6. Rebecca #2
“I didn’t know he was like that,” I mumble. “You’re saying this as if I knew. I didn’t know.”
“I’m not blaming you,” Eric replies. “You’re right. You didn’t know. And I plan to personally make sure that Welch never bothers you again. You have my word on that.”
These words send a chill up my spine. I’ve never seen my boss like this.
His body language exudes a quiet, controlled anger.
As if he’s thinking very carefully about what he is going to do to Larry Welch.
And in a way, that’s so much more threatening than if he were to just let it all out, to rant and rave.
Somehow, I know that Eric means what he says when he promises me that Larry Welch will never bother me again. I believe him completely, without question.
“What I want to know,” Eric says. “Is why you’re associating with men below your rank.”
I blink at him.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “What?”
“Welch,” he says. “And the others. You dated that accountant for a while.”
“The accountant…” I wrack my tired brain, trying to remember an accountant that I dated. “I never dated an accountant.”
“Patrick Thorne,” he replies curtly.
I nearly laugh.
“Pat? ” I repeat, recalling the awkward blind date that my sister set me up with. “I didn’t date Pat. I went on one date with him. Three years ago . How…how did you even remember that? I barely remember it myself.”
“I remember many things. You know this.”
“I do,” I agree. “It’s scary how much you’re able to keep in your head. But that’s different. That’s work related things, research, hobbies and interests. Important things. Why do you remember the name of a man I went on a single date with from three years ago?”
“You’re my assistant,” he says. “Why would remembering details about your life not be important to me?”
“Maybe because of your general disdain for anything you consider to be a waste of time,” I reply. “Things like going out on dates. Or company parties. Or…”
I trail off. I don’t have another example. My head is pounding and the more that I talk, the more that I think about last night, the harder it pounds.
My boss is acting so out of character right now that I wonder if maybe I’m hallucinating. Maybe I’m actually still black out drunk, back at my own apartment, drooling onto the couch cushions in my living room. Maybe this is just a weird dream; a bad trip from a high I didn’t intend to catch.
“We’re getting off subject,” Eric continues. “And I’m running out of time. I have a meeting in an hour.”
“It’s Sunday,” I remind him.
“Yes,” he agrees. “It’s a Sunday meeting.”
I press my palm to my pounding forehead and close my eyes.
“I was going to ease into this subject, but you and I both know that I’m no good at delicate communication,” Eric says.
“So I’ll just say what’s on my mind, and I’ll leave you to think it over.
You’re on fertility medicine. I don’t know all the details.
I don’t know the reason. All I know is that women don’t take medication like that unless they’re trying to induce ovulation. ”
I nod, my eyes still closed, both hands on my forehead now. Is this really happening? Is my boss really talking to me about my ovaries right now? Seriously?
“If you want to have a child, that’s your business,” he continues. “But as far as genetic material, you could find a lot better than some accountant schmuck. Or Larry fucking Welch.”
What the hell is happening right now?
“These men are beneath you,” he says quietly. “Don’t reproduce with men who are beneath you in rank, who won’t be able to provide for you and the child.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I murmur. “You don’t even care about dating. You don’t know how hard it is, finding someone.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” he replies. “But this is why I want to make you an offer.”
My hands drop from my face, and I open my eyes to look at him. He’s staring back at me, his gaze hard and unwavering.
“An offer,” I repeat flatly.
“Yes,” he says. “Last night, you spoke to me a lot. I doubt you remember.”
“What did I speak to you about?” I ask, although I’m not sure I can handle the humiliating answer.
“You talked a lot about your mother and her expectations of you,” he says.
“About your younger sister recently getting engaged. About your job, working for me these last seven years. Your dreams of doing something else, of writing novels instead. And finally, you spoke to me about wanting to be a mother.”
I hold my breath.
“I can’t solve all these problems for you,” he continues. “Your mother, for instance. She is who she is, Rebecca, and you shouldn’t listen to the advice of a woman who is so personally miserable. She doesn’t know the first thing about happiness.”
“What did I tell you about my mother last night?” I ask in horror.
“It doesn’t matter,” Eric says. “My point is, some of your problems aren’t things I can do something about. But I can do something about a couple of them. Specifically two: your dream of being a writer, and your desire to be a mother.”
What the hell is he talking about?
“You have a need,” he continues. “So do I. I think we can help one another.”
“Eric,” I shake my head, and then quickly regret doing so when it begins to pound again. “I need you to get to the point. I don’t understand what you’re saying. I mean, it sounds like you want me to have your baby.”
I laugh at the ridiculousness of this, feeling embarrassed for even saying it aloud. But then I realize that Eric isn’t laughing.
“Wait…” I begin.
“If you want a child, I can make that happen for you,” he says.
“Even better, I can provide for you both, and be a good father. You can quit your job. Stay at home with the baby as much as you like. We can hire some help, too. You would have time to write novels, to do whatever it is you want to do.”
