Chapter Twelve #2
He studied me for a long moment, and I wondered if he was weighing the advantages and disadvantages of truly trusting me. “You’re sure?”
I nodded.
“Okay, then.” Adam sucked in a deep breath.
“For years, I couldn’t really talk about this, but I’ve had enough therapy to last four lifetimes, and that’s helped me process it.
” He leaned back in his chair. “Preston and I were best friends after boot camp, we instantly clicked. I had trouble fitting in with the rest of the people in our unit, but he and I connected. And we also got along with another guy. Groucho was his nickname. We were always together, even on the morning when we went out on patrol in Kandahar. We passed by what was left of a school and…” Adam grimaced.
“No one knew the IED was there until it went off. One minute we were laughing, and the next…Groucho didn’t make it.
He was dead before they got him back to post. And…
Preston and I got out of the military after that.
As soon as we finished our commitments, we left.
Neither of us wanted to stay in longer than we had to. We were done.”
“Oh my god.” I kicked myself mentally. Could that reply have sounded more stupid? More banal? I didn’t think so. “I mean, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry for what you went through.”
“War is hell.” His eyes narrowed until they reminded me of tiny, dark slits.
“Anyone who tells you something different is lying, or insane.” His expression softened.
“I guess that’s what is driving Preston and me.
We literally have nothing to lose, and that means we’re willing to take enormous risks. That can be very good for business.”
“Look at all you have done together,” I said, still marveling at what he’d just revealed to me. The last few years hadn’t been easy for Adam, either. “It’s extraordinary.”
“It turned into a great partnership, and a lot of people remark on it. Last year, Forbes did a huge feature on how our friendship makes the company better, makes InstaPost sing.” He bit back a smile.
“I was flattered. A poor foster kid like me, featured in one of the most powerful business magazines in the world.”
“You’re far away from a foster kid,” I murmured. “That’s not your identity.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s part of what made me. In the end, our past is what makes us who we are.” He regarded me for a few moments. “But I don’t mind my screwed-up childhood as much as I used to. I overcame most of that a long time ago; the sands of Afghanistan beat it out of me.”
“You’ve done a lot in ten years.” I swallowed some more wine, hoping it would give me a little more liquid courage. “It’s like you went to the moon or something.”
He recoiled. “What did you say?”
“I just mean it’s a big deal.” I gawked at him. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No…” He drifted off, as though lost in some memory.
Then he continued, “When we were over there, we had some downtime between patrols, and we had to fight off boredom in some way. The long stretches of sitting in a Humvee gave us a lot of time to brainstorm. So, we did.” He drank more wine.
“Preston and I founded InstaPost on a piece of paper from the notebook I carried in my jacket. I’ll never forget where we were—on a dusty road near the Salang Pass in Hindu Kush.
It was freezing that day, and we were waiting for some insurgents.
Preston had the idea, and when we got back to America, we sat down at a Starbucks in New York City and hashed out the remaining details. ”
“Wow.” I was awed, and sure he heard it in my voice. I felt almost embarrassed in his presence; here sat someone who had done so much with his life, despite starting with so many setbacks. My own decisions paled in comparison. “You guys did all of it yourself?”
“We got a lot of help, trust me. This didn’t happen with just the two of us. Preston’s dad has a lot of business contacts and that came in handy.” He smiled. “No one ever does anything completely alone.”
The waiter arrived with the escargot, explaining why the chef had chosen to present it on the plate a certain way, and asking if we wanted any more wine. I barely heard him. I just wanted to hear more of Adam’s story.
“Everyone uses InstaPost,” I said, still processing his Afghanistan story. “Everyone. It’s one of the most popular apps in iTunes.”
“We like it that way.” Now his mouth broke into a wide grin.
“I mean, if we were going to do something, we needed to really do something, right? And I guess in a way, I have the military to thank for it. So, going into the service wasn’t all bad, even if it was…
unexpected.” He picked up his escargot fork. “Shall we?”
I followed his lead. “I love escargot.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
I blanched, once again reminded of what had been.
My childhood had been a gilded world, and I knew it.
