Chapter 28
Chapter
Some time later, we’re lying in the giant bed—what is this, a California king?—in the private room in the center of this yacht, sprawled across each other and exhausted.
“The stock market sounds fake to me,” I say breezily, trying not to sound as embarrassed as I feel. “Like, it just crashed that time.”
“Your money could be doing more for you.”
I shift so my cheek rests on his stomach like a pillow, getting a view of his jawline as he stares at the ceiling. “Money stresses me out.”
He peers down at me, giving himself a fleeting double chin. “I’m sure you love money as much as anyone else.”
My brain shuts down as soon as Mark Winterson starts talking about ETFs.
When I think about financial instruments of any kind, my head fills with fear fear fear.
Fear of losing what I have, all my money vanishing, because I don’t understand these things, and I don’t trust them, or myself.
The way Greg lost his house, and his mom had to scramble.
The way Mom would stash envelopes of cash in random places in case all the things we trusted to prop up our lives failed.
The way she talked like that was a real possibility, like we had to climb and climb because the ground’s not solid.
Mom was always so worried about something happening to me—she justified everything she did that way.
I want you to act right so you’ll be safe and have a nice life.
She would regulate the order in which I ate the things on my plate for optimal digestion, because she read all these books that claimed gut health was the key to success.
Every time I got sick, Mom would say it was my fault for not being careful enough.
Later, in New York, when I had more distance, I’d look back and think: Maybe because things felt so out of control after Dad left, it was comforting to exercise control over at least one other person. The way she’d say, I’m scared of something happening to you. I don’t want to lose you too.
And then she goes and dies! God, what a hypocrite!
Tears are springing to my eyes for no reason, and before I can hide it, Mark Winterson is sitting up, cupping my cheek in his hand.
“I didn’t realize this was such a touchy subject.” He lets out an uncomfortable little laugh. “Are you okay?”
The echo of an almost-formed thought is still ringing in my ears, and I can’t quite focus on being in this room with him. Maybe “fear of losing” and “love” could be close enough to the same thing?
“Yeah, just…emotional about money.” I sniff and give him a weak smile.
Mark Winterson folds me up in a hug. “I don’t exactly understand what happened here, but—are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Okay, then.” He looks at me like he’s not sure. “In that case, I’m going to shower. We have dinner reservations.”
He gets up, and a few minutes later, I can hear water running. My eyes dart around this unreal room and come to rest on one of those management books he likes—left face down on the nightstand, like he got a call in the middle of reading and abandoned it.
Mom raised me to never touch anything at another person’s house without permission, and to this day I’m fascinated with people who can wander into someone else’s home and casually pick things up, examine them, help themselves to food in the fridge.
But (a) it’s someone else’s small yacht, and (b) curiosity must override my superego.
I reach for the book, peering closely at the underlined pages, trying to decipher Mark Winterson’s spidery handwriting in the margins.
He’s underlined a passage about how high turnover can be good for growth, and dread sharpens between my ribs.
Mark Winterson comes back into the bedroom wearing fresh clothes, toweling off his wet hair. He crosses the room and plucks the book out of my hands, tossing it onto the bed with extra agitated snap.
“How important are layoffs to your management philosophy?” I ask, trying to keep my voice level and pleasant.
“Hey, let’s be clear.” He points at me. “No one said anything about more layoffs.”
That is…not comforting, the way he just said that.
Mark Winterson scrubs the towel vigorously through his hair again. “But, yes, unfortunately, they’re sometimes a necessary tool in the tool kit. Can’t advance without some creative destruction.”
“What does that mean?”
He makes a vague gesture. “That the market wants what it wants.”
“Who is the market?” I get out of bed and start putting my clothes on—underwear, skirt, bra. “Have you met them?”
Mark Winterson gives me another indulgent laugh. “The individual choices of millions of people that move as their own force, take on a will of their own. And, you know—our shareholders.”
My discarded shirt is flung over a chair in the corner, and I cut across the room to retrieve it, but he blocks my path with his body.
“Seriously though, Ruby.” Mark Winterson grabs my wrist. “Don’t go through my things.”
“It was a book you left open!” I wrench my hand back. “I was curious what you were reading.”
“I mean it.” The edge in his voice makes me shiver.
“Okay! Okay, I won’t.” I rub my wrist. “Sorry.”
I’m suddenly very aware that we’re surrounded by ocean, and I can’t exactly make my own way home.