Chapter 41
HARRISON
I am not eating, and I sleep very little. It’s hard to know exactly why or what is messing me up. Having to execute my brother, Tusk, to stop his pain is certainly a factor.
My work exhaustion, after a long year, must also add stress. The idea of losing Tusk and William together is also a player. But it’s also her, and I know it.
I’m unsure how much missing her is a factor, but I also feel bad about hurting her.
All I know is this: I am screwed.
As my life slows down, I slip into darkness. I also spend more and more time alone. I even avoid William for some reason. I guess I need time to myself. As I find myself around my family at the cemetery, I know it’s messed up.
I have stopped working out to stay fit, healthy, and in shape. I cannot see the point. There is no point.
I sense William watching me at times, and I know he’s just keeping an eye on me. He did the same when I fell into depression after losing my family.
Maybe this is bringing back some of trauma.
As if this is not enough, William asks to meet with me again. We do the next day, and he, too, looks burnt out and older. I know the discussion will be about him retiring, and I force myself to man up and focus.
We talk fireside, and I make him a big whisky.
He has always refused to sit and talk or drink, but for some reason, this evening he does.
As we finish the small talk that is obviously not for either of us, he says, “It’s time.”
He then explains he is having trouble completing his estate duties. That age has crept up on him, and enough is enough.
I thank my uncle-like figure, and I tell him I understand. I then explain he is expected to retire rent-free at the old caretaker’s quarters in the far corner of the property.
Where the horses spend their evenings, where the sunsets are the most spectacular, and where we, and my past family have always planned for him to.
“Thank you, Sir, that is too kind.”
“Nonsense,” I say. “That was always the plan, and please, again, Harry.”
We talk more and agree William will start to take on less but that he would advertise and interview people to help him find his replacement.
I will then likely accept whomever he advises. Then, for an estimated two months, he would train someone.
I ask him to give me a day to double-check my final thoughts and to consider what age person I prefer.
And if ex-military and from England is best, like William was in the day. My world is changing lightning fast, but I need to handle it, and I need to do it alone.
We meet the next day as I remain deep in thought about life, about my future, and about what I am doing. I know the loss of Samantha is tearing me apart, but it’s just part of my broken spirit.
I am unsure if I want to do something different with the estate and set up, and as William and I walk, we talk. I explain I’m considering change and some life-changing ideas.
Something is not working for me, and I cannot go on like this.
William asks if he can speak freely. “Please, and of course, do,” I say, my hands behind my back.
As always, William is careful with his words.
He advises its likely wise I take my time. And that making big brash decisions after a death is likely unwise.
He has never said anything like it in his employ, and I almost stop dead in my tracks.
I am about to tell him I’m a fully grown man, and that I don’t need life advice when I catch myself.
Maybe I do, and maybe he is right.
Maybe, also, I am too strong-willed, too emotionally undeveloped, and perhaps I was too young. Too young to have succeeded so fast in the world of media and entertainment.
Maybe now I need to spend time on me.
To mature, to learn, and to heal.
As we finish and I thank him, William pauses at the chateau’s front steps, outside. I look down at him and read his eyes. “Anything, else, William?”
“May I say one last thing, Sir?” he asks, as if nervous.
“Of course, please.”
William adjusts his tweed jacket. I know it’s coming, and I inhale.
“She was a good woman, Harrison, and I doubt you will find better. Believe me. After losing my wife Jane in the UK, I spent a decade trying. We are not getting any younger, son, and our numbers are dwindling.”
He is not wrong, and again, it feels good to be called son. Even at my age.
“You can build a tribe,” William says.
I rest my leather shoe on the step, look over the lake, and listen.
“I watched your parents do it, Harry. They built a family here. Good things can come from love. You too can build a family. It just requires focus. You can also, perhaps, do it with her.”
We share a look, and William smiles. He then walks off to attend to his duties.
Walking inside, I head to the large grand hall. Inside, I pass the newspapers, my diary, and my notes. I stop and look out the window, deep in thought.
