Chapter 27
Chapter
I get home at two a.m., thanks to another car Mark Winterson called, and doze off for a few hours before my alarm goes off.
I wake up in such a fog, I wonder if last night was a dream—but there’s the contract in my inbox as a (somewhat jarring) reminder.
My brain feels so tender and hazy, my first thought is: I can’t deal with running into Greg today.
I don’t want to have to explain myself yet—and where does he find the nerve, anyway?
—so I tell Erica I’m not feeling well and that I need to work from home.
At lunchtime, Greg texts again asking if I’m okay, but I don’t write back. And then a message from Mark Winterson pops up on my screen: Come sailing tomorrow.
Oh sure, normal second-date stuff! I have to laugh out loud, and it’s been so quiet in my house all day, the sound of my own voice startles me. But after a few minutes of agonizing, I write back: What should I wear?
When the car he sent to fetch me pulls up at the marina, Mark Winterson is standing at the curb, wearing a cable-knit sweater that reminds me of the rich guy from Knives Out.
“Hey, Ruby,” he says as he opens the door and offers me a hand. He peeks his head inside and says, “Thanks, man,” before closing the door and waving the driver off.
Mark Winterson leads me through a gate and down a long, narrow dock where boats are moored on either side.
“Here we are,” he says, gesturing to the back steps of a gleaming white boat.
When we get onto the lower deck, he picks me up, spins me around, and kisses me. I’m breathless from laughing, lightheaded, smoothing down the too-short dress I decided to wear. For a second, I forget how nervous I am for this date.
“So,” he says. “How do you like it?”
I shake my head, taking everything in. This back area is large enough for a couple of sleek beige couches outfitted with an assortment of blue throw pillows. There’s a whole inside area ahead, and another deck above us.
“Yeah, wow, I…” My brow furrows. “Is this a…yacht?”
His smile stretches. “Sorry I could only get a small one on short notice.”
I survey the second level, feeling slightly insane. “This is small?”
He lets out a short laugh. “It’s my dad’s.”
Mark Winterson leads me inside to where the controls are. The…steering wheel? Whatever you call the thing that makes a yacht go.
He motions for me to sit beside him as he takes the boat out onto the water, narrating what he’s doing for my edification while I nod along, overstimulated. The marina gets smaller and smaller behind us, and the wind whips my hair.
“Okay, this will do,” he says, easing the boat to a stop. “I’ll give you the tour?”
This boat is fancier than the fanciest hotel I’ve ever stayed in—clean lines, bright wood floors, and modern furniture in shades of beige and blue, like I’m inside a West Elm that somehow ended up in the middle of the ocean.
“There’s, like, a dozen households’ worth of couches on this boat,” I say, dumbfounded.
Mark Winterson laughs as though he’s humoring a child who said something strange.
The realization stirs, vaguely, that I go around all the time telling myself I’m rich, in an admonishing way.
I’m aware of how much I have, especially compared to Mom when she was a kid.
I grew up comfortable in a suburban house.
I always had something to eat and a roof over my head.
I splurged on an Erewhon smoothie that one time.
But I forget about actual rich people and how little I know about what they’re up to.
As we’re walking around, I keep snapping pictures to show Mom later.
“You’re so cute,” he says, giving me a one-armed side hug. “It’s fun experiencing things through your eyes. Guess I take things for granted.”
His tone rankles me. “Oh, well, it’s not every day I go out on a small yacht.” I take a couple more pictures of the view off the side for good measure.
Mark Winterson sits on one of the pristine couches, and I perch next to him, angling my phone to take a selfie with the ocean in the frame behind us.
“Where are you posting that?” he asks, strangely on edge.
“Relax, Mark, I read your contract.” I pat his leg with one hand. “Mutual consultation on posting photos of each other to social media. I’m just sending it to…”
I nearly say my mom, thinking I can make up a fake story for him where she’s still alive—the way Mom would edit the details of my life for new acquaintances she’d make sometimes, even when I was right there.
A freelance graphic designer I was dating became a creative director.
My completely average GPA in college became nearly valedictorian, came so close but someone else got it, can you believe?
My closet of an apartment in New York that I shared with three roommates became She’s living with friends in Brooklyn, so trendy and glamorous, you know kids these days.
She’ll get it out of her system and move back soon, though.
It gave me an out-of-body feeling, the way Mom would edit around the facts, sew all her deepest wishes into their lining, embellish until the familiar details became strange to me.
But of course Mark Winterson knows about Mom. He’s staring at me, eyebrows raised. “Send it to…?”
“My aunt. So she knows you’re real. She was asking about you.”
He makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a cough. “Sure, that’s fine. I am real, last time I checked.”
His phone starts ringing, and he visibly startles. “Sorry, I was waiting for this one.” He waves it in the air. “I should take it. Be right back.”
