indiscriminately charm anyone and everyone who crosses their path—male, female, gay, or straight. I mean, even my freaking
cat
is in love with him. His attention doesn't mean anything more than that he likes me as a human. He calls me by my last name like one of his locker room buddies, for god's sake. It just happens to be my misfortune that I'm a sucker for his smile and his smartassed sense of humor.

But how the hell am I going to get through the next six months without embarrassing myself? I hate the thought of morphing into a simpering teenager every time I see him or speak to him,
not to mention the toll it will take on my peace of mind. Growling, I turn onto an uphill road and sprint up it until I am gasping. When the wave of endorphins hits me, calm settles over me and I know what to do: I'm just going to ride it out. The novelty is bound to wear off sometime. In the meantime, I'm going to behave like the adult I am, and enjoy his companionship without getting all Taylor Swift about it. I refuse to be at the mercy of my own dopamine.

Propelled by a queasy gumbo of nerves, manners, and sheer paranoia, I arrive for the Balm presentation almost forty-five minutes early. Which, unfortunately, leaves me with almost forty-five minutes to study the crisply pressed receptionist for the venture capital firm providing part of the financing. I had ranked it a major victory that I was able to remove all the cat hair from my blazer and the smears of plaster dust from my favorite black riding boots, but perhaps I ought to consider looking into an actual business suit for future presentations to corporate clients. There is one thing that makes me feel more at ease, though—this place reeks of money. The finishes are top-notch; the receptionist's desk and the wall behind her are clad in book-matched slabs of Calacatta marble. These will be people who understand the price tag of a high-end build-out.

As I wait, a man appears around the corner behind the receptionist's station, carrying a black leather laptop case with an air of busy self-importance. He looks overstretched and fashionably malnourished, with patchy blond hair and stridently rectangular black-framed glasses. Even aside from the fact that he is a physical embodiment of the postmodern-architect cliché, he looks
vaguely familiar to me. His eyes narrow when he notices me; he recognizes me, too. But where do I know him from?

He approaches me, frowning. “You used to work at MaKA.” It is an accusation, not a question, and that places him right away—he was Stephanie's boyfriend.

My ex-boss, Stephanie Madison, was one of the two principals at my former firm, and one of the two people on earth whom I held in the absolute highest regard (the other, of course, being my stepfather). She recruited me out of RISD—her own alma mater, as well—and during the five years I worked for her, she took such pains to mentor me that Noah was convinced she was grooming me to join the company as a third partner down the road.

If John gave me the foundation of my skills, teaching me about construction and proportion and balance, it was Stephanie who turned me from a kid with an architecture degree into an honest-to-god architect. I learned so much from her that, when Danny and Jay approached me about designing the restaurant they wanted to launch, I didn't hesitate before deciding to strike out on my own.

Which, it turned out, was the ultimate betrayal. I remember telling a steel-faced Stephanie, my voice more apologetic than it should have been, that it wasn't like I was trying to poach clients of MaKA's—the restaurant owners were friends of mine.

“That's not the point,” she snapped. “I'm disgusted that this is the way you're repaying everything I've done for you. I would have expected more loyalty than this.”

“But, I'm not going to one of our competitors—”

“No. You just sucked up everything I had to teach you and then cut loose the first chance you got.”

Nothing I said would alter her opinion. I was an ungrateful brat who had taken advantage of her and betrayed her trust. It
was miserable—I didn't realize how much I'd been counting on her support and friendship until they were revoked. And to this day, I still wish I hadn't decided I was too independent to accept Noah's offer to help me plan a better strategy for my departure. I hadn't seen or spoken to Stephanie since I left MaKA, but lately I'd been wondering if her grudge might have subsided enough for me to get in touch with her again.

Apparently I have my answer. The guy currently surveying me with the same measure of pained contempt that Newman reserves for the diet cat food I periodically try to feed him, is Roger Harris, Stephanie's boyfriend.
Scratch that
—
Stephanie's husband
, I think, darting a look at his left hand. I pin a friendly smile on my face.

“Yes, I did. Sarina Mahler. You're Roger, right?”

He nods tightly. “You're pitching the Balm job?” he asks, injecting a broad tone of disbelief into his voice.

“Of course I am,” I say. “I designed the flagship.”

“Hmm. Interesting that they decided to request other proposals for the new locations.”

I shrug. “Not really. It makes sense that Jamie's investors might want to explore a couple of other options. But it ultimately comes down to the right fit on personality and aesthetic. As I'm sure you know,” I add, with a beatific smile.
Which means you and your hipster glasses don't have a prayer in hell of landing this job, you patronizing asshat
.

“Indeed,” he says, and glances over my shoulder toward the door.

I want to ask about Stephanie but hate the thought of betraying weakness. I'm sure she wouldn't, if the positions were reversed. But then again, when was the last time I regretted taking the high road? “Give Stephanie my best,” I say, and though for a minute I expect him to find some way to snub my good wishes, he gives me a faint smile.

“I will.”

“Well, good luck.” I extend my hand.

He shakes it briskly. “You too.” He gives me a curt nod and clips off toward the elevators.

