Chapter 42
Chapter
“Charming little bed-and-breakfast,” I say as we enter our hotel room on the ground floor of a converted Craftsman home in Napa Valley.
It’s Memorial Day weekend, and Zack’s wedding festivities stretch over three days: rehearsal dinner tonight, ceremony tomorrow, brunch Monday morning before we drive back.
I sit on the four-poster bed and bounce, soaking in the cool from the central air after the long drive.
“It’s a boutique inn, technically,” Mark Winterson corrects, sitting next to me.
I give him a stink-eye to rival Mom’s, and he laughs at himself.
“Sorry, I’m insufferable.” He pushes my hair back and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Amazing that you put up with me.”
Why does he have to make my life harder by being self-aware?
But a little part of me is relieved he’s warming to me again, after the chilly drive up here.
I kept trying to ask him about his relationships with his dad, with Erickson—with his cousin, just for variety—but his answers were evasive bordering on annoyed, and he was driving so fast the whole way, it made me queasy.
Eventually he put on an audiobook about the history of IBM and we sat there for hours listening to it in tense silence.
“How’s your stomach doing?” he adds.
I asked him to pull over a few times on the drive so I could use the bathroom—setting the stage to explain why I’m not up for doing much on this romantic getaway.
I’ve been trying to be more sparing with physical intimacy, ever since I decided I was going to stab him in the back.
And I’ve actually managed to avoid sex entirely since then, given how work is consuming his life lately.
Even when I come over, he’ll be falling asleep or have to leave suddenly.
If I still legitimately wanted a relationship with him, I might even be sad about that.
Part of me hopes, in a far-off way, that he’ll naturally lose interest. After all, if his inbox is any indication, he’s a short-term serial monogamist to the point of absurdity. None of his relationships last longer than six weeks, and if he sticks to his usual pattern, we’re cruising to the end.
The company retreat is happening in a few days; I’ll break up with him after. And that means this weekend is my last, best chance to get his password. The pressure of it weighs on me, and that stomachache is becoming genuine.
He must notice I look ill, because he asks: “Need me to get you anything from the pharmacy?”
“I think I’ll manage,” I say with a weak smile.
“Maybe you should see a specialist when we get home.” He pats me lightly on the back, like he’s burping a baby. “Let’s get dinner, then? If you feel up to it.”
“Oh, don’t you have a rehearsal dinner? I don’t want to keep you. I’m sure I can figure something out.”
“Nah,” he says, offering me a hand up. “I’d rather hang out with you.”
A ripple of tenderness and guilt passes through me as I take his hand.
We make our way to the hotel restaurant on the back patio of the house—a farm-to-table, upscale place. The seating arrangement is cozy and intimate: two woven deck chairs angled beside each other, facing a small round table with a view of the vineyard.
I’m usually too embarrassed to ask for substitutions, but Mark Winterson orders for me, perfectly entitled and relaxed as he specifies exactly how plain he wants the chicken to be. And it’s weird to see how people listen to him.
But as the evening wears on, he seems increasingly distracted, constantly sighing and running a hand over his face. I wonder if there was some other reason he wanted to skip the rehearsal dinner, and I was just a convenient excuse.
It’s putting me on edge, and suddenly all the anxiety I’ve been shoving down hits me like a wall—about lying to him, about when he inevitably finds me out and sues me into financial ruin.
About what’s going to happen to everyone at work.
About what’s going to happen to Mom if I get fired and lose access to TKCORP Slack!
“Nervous about tomorrow?” I finally ask.
He blinks at me, startled, like he just remembered I was there.
“Sorry,” he says, rubbing both eyes with one hand. “Just—you know. Family.” And he gives me a tiny smile that lets me know he’s intentionally turning my own cryptic answer back on me.
“I do indeed,” I say, raising the ginger tea with honey and lemon he ordered for me in a mock toast.
How am I ever going to find out his password this way? If I can’t get him to talk, what am I even doing here?
I have to soften him up, I think as I watch the sun go down over the green hills in the distance. And maybe to do that I have to seem softer—like a safe place for his secrets to land. I have to channel the part of me that likes him a little bit to put on a more convincing performance.
“It’s okay.” I reach over and run my fingers through the hair on the back of his neck, massaging the tension there. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
He lets out an appreciative hum, and his eyelids flutter closed, soaking it up. “There’s also some business I have to take care of this weekend,” he mumbles.
“At a wedding?”
He smirks like it’s cute I’m so clueless. “Whole board’s going to be here. Some big suppliers. Potential investors. Erickson’s tasked me with a little persuasion. Smoothing the way for something he wants to do.”
“I see. Big assignment.” I give the back of his neck a squeeze, and he leans his head into my palm. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Make me laugh, like you always do.” Mark Winterson bends forward and kisses me lightly on the lips. “Make me look good.” The evening is mild, but I get a chill up my spine.
We head back to our room, and part of me is dreading what comes next. But he seems so exhausted as he sits on the bed and wrenches off his tie—this business tomorrow must really be weighing on him. And when I come out of the bathroom after doing my skincare routine, he’s already fast asleep.
The next morning, I spend over an hour getting ready, the words make me look good bouncing around in my head.
Finally I step out of the bathroom in the dress he chose and spin around so he can take in the full effect—but the dire look on his face makes me freeze on the spot.
You’d think he’d just learned about a massive earnings shortfall.
“No,” he says abruptly.
“No?”
“This doesn’t work. It’s too much.” He waves an agitated hand in my direction. “Too much makeup.”
My knee-jerk reaction is to laugh. I worked hard on that winged liner!
“It’s just your nerves talking, it’s going to be fine,” I say breezily, grabbing the clutch he bought me off the bed. “Let’s go, I want to see the grounds.” I need to get some photos for Mom before the ceremony.
“Hey.” He grabs my arm and his fingers dig into my skin, stopping my forward movement. “I have enough to worry about today, all right? Would you just fix it?”
He releases me and I take a staggering step back, heart racing.
“Please,” he adds, voice softening a touch. “My mother has opinions about these things.”
Oh. I hadn’t quite put two and two together. I’m meeting his parents.
“Fine!” I say, cut down to size, embarrassment scalding my cheeks. “Fine, just—just give me a few.”
Back in the bathroom, my hands shake as I fumble with the makeup remover.
When I come back out, face redone, Mark Winterson looks relieved.
“Thanks for humoring me,” he says, recovering some of that charm. He pulls me closer and kisses my temple. “I just want to show you off to everyone.”
I never knew, until this moment, that these emotions could coexist in my body: a twinge of tenderness; a roiling, white-hot fury; a weaselly little flattered feeling, even though I should know better.
He puts a hand between my shoulder blades, forcing me to stand straight. “Good,” he says, and my chest burns. “Remember to smile.”