Mark Winterson jogs up the stairs to the upper deck, and I settle into the couch to send Mom the picture of us.
ruby.ocampo:
Mom! Meet my boyfriend
I let that sit there for a few minutes. Maybe she’ll be happy now. Maybe she’ll find some peace.
sampaguita72:
Cute! You look good together. That’s the kind of guy you should be dating.
Find out his credit score!
Then I send a burst of photos from the yacht.
ruby.ocampo:
I’m sure it’s great
sampaguita72:
Oh my gosh! Is that real?
I press the phone to my chest. Maybe it will work this time. I have to be ready for her messages to be gone tomorrow. For her to be gone tomorrow.
It’s what you’ve been scrambling to accomplish this whole time. It’s what you want for her. You can’t regret it now!
I force myself to take some long, steady breaths.
And then my phone buzzes with a message from my cousin.
Trisha:
Ate Ruby we’re having another family party
Two weeks from today! Saturday!
You have to come okay! It’s boring without you
She actually wants me there? I can’t really argue with that.
But writing back and sounding normal right now is too overwhelming, so I mentally file it away for later.
A few more messages from Mom appear on my screen.
sampaguita72:
How much must that boat cost?
Is this his boat?
ruby.ocampo:
It’s his dad’s!
sampaguita72:
So impressive!
Seems like you’ve found a real keeper
She sounds happy—but somehow she’s still here?
Okay. Okay, maybe these things aren’t instant. Maybe I need to stick with it, keep sending her photos so it seems like a serious relationship. We have technically only been dating for less than forty-eight hours.
My head flops back against the couch, and I glance around the room.
On the coffee table in front of me are some navy folders with Winterson Capital embossed in gold.
And I notice other objects around the room with the same logo: a baseball cap on the counter, a fleece draped over a chair, a tote bag tucked in a corner.
Mark Winterson comes back down the stairs, balancing carefully because he has a champagne flute in either hand.
“Sorry about that.” He hands me one as he settles next to me, and we clink glasses. “Glad you’re here.”
I’m still on edge, between everything with Mom, and the opulent setting—not exactly in my element, here—and how prickly he was a moment ago. But now he’s giving me that old soft smile.
I sip the champagne and realize I probably haven’t eaten enough today, but I don’t quite feel comfortable asking for a snack. Mark Winterson puts a hand on my knee and gives it an affectionate squeeze.
“Do I antagonize you too much?” I ask, giving him my best Bugs Bunny grin.
He smiles wider. “No, I like it. It gets boring, being placated all the time.”
A reassuring warmth spreads in my chest. He likes my bad personality, and the probing, slightly inappropriate questions I ask. I guess I’ll keep going.
“You gave me the basics of your résumé, but…tell me something I can’t find out by googling you.”
“Do you spend much time googling me?”
“A totally normal amount.”
He seems to enjoy that idea. Maybe being googled is his love language. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me…something you’re insecure about?”
Mark Winterson laughs thinly. “You can’t just come out and ask stuff like that. You’ll never get a straight answer.”
“Even if I signed a light NDA?” I set my champagne glass on a side table. “If you can’t tell me now, when can you tell me?”
It takes me by surprise when he reaches for me and pulls me into his lap. “You’ve got me there.”
He’s quiet for a bit, head resting on my shoulder, arms around my waist. “This is going to sound pathetic,” he starts.
“Try me.”
“When I was growing up, I was just ‘Grant’s son’ to everyone.”
“Grant Winterson of Winterson Capital, I presume?”
He barely chuckles. “Yeah. My dad’s this larger-than-life guy, for everyone in our social world. And in college, my cousin Zack—you’ll meet him at some point—”
My cheeks warm at the way he’s talking, like this is actually serious.
“Everyone was obsessed with him. And I was just ‘that guy who tags along with Zack.’ And now I’m…the guy who looks like some more famous, slightly taller guy?”
That makes me snort, and his chest shakes, too, reassuring me that I’m laughing with him.
“I’d love to break this streak,” he says quietly into my ear. “Be known for something that’s actually about me. Leave an impression that isn’t secondhand.”
“You want to make your mark,” I say, and his laugh jostles me again. “Sorry, I’m terrible.”
Mark Winterson plants a kiss on my neck. “No, uh, you’re not wrong.”
“So you’ll turn TKCORP around, save this storied institution, be remembered for that?”
“More or less.” He kisses the shell of my ear. “If I can prove myself to Erickson, secure my place here—maybe I can.” Then he stands suddenly, scooping me up in his arms, and I shriek.
“Okay, now that you’ve grilled me”—he carries me across the floor, sun winking off the chrome surfaces inside the boat and the blue waves beyond—“I’m regretting that the tour barely glossed over the bedroom.”