“This is insane,” I breathe, hardly believing the words I’m hearing from my boss right now.
“It’s unconventional,” he replies. “But then again, maybe not. Arranged marriages are normal in many cultures.”
“What? You didn’t mention marriage,” I say, sitting up straighter. “I thought you were only talking about a baby.”
“Children need their mother and father,” he says. “A stable home, a unified family. It’s what's best for their development. This is a proven fact. I intend to give my children the best.”
“Children,” I repeat. “ Children means more than one, Eric. Plural.”
“Yes. I’m aware,” he says. “Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. How many children do you want to have? I have always imagined having four.”
“Four,” I sputter, rising from the bed and pacing towards the door. “Four children? We’re not even…this isn’t…”
I trail off, turning on my heel to look at Eric. He looks at me impassively from the chair, his fingers still interlaced. If he’s joking—and Eric never jokes–I can’t tell.
“You’re serious,” I say faintly. “You’re seriously proposing that we get married and have children.”
“And you’d switch careers,” he reminds me. “You’d be able to write.”
“Right. I’d be able to write. That’s probably the least crazy part of this proposal,” I laugh. “Eric, I don’t know if you realize what you’re saying.”
“I do,” he says. “I thought about it all night. It’s the best way to resolve things. Both of us get what we need.”
“Right. You said you have a need, but you didn’t say what that need is,” I reply. “What do you get out of this proposal?”
Eric rises, walking to the closet door and opening it. He disappears inside and I hear the shuffling of hangers on the rack as he looks for his clothes.
“It’s obvious what I get from this,” he says from within the closet. “A wife and children. Believe it or not, Rebecca, I want those things. Most men do. It’s a very natural desire.”
He emerges from the closet with a bundle of clothing in his arms, tossing it on the bed beside me. Then he begins to strip off his sweatpants.
“Please,” I say, averting my eyes and shielding them with a hand. “Do you need me to leave the room, or something?”
“Like I said earlier,” Eric replies. “I think we’re beyond that at this point. I’ve seen everything of yours now. You’re free to look at me. It may help you make your decision about my proposal.”
I peel my hand away from my eyes and look at Eric, careful to keep my eyes above his waist. I’m checking for a sign of sarcasm in his expression, sure that he must be making a joke now.
He’s not.
But I can’t help it; I break out into full belly laughs now, nearly falling back on the bed. And then I wince when my head erupts again with pounding, searing pain between my temples.
“This is some hangover,” I groan, closing my eyes.
“You’re dehydrated,” he says. “I’ll make a call to my doctor. He can come by, do an IV vitamin drip.”
“A what?”
Eric pulls on his clothes—a pair of dark jeans and a white t-shirt that hugs the curves of his muscular chest and shoulders and looks like it would be soft to touch.
“IV vitamin drip,” he answers. “Replenishes your fluids, vitamins, and so on. It’s the fastest way to recover from a hangover.”
“Oh, hell no,” I groan. “No needles. I’ll stick with the coffee method of hangover recovery. Thanks though.”
“Your decision,” he says. “So Rebecca. I take it that your laughter just now means that you’re not interested in my proposal?”
I look at him.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just…I want all of those things. I do. But with the right person. A person I love, and who loves me back. I don’t want some kind of…some kind of emotionless arrangement.”
I’m careful to say this rejection in a kind way, not wanting to hurt his feelings.
When I look at Eric, I can’t read his expression.
But that’s nothing new; I can never read my boss’s expression.
He keeps his emotions—if he has any emotions at all—locked away, deep inside, far away from me and others.
“Understood,” he says simply.
And just like that, he drops the idea just as suddenly as he brought it up in the first place.
He turns and walks to the door, opening it. Before he steps out, he looks back at me and I think he’s about to bring the proposal back up again, say something to try to convince me.
Weirdly, I kind of want him to. I’m on the edge of desperation, the bittersweet milestone of my thirtieth birthday still fresh in my mind, and Eric paints a very pretty picture on nearly every front…except that it’s a picture that doesn’t include love.
And I want love. Need love. How do you marry a man who doesn’t love you? Have a child with a man who doesn’t love you?
No matter how badly I want to begin trying for a baby, to outpace my dysfunctional biological clock, I’m not sure I want it badly enough to go through with a plan like his.
But if he could offer me something, anything , to show me that I’m more to him than a vessel to fulfill his own dreams of fatherhood, then maybe I could consider it.
“There’s an espresso machine downstairs,” he says. “Orange juice in the refrigerator. Help yourself to anything you want. I’ve left my driver’s number on a note on the counter. Call him when you’re ready to leave, and he’ll take you wherever you need to go.”
“Okay,” I say faintly.
He looks at me for a few seconds longer and I think he might say something else. Instead, he gives me a curt nod and closes the door behind him.