Chapter 5
Five
Ibought the top-floor condo when I had my first million-dollar year six years ago.
As soon as the real estate agent led me through the front door, I was in love.
An unassuming mix of industrial and rustic, it’s modern city with old-school character and windows for days.
The open ceiling is lined with raw beams and metal pipes, topping exposed brick walls.
It’s everything I ever imagined for myself.
I bought the condo, and other than the men who only stay long enough for me to get what I want, I’ve yet to entertain a single person; the guest room hasn’t been used once in the six years I’ve lived here.
The handful of times my sisters asked about coming to visit, I was in the middle of deals that wouldn’t allow me to take time off.
Friends, it seems, also require an effort I’ve never had time to make. And, clearly, there is no family.
For the first time in nearly a year, I’m on the rooftop patio I once thought I’d fill with people and strings of lights. From here, above the rooflines of the dozen blocks of houses and condos and smaller high rises that fill the streets in between, I spot the skyscraper I work in instantly.
It was yet another appeal of this property: a straight line of sight to the place that got me here.
A constant connection to work. The city changes with the sun, and as it sinks lower in the horizon and the sky transforms, the building goes quiet.
Less like a tower of power and more like a work of art.
I wish it would get hit by a meteorite.
Toeing my shoes off, I release the most hopeless sigh of my life. For the nine millionth time, I hear Trish’s words, each one accompanied with a new emotion.
Anger tops the list—scratch that, I’m fucking pissed.
My ego has been smashed to pieces. I’m humiliated The Family thinks I’m burning out.
Matt got my account. But the shocking realization is that a very, very small part of me is sad.
Not about work—that’s straight-up rage—but that maybe Trish wasn’t completely wrong.
I have a condo that nobody visits.
Other than work, I don’t have a life. And while I’ve never minded—mostly because I don’t give myself time to think about it—since Trish pointed it out, it’s all I see.
I have millions of dollars to my name and the only thing I have time to spend it on is clothes for work.
I like the money—love it really—and the recognition that comes from winning, but ultimately, I can’t stop chasing the satisfaction of the win and being in control of every step of the process it takes to get there.
If I believed in psychics, I might consider myself one for my ability to almost predict what’s going to happen in a deal and foresee any problems that may arise, pivoting accordingly.
But people—feelings and relationships—that’s all messy.
Unpredictable. When data isn’t involved—like Trish and her brothers having a little roundtable about my mental well-being—there’s no telling what people will do.
Guts and hearts leading the way. All that stupid bullshit.
I’m not good at it and I don’t have time for it.
Maybe William was right when he said that I don’t let people get close, but I’ve also never felt compelled to do so or dwelled on it.
I do well at work, so why do I need a personal life?
Until this moment, it’s been easier just to push all that aside. I figured the reason I haven’t found people to spend time with is because I haven’t found the right people. So I work.
And I work and I work.
And every hour and day and cycle and fund leads to the next, making it easy to forget that there’s a whole side of life where people go home to other people and live entire lives outside of working hours.
Those same people would look at a three-month break with stars in their eyes, but I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m not working.
I don’t sleep in.
I don’t do downtime.
The thought of participating in something called couch rot makes my skin crawl.
Worse than all that is the fact there was a conversation about me. That other people—my superiors—are responding to my long hours like a disease requiring treatment. My sisters and Mom joke about my inability to stop, but hearing it come from Trish’s mouth stung.
Before I left this afternoon, I saw Matt, lollipop in mouth, smiling like my whole life didn’t resemble the implosion of a dying star.
In the doorway of my office, he rounded his back, straightened his arms, and put his fists together, taking a swing with an imaginary golf club.
“You busy?” He grinned. “We’re going to Big Mini Putt Club for celebratory drinks for our account.
” The firm loves this place—it’s a bar and grill with mini golf holes throughout the building.
I’ve never been, of course. Someone has to work.
Also, how dare he say our account. “Kick your vacation off in style.”
I considered stabbing him in the temple with the heel of my shoe but opted for the ironic lie of, “I have a date.” I didn’t tell him it was with my own misery.
For the first time ever, I left work early.
I don’t want to take the sabbatical—it will be three straight months of feeling like this—but the more I replay Trish’s words, the more I know I don’t have a choice.
If I show up at work tomorrow, it will confirm what they think: I can’t shut it off or listen to the boss’s orders.
I could quit—I’ve thought of that option at least four hundred times—but it would be a cop-out.
Sabbaticals are paid—I’m not hurting for money—and I hate the idea of losing Fizz Co to Matt. I refuse to let it happen.
The instant I turn my phone back on, it pings with dozens of notifications. I ignore the emails—none of them are from Trish telling me she changed her mind—and go to the texts from my sisters.
Rue: Mom just woke up. She’s groggy but drank some water.
Remy: And freaked out when she looked in the mirror and saw the strip of her hair that was shaved.
Rue: And that. But she was fine when Bennie offered vintage scarves from the store.
Surgeon said other than the minor complications that the surgery went well.
We’ll know in the next couple of days how recovery’s going to go but he’s hopeful.
Nash, Bennie, and I will stay with her when we take her home.
Remy: Kids and I will take the weekend shifts.
Remy: Nora’s karaoke birthday party should still be a go too. Even if Mom’s not 100% we can keep them in her backyard.
Are these two kidding? I check my calendar; that’s barely a month away. A karaoke birthday party. After Mom’s brain surgery. In her backyard.
Rue: That’s a good idea. We’ll help.
“A good idea?” I mutter to myself. “Why not send a mariachi band into the hospital room?”
Rue: Can you get me a coffee while you’re down there? I’m losing steam.