I am proud of myself for breaking the code and conquering the media and entertainment world. Heck, I’d done what a hundred men failed to do. Maybe a thousand. I’d also outworked everyone I can think of.
There is just one thing that worries me.
As I worked like a complete maniac and sacrificed so much, and as I put my head down for all those years, creating, building, and conquering new areas of entertainment, had I, at the same time, failed? Failed to develop as a real human?
Had I also done this?
Let the one person go, who wanted me for me and not for my money? My name? My legacy?
Or is it even more screwed up than that?
Had I really chased away the one person in the world who loved me?
As I try to work it all out, try to keep up with the duties of the new entertainment and media conglomerate, and attempt to run my three older companies as CEO, I start to implode even more. I then start to neglect my duties.
I am not coping, and I’ve lost my spark. I fail to return calls and even simple emails. I also fail to watch movies we have invested in that need my feedback. To also read movie scripts and view huge, proposed media campaigns.
The companies start to falter at the top, and several senior VPs sound frustrated.
I find myself walking on the estate, alone, and at times for hours on end. I am slowly becoming a recluse, then I fear I will end up with a long beard and long fingernails.
I realize Samantha was likely right. That time is an illusion, and thus, time can be cheated. That it can also be manipulated.
That amazing moments can be drafted, drawn out and slowed, whereas painful times can be contained and shortened with focus.
I think about Samantha more, and daily. That’s a lie. I think about her hourly, and I miss her spirit. I miss her.
In my arms, in my life, on my bed, and on my cock.
I miss her positive energy, and I miss her bubbly, unstoppable love of life. I miss her spirit, and I miss her support.
I miss her!
After a long walk around the lake, I finally head upstairs. As I reach my main desk, where I’ve run things for so long, I look down. I decide it’s time to make a few changes, and time to take my foot off the gas.
I am not in the right head space to act as CEO of three companies in transition and to also run the forming international conglomerate.
Keeping up is becoming impossible, and it will only get worse.
I Zoom with Troy and Rhett an hour later, and they look at me with my stubble and messy hair. I tell them I need to pull back, and I do not fluff my words.
They oddly agree, and fast. They also say it’s likely healthy.
They ask me to come to NYC to discuss details, and I agree. They then ask me about Sam.
Reluctantly, I explain Samantha and I had become a couple. And that after Tokyo, and when we’d signed the final Japanese agreements, we were on fire, and it was perfect.
My friends are happy for me, and they both agree Samantha is strong enough to control me. I tell them where they can stick their non-business related advice, and as they laugh, I loosen up.
They explain they can tell I’m in a hole, and they likely know it’s not pure exhaustion. They ask about us, and I decide to explain the rest. “I’m not going to lie,” I say, “it’s not exactly good.”
“Details,” Rhett demands, crossing his arms.
“Look, it’s complicated,” I say with a scowl and standing. The sons of bitches look at me, and their laser eyes bore through the Zoom call. “Okay, I messed up,” I say, coming clean.
There is a long silence.
“Well, if you know you did, have you talked to her?” Troy asks, sounding overly mature.
“No,” I say, clicking my neck. “But I have started to message her, and I’ve left voice messages for the last few days.”
I have, and it’s starting to become stalker-ish.
“How many?” Rhett asks as if he’s some NYPD investigator.
“A fucking lot,” I say. “And for the last two days. She won’t pick up, and she won’t talk to me.”
Troy shakes his head, and Rhett sighs. “And just when it looked like you’d gotten your shit together,” Rhett says flatly.
“Screw you,” I say as Rhett smiles.
“Look, just get down here. Tomorrow at three?” Troy asks, pulling at his tie.
I look at my leather diary, and Rhett cuts in, fast, “Your moping day can handle that. Stop screwing around. Three!”
“Anything else?” I ask, brow up and not liking the goofy bullying.
My two friends look at me, and they have nothing.
“Just take it easy, buddy,” Rhett says, giving me a look. “We got your back.”
“And bring your sorry arse down!” Troy says.
I give them the bird, and as always, they return it. It’s nice to know I have support, and deep down, I know they have my back.
