10. Emzee
EMZEECHAPTER 10
I t could get exhausting, trying to keep up the schedule for See Yourself.
I loved the work I did—loved working with the ex-models, loved the classes I taught, loved knowing I was making a difference—but for the most part, all the behind-the-scenes logistics that went into making a nonprofit function tended to wear me out completely.
My main goal for the day had been to schedule the new guest instructors and classes for the next few months, but every time I called some rich and/or successful person who had expressed interest in volunteering with us, I was met with the exact same response.
“Oh, Emzee, it’s such a great cause, and you know I truly, truly want to be involved, cross my heart, but it’s just that I am so busy these days and…” Blah, blah, blah.
I nodded, even though I knew that Kendra couldn’t see me.
She was the latest socialite I’d called, who’d sworn just a few months ago that she’d be thrilled to give a presentation on how to perform well during job interviews—a life skill my students would obviously benefit from learning.
And now this.
More excuses, more rejections, and a lot more panic on my part.
“Are you sure you can’t make the time?” I asked, feeling a little desperate.
“It’s just a one-day seminar. Two to three hours, max.”
“Let me see…”
I could practically hear her tapping her way through her calendar app.
“Maybe I could do something next month?” she said.
I pumped my fist with excitement.
Kendra was one of the people I’d been counting on.
She was a part-time recruiter for the most renowned makeup and fashion companies in the world, so she knew firsthand what made a resume sing or an interview crash and burn.
Flipping to next month’s schedule, I said, “What about the ninth or the sixteenth?”
“Hmm. Oh. Wait,” she said.
My pen drooped, and I braced myself for what was coming next.
“Gosh, it’s just that I’m going to be in Monte Carlo ,” she said with a tragic sigh.
“You understand, don’t you? We’ll have to reschedule when I get back.”
“Sure,” I said.
“That’d be great.”
After I hung up, I threw my desk calendar across the bedroom.
I’d spent my entire morning on the phone with people like Kendra.
People I’d met at galas or fundraisers or parties, who had expressed such genuine interest in See Yourself that I’d thought they would jump at the chance to be directly involved in shaping the future of these women.
Instead, whenever I called and tried to actually get them on the schedule, they all had excuses.
For Kendra it was Monte Carlo.
For the Wirtzes, it had been the annual shareholders’ meeting in Paris.
Lily was in Tahiti “for the season,” while Maddie’s assistant informed me she was away filming a documentary on the homeless canine population in Athens.
None of them were available, but each of them had offered to write a check.
So, sure.
I’d be happy to take their money.
I couldn’t in good faith turn down operating funds for the program, but at the same time, it wasn’t what I needed.
I needed programming .
Gurus, educators, people who could help me and my students network.
Not just open wallets.
After all, the whole point of the nonprofit was to teach these girls life skills with the help of actual mentors—but even when I got someone to agree to teach a class (which was rare enough), they tended to want to center themselves and focus more on how good they felt about offering their time, instead of the people I designed the organization to help.
One husband and wife entrepreneurial team had even brought their own camera crew to record the class they taught, solely to be edited down and used in Instagram ads later.
Which I had allowed, because hey, more publicity.
But I was starting to feel like I was fighting an uphill battle.
And I was doing it all alone.
I’d been in bed for hours with my calendar and my computer on my lap desk, trying to work.
I couldn’t use Ford’s office, where the only available surface was the same desk we’d gotten down and dirty on top of.
The desk he’d bought with Claudia in fucking Paris.
There was no way I could’ve gotten any work done with all of that on my mind.
Setting my lap desk aside, I rolled over and face planted on the bed, letting the bedding muffle my exasperated groans.
Of course, my husband chose that exact moment to wander in.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
My head shot up, my hair—already in a haphazard bun on top of my head—flopping to the side.
Ford was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, looking irritatingly casual and handsome as he ate an apple.
He probably never had problems with people promising things they would never deliver.
“I just wish people would actually keep their word,” I said.
All the women I’d spoken with were acting like Claudia.
It was exactly the kind of thing she would do—agree to volunteer because it made her feel good, and then when it was time to actually do the work, back out and write a check instead.
“Keep their word about what?” he asked.
“Just frustrating charity stuff,” I said.
He frowned.
“You’re working on a Sunday?”
“I have to!” I said.
“It’s my nonprofit.”
Walking over, he sat on the edge of the bed.
Ever since he’d agreed to “respect” me, we’d managed to more or less keep our distance.
As if there was this unspoken agreement that even though we were sleeping in the same bed, we shouldn’t really touch each other.
“Talk to me,” Ford said gently.
Because I was able to actually prioritize the ex-models—unlike some people—I launched into a brief description of my issues with the flaky socialite volunteer-wannabes without being catty or mentioning the Claudia comparison.
An accomplishment of which I was quite proud.
After all, the last thing I wanted was to let on how pissy I still was about the whole Claudia thing.
“I just need someone—anyone—to come and teach a short, informative class on something career-related that would be useful for them in real life,” I said.
I was racking my brain trying to think of who else I could call when Ford cleared his throat.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
“Wait, what?”
“Why not?” he said.
“I can talk to them about real estate and business in general—that would be helpful, right?”
For a moment I just stared at him, surprised and overwhelmed by gratitude.
“Honestly, that would be amazing.”
“Cool. Let’s set a date then,” he said, pulling out his phone and looking at his calendar.
Unlike anyone else I’d dealt with all day, I had Ford written into the schedule in seconds—and then confirmed via pinkie swear.
It immediately put me in a better mood.
It also seemed to dissolve any lingering tension between me and Ford, to the point that after I’d put my laptop away, I felt like I could hang out with him almost normally.
Over the next few days, we finally started getting into a daily routine as a couple.
We were figuring out how to live together, taking turns with chores and meals, learning each other’s rhythms.
His apartment even began to feel more like home.
And our relationship solidified, in a sense—not into a real marriage exactly, but more like how it used to be.
Comforting and safe.
We woke up around the same time, though Ford got ready for the day a lot quicker than I did.
Because of that, he’d usually go to the kitchen and feed Munchkin before making coffee for us.
I’d always started my day with a meal, but eating a solid breakfast was apparently a bit of a new concept for Ford.
Still, he took to it readily, and we’d take turns cooking.
I figured out pretty quickly that he liked his eggs with cheese scrambled into them, and I noticed that he quietly changed to turkey bacon after I mentioned my preference for it.
We’d sit there eating companionably each morning, secretly feeding Munchkin the crusts of our toast under the table, both of us pretending we weren’t.
Afterward, we’d catch up on emails while we finished our coffee, and then head out to our separate offices (or my loft, if I had a photoshoot lined up).
For the majority of our waking hours, we conducted our lives completely apart, with minimal communication.
We had a dinner routine as well.
Neither of us were much for cooking, so we usually just got takeout, picked up by whoever was going to get home the latest.
Whoever got home first would set the wine to breathing.
We’d eat and drink and talk about work or my nonprofit, and then we’d take Munchkin out for his evening walk.
Once we were in bed, we’d revert to beast mode, fucking each other senseless, but the next day we would act like it had never happened.
All in all, my married life was fun and easy and simple.
We didn’t mention our problems, and we especially didn’t talk about sex—and how it was starting to feel more and more like the only place where we could really share our feelings without any words at all.
At least, that was how it felt for me.
Right now, it was the best I could hope for.