A universe of French phrases, Latin tutoring, lessons in etiquette, measurements on how to walk, how to talk, and how to write the perfect thank-you note and conduct the best cocktail party conversations.
It was all so orchestrated, right along with the extensive experience I had eating some of the world’s best delicacies. And where had that gotten me?
Nowhere.
“I’m happy for you,” I told him after I ate my first mouthful. Adam took his own bite from the other side of the plate. “I wanted you to succeed, even though I felt broken-hearted after you left.” I washed the salty delicacy down with some wine. “And now you have.”
“Thank you.” Then he put his fork down and fixed his gaze on me, pausing for what felt like half an hour. “It was all for you, you know.”
“All for me?” I frowned. “What do you mean, all for me?”
“Just what I said: InstaPost, the company, the house here, all of it.” He waved a hand, as if dismissing his accomplishments. “Everything I’ve done since getting out of the military has been for your benefit, Lila.”
I gulped, my tongue turning thick in my mouth. “I’m not sure I understand.”
He glanced away and laughed to himself. “I used to think if I ever saw you again, it would be about revenge—that I would shove all of my success in your face, letting you know just how much I had done since those stolen moments we had when we were teenagers.” His gaze returned to me.
“But then I saw you again, and I realized, it could never be about that. Not with you. Instead, I want us to…to start again. I know I’ll never be like you.
But the money sure helps. And all of this”—he waved his hand around at the restaurant—”I can do whatever I want now, Lila. Whatever you want.”
“I’m still not sure I—”
“Do you know what Martin said to me when I walked out that day, after your father accused me to forcing myself on you in the library?” He clutched his wine glass with two fingers and moved them up and down the stem as he spoke.
“He told me I’d have to make a billion dollars to get a chance with someone like you, and that was about as likely as going to the moon.
” Adam smiled. “Well, I don’t have a billion dollars, Lila, but I have more than enough.
And I do run a billion-dollar company. I think it’s time I had another chance. That we did. A real one.”
“With me? If you believed my father’s lies, why would you want to be with me?”
“Preston convinced me. I carried that anger with me for years, but I also carried your boats. I didn’t throw them away.
No clue why really, but Preston suggested that deep down, I felt your belief in me.
And I couldn’t reconcile that someone who had shown such belief in me would then turn around and tell her father she’d been coerced. ”
“Why didn’t you look me up? When you came home. Why not reach out to me?”
“Your dad told me if I ever did, he’d destroy me. So, I worked hard to gain the success I felt I needed to be…well, to be enough for you.” He shrugged at that final comment, and it reminded me of the boy he’d been.
I put down my fork. The appetizer could wait. “And the parties?” I asked, still struggling to understand why this gorgeous-looking man had wanted to find me.
“I guess I believed that parties were so much a part of your world. That eventually you’d come.” Did he think I only cared about parties and frivolity?
“Why go to all that effort? Once Dad died, I mean. You could have contacted me then.”
“More fun this way,” he replied, and his eyes roamed up and down my body, stopping for the faintest of moments on my shoulders and collarbone. “More poetic.”
I stared at him for a few breaths, my tongue growing thick in my mouth. “My father wasn’t the man you thought, the man you feared. And not only because of what he did to you with the sexual assault accusation. That’s only the beginning.”
I moved my hand to the edge of my chair and gripped the wood, desperate to hang on to something, to find something to steady me.
I didn’t know why. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, which blended so well with the expression on his face, all as a throwback to the moment in the library as kids, when I’d sworn for a moment he could see into my soul and beyond.
Whatever it was, the energy between us had changed, and I didn’t feel ready for it.
“I’m sorry my father hurt you that way, that he lied to you, and to me,” I managed. “He hurt me so much over the years. And when I say that, I mean, he hurt me.”
“You keep saying that.” Adam’s gaze remained fixed on me, and he drank the last of his wine. “And I keep wondering why.”
I glanced at the rest of the dining room. It was almost full, but the closest table to ours was at least ten feet away. The unexpected privacy of that booth was one of the best parts about sitting there. Besides, this was Adam. I wanted to be honest with him. Needed it.