Chapter 50 Tommy
Tommy
The woman holding a cocktail across from me—I can’t remember her name—is talking about Paris.
Something about her spring travel, art galleries, fashion shows.
I can’t follow the thread. Her voice is pitched high, and it grates against the noise of the fundraiser—glasses clinking, silverware scraping, people laughing too loud.
It’s all crashing into my head at once.
I try to anchor myself on one detail—the fake eyelash clump askew on her left eye—but that irritates me, too.
When she suggests that I might like to go with her on a weekend trip to Paris and touches my hand, it’s too much.
“You’re wasting your time.”
She blinks, confused.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not going to Paris. I don’t want to travel.
I don’t even want to be here.” My words come out flat, unvarnished.
“Save yourself the effort.”
Her face reddens like I slapped her.
“Wow. You are unbelievable. Why did you ask me out if I’m such a bore?
”
I realize I overstepped and try to force a half smile.
With my luck, this is the moment the paparazzi will catch and spread all over the media.
She grabs her bag, and I reach out to grab her hand, trying to stop her.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s been a long day.
”
“Don’t bother, Mr. Demonio. Your reputation precedes you,” she snaps haughtily, her heels clacking on the marble floors as she walks away.
That’s the third one this month. Sixteenth one since we started this dating interview process after the New Year’s Eve party seven months ago.
They’ve all ended like this, more or less.
When the fundraiser is winding down and I can finally escape to the car, I let out a breath as I close the car door, tugging at my collar and loosening my tie.
Una is waiting with her tablet, already frowning.
“That one was particularly difficult,” she says, measured.
“Not the first time a woman’s had this reaction, but the way she left—it was unfortunately visible.
”
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes.
“It’s the first time we spoke at all on a personal level, and she’s talking about traveling with me.
It was clear she wanted something I have no intention of offering, and I told her that.
Isn’t that better than pretending?”
“It’s better for you,” Una agrees.
“But Donovan didn’t want better for you.
He wanted you to look steady, respectable, family-values oriented.
The more you’ve attempted to do that, the more you look like a man who chews women up and spits them out.
”
Her words hang heavy. Seven months of being shoved into dates at events, parties, fundraisers, conversation after conversation that feel like a foreign language I’ll never be fluent in.
Seven months of not seeing Giovanna.
Though I text her every day, I get no response.
Still, I can’t stop. It’s habit now, and my brain refuses to let go.
It circles back to her like a compass needle snapping north.
Her voice comes to me in this situation like it always does: You have to figure out what people really want.
Not what they say they want, but what they actually want.
Then you convince them that the way to get what they want is by doing what you want.
I drag a hand down my face. “What do these women want, Una? Really want?”
She hesitates.
“A relationship. To be treated well. To—”
“No.” The word is harsher than I intend, but I can’t help it.
“Why would she think she wants a relationship with me if she doesn’t know me?
”
Una studies me silently, like she’s filtering her response.
Finally, she says, “Because with you, it’s not about the relationship itself.
It’s about the feeling. They want status.
They want to feel important.
To be seen—not just with you, but by you.
If you don’t mind me saying so, you’re very handsome.
You’re young and powerful. You are attached to powerful people and lots of money.
What’s not to like? On paper, anyway.”
I stare at her, and for the first time since this situation started, the information rearranges itself in my brain like puzzle pieces clicking into place.
I know how to handle these women so that I get what I need, and they get what they think they need.
“I get it.”
She tilts her head. “So what now?”
“Now,” I say, “you make sure there are photographers at whatever event you stick me in next. I don’t care if it’s a gallery opening or a fucking bake sale.
Just make sure the cameras are there.”
“Putting them in the spotlight alone won’t fix this,” she pushes back gently.
“If you want them to leave happy, you need to give them more than a flashbulb. Something like a private dinner or a walk. Anything that feels personal, even if it’s public, otherwise they’ll see right through it.
”
“No.” My voice sharpens again. I shudder thinking of Giovanna seeing pictures of me having an intimate dinner with someone or, God forbid, going on a walk with them.
“Nothing like that. No dinners, no walks, nothing that gives them the wrong idea. I will give them what they want in the moment, publicly—nothing more.”
Her stylus stills.
“And the ones you’ve already hurt? Do you want me to try to repair that?
”
“How?”
“A second date. A softer version of you.”
“I don’t have a softer version.
”
She exhales, patient but firm. “Then send something like a gift with a note that lets them know that you respect them and their time.”
“Flowers?” I ask, even though I already hate the idea.
“No. That’s too generic, too impersonal.
Something a little higher end like jewelry is going to give them a bit of what they were looking for in dating you in the first place.
If it’s tasteful and it comes with a note, it can communicate value, gratitude, and finality.
”
Jewelry. My mind snags hard on the engagement ring I left with the orchid for Giovanna on the night of her graduation.
How would she feel about me giving jewelry to other women?
I shake my head. “Jewelry feels too serious.”
“It doesn’t have to be.
A necklace or a ring is definitely too grand, but something like a brooch, a bracelet, maybe a hair accessory.
Think of it like you’re closing the door without slamming it.
”
I shrug. “If that’s what it says, then fine.
Take care of it. And do better in your vetting process going forward.
No more weird invitations to Paris or women who touch me.
At all. I hate that.”
She makes a note, and I let my head fall back against the seat.
I hope there won’t be much fallout from tonight in terms of press.
I don’t want negative photos for Donovan’s sake, and I don’t want Gi to see me happily talking to another woman either, though it’s not like it would be the first time for either one.
I wonder what Giovanna thinks when she sees these pictures.
If she’s really with Antonio or someone else, she may pretend not to care, but my brain can’t stop replaying seeing her last New Year’s Eve.
Everything about that interaction says she’s not over me.
Right?
Whether she is or not, the truth is that no matter what it looks like in the papers—no matter what I’m forced into, no matter how many women storm away from me—the only one I want is her.