Well. So, Roger Harris is pitching this job. For the first time, it sinks in that there actually are other architects trying to land a commission that I've considered mine since I learned of its existence. Probably two or three other firms. No doubt at least one other that I'm familiar with, besides Roger's company. Curiosity tickles at me as I wonder what the other designs look like—what if there's something else besides mine that's actually good? What if it's
really
good?

I take a deep breath to slow the anxiety rising like floodwater inside me. I could not ask for better positioning to get this job. Not only am I already a known and trusted commodity to the owner of the company, but there is absolutely no doubt that my original design for Balm helped the company grow as quickly and successfully as it has. No matter how great the products and services are, people wouldn't be flocking there if it were located in a crummy dark hole in the wall. Online reviews of the spa—and I have read every one of them—almost always mention the beautiful space.

Calm restored, I entertain myself for the next few minutes by fantasizing about the office space I'm going to rent once I land the job. My two trusty employees and I certainly won't have enough room to operate in the overstuffed room at Danny's house. Maybe a loft space in the warehouse district? A little gritty, a little industrial, maybe even—

“Miss Mahler? They're ready for you.”

I throw the receptionist a dazzling smile, even though she has absolutely no say in the decision that's going to be made in that room around the corner.

“Thanks.” I square my shoulders and toss my ponytail behind me.

And here we go.

From there on out, it's easy. I stride into the conference room as if the job is already mine. From the moment I start talking, the investors—a middle-aged African American woman named Diane, who is the managing director from the VC firm, and a leftover dot-com millionaire named Amit—are intent and focused, holding my eye contact and scribbling occasional thoughts on their notepads. Jamie, for whom this represents a tantalizing preview of the heights her company is climbing to, is nodding like a bobblehead after a pothole.

“So,” I say as I conclude my last presentation slide, “does anybody have any questions?”

And they do. Which is good. How does the gray water system work? How much is it likely to cost? Are there tax credits available for this sort of green design? Will the air-cleaning properties of the plants allow them to install a lighter-duty HVAC system? Everything they ask me, I'm ready for, and they are visibly impressed at the thoroughness of my responses. By the time Diane finally rises to thank me for coming in, there's not a doubt in my mind that I've got the job.

As I'm unlocking the Honda a few minutes later, I catch sight of my reflection in the window. I'd never realized exactly how badly my trusty old interview jacket was fitting me these days; it literally looks as though I borrowed it from another person. Someone with the fuller breasts and narrower shoulders I had before seven years of muay thai whittled my body into its present shape. I peel off the jacket and arc it into a nearby trash can. It's
official: my first purchase with my Balm retainer is going to be a killer new suit.

“How did it go?” John demands when I call him that afternoon. “Did you kick butt?” Hearing his voice is like sinking into a chair long worn to my shape.

“I won't know for a while…they have to talk amongst themselves and make a decision.”

“But did you
kick butt
?” he repeats.

Pride shoves at me, nudging open my reserve. “Well, far be it from me to toot my own horn, but…”

“You kicked butt!” he crows. Suddenly there's a massive crash, like a wrecking ball slammed through the wall of his bedroom.

“John? John! What happened? Are you okay?” Seconds stretch past in silence. My heart hammers faster and faster as he does not respond. Then, from very far away, I can hear a long, muttered stanza of curses. “John!” I yell. “Please tell me that you're okay!”

There's a scratching noise, then some more curses, then he finally reappears. “Ree-Ree? You still there?”

“Of course I am. What the hell happened to you?”

“Knocked my damn chair over,” he grumbles. “I was so excited, I leaned the damn thing too far back and it just went over.”

“Are you okay? Nothing broken?” I've been worrying about a hip fracture for years.

“Nah, just a bruised keister,” he says. Then the chuckles start trickling out of him. “Oh, I bet you would have laughed real good if you'd seen me, girl. Feet went right up in the air.”

His laughter infects me. “People say ‘head over heels,' but it sounds like you went more heels over head, huh?”

“I sure did,” he says. “So when do you find out about this job, then?”

“I'm not sure. Could be a couple weeks, I guess.”

“So, you'll have time to come home for a weekend before you have to start kicking butt officially, then!”

I trace my index finger across the satiny surface of my desk. “I'm sorry, I can't right now. But maybe I could look at changing my ticket for Christmas to add a couple extra days. Maybe Noah could even fly out, too, after he sees his folks. How about that?”

He grunts. “That's not for another three months.”

“I know. And I'd love to see you. I just…you know how it is for me. It hurts too much.”

“Honey girl, it always hurts. It always will. Maybe it will hurt a little less if you start spending some more time around here. Maybe it would help. You can't just avoid your home forever…it's been ten years now. Maybe it would help you, you know, heal.”

“Yeah, like you're the one to talk about healing,” I snap, and instantly hate myself. “Ugh, John, I'm sorry.”

“No, that was fair,” he says quietly. “Listen, you do what you can. I'm just a selfish old man, and I miss you.”

The sadness in his voice tugs at my throat. “Tell you what. Why don't I start with Christmas, and go from there? I miss you too.”

Mollified, he agrees. I'm dreading the extra time at home, but if it will make him happy, I'll endure it. I don't have any hopes about “healing,” though. Every year, my trip home is like scraping a scab off an open wound, smudging blood on the surrounding skin. There's no reason on earth a longer visit would make a difference; the only thing it's going to do is make it worse.