2. Nash
2
Nash
Bet Me
I t’s true what they say: you should be careful what you wish for. When I wished for something to shake me up and sharpen my dulled senses, Catalina Fairchild was not what I had in mind.
There was a time when I didn’t miss a thing. No error was too small for me to catch. That’s why I’m so good at my job.
Or I was. Lately, I have to replay the same sequences way too often because I zone out. My mind wanders like I’m too bored to focus.
How could anyone get bored doing QA for Sacred Amoeba? They consistently outdo not only their competition, but themselves. I’d rather test for them than anyone, but my head’s fucked.
I know my splintered concentration is due to my ex-girlfriend launching her own company, a thing we were supposed to do together. Unfortunately, knowing the cause doesn’t cure it. Trust me, if I could stop thinking about her, I would.
To be clear, I don’t want her back in my life, but she’s using the company name I came up with—the one she said was dumb.
She’s nothing if not vindictive.
I own the condo we shared. In some twisted mental gymnastics, she decided I should cash out my equity and reimburse her for the changes she made to the place—renovations I never cared about to begin with, but went along with because she said they would make the space feel more like ours instead of just mine. So she would feel more at home.
Somehow, I ended up feeling guilty for owning my own place before I met her, instead of waiting for her to come along and have equal input in that decision.
The reality is now I’m going to have to spend money to rid my place of her bad taste.
At any rate, when she finally realized I wasn’t going to be an easy source of capital, she took my company name instead. I should let it go, wish her nothing but the best, and be glad she’s out of my life, but I spend an unhealthy portion of every day hoping she falls flat on her face, which I genuinely think is only a matter of time.
I just hate that she’ll be taking my company name down with her. I might’ve still wanted to use it someday. It would’ve been pointless to incorporate before I was fully committed to starting the company, but the name would still be mine if I had.
Finding out about her start-up has sparked new doubts for me, and that pisses me off more than the name thing. I constantly wonder if I made the right decision. I mean about not starting a company, not the breakup.
Did I really give up on the idea because of feasibility, or was it fear?
I’ve never been ruled by fear. Taking chances is my whole damn personality! Or it was before I had anything to lose.
I may not own a company, but I own a home and have money in the bank . . . things I always said I’d have, but now that I do, they feel more like weights than accomplishments some days.
“Do you eat chicken?” I ask Miss Household Name with the stunning eyes.
“It depends. How is it prepared, and where did it come from?”
“It came from the grocery store, just like the rest of this food.” I pull the rotisserie chicken from the bag on the counter and pop off the plastic lid.
“Those chickens have a ridiculous amount of sodium in them,” she informs the room as if she’s speaking to an audience. I see the influencer now.
“Maybe that’s what makes them taste so good.” I start breaking down the chicken with my fingers, tearing off pieces for my salad. And hers, if she can conquer her fear of a little flavor.
“I can roast a chicken in the oven that tastes way better and is much healthier.”
“If only you’d gotten here sooner.” I stare at her in an attempt to convey how little I care about the sodium level of this chicken. “But since you didn’t, do you want chicken on your salad or not?”
“Yes, but I’ll make my own.”
She opens cabinets until she finds the plates. “The bowls are all tiny. Are you okay with eating your salad off a plastic plate?”
“I’ve eaten off worse things.”
Her shoulders shimmy as if she’s actually gotten a chill thinking about the surfaces I may have eaten off of. She’s going to make this way too easy. If that’s all it takes to get that kind of reaction out of her, I’ll have her headed to a hotel in no time.
“Is there cheese?” she asks.
“No. I’m lactose intolerant.”
“Cheese is my main food group. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a salad without cheese.”
“I can give you directions to the store.”
“Never mind. What did you get for dressing?”
I hold up the bottle of ranch dressing.
“I’m pretty sure you can’t eat that if you’re lactose intolerant.”
“Fine. I just don’t like cheese.”
“How can you not like cheese? It’s not even just one thing. There are so many different types of cheese. It doesn’t make sense to say you don’t like cheese as a sweeping statement.”