The next morning, I shave for the first time since the chaos, and I pull on a navy suit. It’s the first time I’ve worn a suit since she left. As I do, I miss her bad, and part of me feels like I’m dead inside.
I drive to NYC in the small convertible Jaguar, and I park under Rhett’s over-the-top, massive head office and stretch.
It is a huge ad agency with an overall chic white and silver style, and he’s done well. Heck, we all have.
I am shown straight into Rhett’s office on the top floor. His view is one of the best in Manhattan and it looks over the city.
“Good timing,” Rhett says, walking in with Troy, “we were about to have an intervention.”
“A what?”
“We were close to pulling you aside and unleashing some hurt.”
We sit at the double white couches, and Rhett hands out sparkling waters.
“Look, you need to slow down,” Troy says, crossing his legs and studying me.
I sigh, telling myself to open up for the first time in my life. I nod and run my hand through my hair. “She already pulled me up on that. I even got a hobby.”
“What the fuck is a hobby?” Troy asks.
“I don’t know, but I think it’s basically taking your foot off the gas.”
We all laugh. We are all workaholics, but we all have hobbies, like diving, sailing together, and exploring ancient ruins at times.
“And one other thing,” Troy says.
“What’s that?” I ask, not wanting to be targeted. At all.
“You need to get her back!” Troy growls, watching me close.
“She hates me,” I say, standing and pacing.
“Buddy, we hate you too, but we put up with you.”
I look at my two friends, and I know they are holding back smiles. “You sons of bitches,” I growl low. Troy and Rhett lean back on the large white leather couch and grin as I pace.
“Get her back. Get some balance, and let’s do some more God darned business,” Troy demands.
“And meanwhile,” Rhett says, “email us ninety-nine percent of your duties, and we’ll make it work. We will both oversee a team to insure it’s done.”
I nod, and I know they’ll protect what I’ve built. I also know they will deliver.
“And one last thing,” Rhett says as his top execs gather outside the glass office in his busy ad agency. “Get the hell out. Some of us still work for a living.”
I shake my head and smile.
The big goons then rise and hug me tight. As their hotshot ad execs wait outside, they watch on.
I’ve never been a hugging type, but here and now, it feels good. We then share a three-way look, and it’s time to close.
“Really, go get her, and get the hell out. I have a meeting,” Rhett says, crossing his big arms.
Laughing, I leave as Troy throws me a look. “Get her, and now, or I fucking will!”
I feel better as I walk for the elevator. It’s good to still have friends in the world and people I love. My small tribe is still strong, but it can be stronger. And maybe this: a family.
As I step into the elevator, I think about Samantha, wondering where she is.
I try calling her again as I exit… Nothing.
I reach the pavement and try the number again... Nothing.
Remembering her Instagram page, I take a look. Images of what look like Austin, Texas, pop up.
I walk back into the building, and I go to the old Jaguar convertible. I then realize the Jag is hardly the best long-distance car.
She does, however, have class.
I look down, and I’m hardly dressed for a huge road trip, either.
An expensive navy suit tailored in Saville Row, London. An old English sports car that is classy but likely impossible to fix in some remote town.
“Screw it,” I say, climbing in next to the stack of movie screenplays needing to be read.
I pull on my Ray-Bans and gun the powerful engine. I race through the car park, and the tires screech and echo.
I look for an opening in the NYC cabs, and I drop the clutch. The Jag’s engine roars, and the tires bite hard. I do a fast one-eighty and streak out of Manhattan. As I head out of New York City, I point the Jag south.
I have no idea exactly what to say, and all I have is this. “I love you. I can’t live without you, and you’re mine. All fucking mine.”
As the wind blows my hair, I streak down the freeway like a bullet. I realize a road trip is likely what I need. To clear my head and feed my spirit.
I have worked like a bastard for well over a decade in media and entertainment. It is time for me.
As I think of Sam and wonder what to say, I realize.
I realize I have hours to work out what to say, and if needed, I’ll drop to a knee, again. She is mine, and I will get her back!
One way or another.