Who knew someone could get so flustered about cheese? Her messy bun gets a little messier with all the emphatic head shaking and chin jerking she’s doing as she lists every kind of cheese she can think of. Girl knows her cheese.
She’s so high-strung, but the more undone she comes, the prettier she is, and I should not be looking at her like this. But she needs to relax like no one I’ve ever met. She needs a release.
I watch her eyes flit from side to side as she continues her cheese rant, and I imagine them drifting closed . . . her hair all the way down and her shoulders soft against my chest as my hand . . .
“Welp, I guess we’re not salad soulmates.”
Her voice halts like someone pressed her mute button. “We are not soulmates of any kind. We are complete opposites.”
“I bet we have a few things in common.” I layer my salad onto a plate, passing each ingredient to her when I’m done.
She eyes me warily as she takes the bowl of cucumber I’m offering. “Like what?”
Don’t say anything sexual. Don’t do it.
“New bet. If I can come up with three things we have in common, nobody goes to a hotel. We share this house for the week.”
It’s official. I’ve lost my damn mind.
“You wouldn’t survive a week in the same house as me. I’m apparently hard to live with.”
Based on the defensiveness in her voice, I’d say that’s a recently shared opinion.
“It’s a pretty big house. I’m set up in the downstairs bedroom and the living room. The upstairs would be all yours. There’s two bedrooms up there, and one has a balcony facing the water. It’s not a bad layout.”
“I know the layout. I chose this house for that balcony off the primary bedroom. And the huge tub in the bathroom. Why would you stay in the smaller bedroom down here when you had the whole house to choose from?”
“Everything I need is down here.”
“Well, I don’t need you down here making noise while I’m trying to focus, so I’d much rather you go to a hotel.” She sprinkles sunflower seeds over her artfully designed salad. “But, since this place is technically yours for the week, I’ll take the bet. Just so we’re clear, if I guess two more personal things about you, you go to a hotel, but if you can come up with three things we have in common, neither of us leaves?”
“Yep. That’s the deal.” I extend my hand, and to my surprise, she shakes it without hesitation. There’s a spark in her eyes that tells me she’s got a competitive streak. It’s not lost on me that she wins either way because she gets to stay in the house, regardless.
But I think someone hasn’t treated her right. And that’s one thing we have in common, but I’ll hold onto that for now. No need to get personal this soon.
“So, it appears we both like chicken on our salads.” I smirk at her, and I’m not even a little bit sorry for it. “That’s one thing we have in common.”
“That’s too superficial,” she argues. “You can’t count salad ingredients as things we have in common.”
“I won’t count every ingredient because I’d win right now, but we didn’t set parameters on what types of things we had to have in common.” I pick up my plate and head for the table. “And we already shook on it. We’re one for one. Now, we each only have to come up with two more things.”
She walks with deliberate steps as she approaches the table to join me, never taking her eyes off mine. “I propose an amendment.”
“Of course you do. Let’s hear it.”
“The rest of our guesses have to be personally meaningful in order to count. Like, I can’t just say I’ve figured out that you like graphic tees because you’re wearing one. And you can’t say we both like the beach because we rented this house.”
“How do we decide if something is meaningful enough to count? There are only two of us, so we can’t go with majority rule.”
“We’ll have to make our case until the other person agrees.”
“Hmmm,” I say. “Why do I get the feeling you just like to argue?”
“Me? I am the most conflict-averse person you’ll ever met. I hate to argue. Not that I won’t do it when it’s necessary, but I don’t enjoy it.”
Well, damn. That’s two things we have in common. I’ll hold onto this one, too. We’ve both been recently hurt. We both avoid conflict for as long as possible. Those are meaningful things, but they’re too heavy for dinner conversation.
Besides, as soon as I win the bet, we’ll be relegated to separate floors, and I’m not ready for us to get out of each other’s way just yet. I have work to do, but I’d much rather push her buttons instead. To watch that fire in her eyes ignite again. To see her hair get a little messier.