Remy: Already got it. Is Reese ignoring us again?
Rue: She’s probably counting her money.
Remy: Should I continue the alphabet?
Rue: Bring coffee first.
At this, I roll my eyes but join the conversation. You’re having a kid’s karaoke birthday party at Mom’s house a month after brain surgery?
Remy: We’ll keep it outside. Mom has a better backyard, and my rental is too small for twelve kids plus parents. We can keep an eye on her. And one guy on the tumor forum hosted Thanksgiving three weeks after his surgery. Cooked the turkey and everything.
She’s not wrong about recovery times, they can vary greatly. Some people walk on day one, some people are still struggling to get around six months later. But twelve kids?
Rue: Or we can move it to my house and take turns driving to check on Mom?
What?
Me: Now you’re going to leave Mom at home alone? After brain surgery?
Rue: I can’t with you, Reese. We’re trying here, but we still have lives to work around. And the party is in a month.
Remy: We totally got this
At the smiley face emoji, I bite my lip.
I was once at a business conference where the keynote speaker talked about something called the Red Queen Effect.
It comes from the Lewis Carroll quote from Through the Looking-Glass where the Red Queen tells Alice, “It takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place.” It’s the idea that to stay competitive, businesses—and people—constantly need to innovate, and even that’s not enough because everyone else is doing the same.
It’s a life spent running as hard and as fast as you can in hopes of getting a fraction of an inch ahead of everyone else.
I’ve obliged.
I’ve kept going, evolving, pushing every limit, and because of that, I’ve been ahead of my peers for as long as I can remember. Top of my class in high school and college and now, most people at the firm. I work hard; people around me work hard; I work harder.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
I am the Red Queen, and that title has landed me in a place where my constant effort and being the best is my baseline, and anything less than that is pointless. Where the concept of being told to stand still for three months might as well be a death sentence.
But unless Trish calls me and undoes all this, I can’t fight it.
I may be stubborn, I may not want to not work, but I also know how to do what needs to be done.
If The Family wants me to take a break, I’ll do it for no other reason than proving I can listen.
I can adapt and take the momentary setback if it gets me back on top.
And the way Rue and Remy are handling Mom’s recovery with birthday parties and rotating check-ins, they clearly need my help.
Instead of telling them, I text Trish. I’m going to Fontain to be with my mom.
She responds instantly. I’m so glad. If you need more time for the pregnancy, please let us know. Whatever you need.
At this, I nearly drop my phone. Pregnancy. I forgot about that.
I said it in the heat of the moment—to show her she can’t tell me that I’m missing something because I already know—but I didn’t expect it to stick.
I could tell her I changed my mind or want to postpone because of my mom, but that might lead her to telling me I need more time.
I don’t want more time—I’m missing most of Q4 as it is.
If anything, I want less time. I have to do this.
I have to commit to the lie. And it’s not like I don’t want kids, I’ve just been waiting for the perfect man and time.
It’s ironic because that’s not something I’d ever do in business—the perfect time happens when we make it happen—but it’s not like I can manufacture a successful man who will stand up to me instead of shaking in his loafers when I challenge him and doesn’t whine like a little girl because I work long hours. That man probably doesn’t exist.
After nearly two decades of deals, I know better than anyone that we’re often forced to create the perfect time out of less-than-ideal circumstances. If I use this sabbatical to have the child I thought I’d have by now, at least something good will come out of it.
I’ll have a baby and Fizz Co.
And while I’d never consider getting pregnant by a sperm donor in any other situation, maybe this is the exact thing I need.
Maybe I’ve never met the right man because the right man is a myth.
So I’m not married? Like every deal, concessions must be made.
As much as I love getting everything I want, maybe the job, the money, and the baby are it for me.
I can have one without the other: I can be a mom without a man.
A good mom.
The best mom.
Maybe the man will come later. And if not, that’s fine too. I’ve been alone for years and it’s never been a problem until today.
A quick internet search lands me on a small fertility center in Fontain that has its own sperm bank and initial consultation openings in three weeks.
At the pictures of moms holding babies, it’s easy for me to see myself as one of them. I want a girl, and I want her to look just like me. Maybe I’ll be one of those moms who wear matching clothes with their child and call her mini me.
We’ll go shopping together! Now that makes me giddy. She’ll be the best-dressed kid in preschool.
This sends me on a mental detour to all the things I need to do before the baby gets here. Daycares and preschools are hard to get into in the city, I need to start researching. Get on lists.
The baby itch usually hits me in spells of mere seconds—when I see a woman pushing a stroller or when I’m shopping and pass the baby department—but maybe I’ve always been able to thwart those feelings because I’ve never been with a man that I could see fathering my child.
Maybe I am controlling with too high of standards and a slight inability to show feelings, but with this route, a man’s opinion won’t matter.
I’ll pick the perfect donor and have a baby sans the pressure of a relationship.
I’ll come back to Chicago the woman The Family wants me to be and get Fizz Co. I’ll leave work early for pediatrician appointments and story times at the library. They’ll be so proud, my condo won’t be empty, and Matt can suck a dick-shaped lollipop.
I’ll be a mom. A working mom. A well-balanced, working mom. It seems so simple I don’t know why I haven’t thought of using a sperm donor before. It’s brilliant, really. And so efficient.
To Trish: Thank you, but three months will be plenty of time. I’ll have my computer with me to do whatever needs to be done and to stay in the loop about Fizz Co.
Trish: Sent a memo telling everyone that you’re out of office and to direct all account questions to myself or one of the other partners. You can catch up when you get back. Enjoy your time.
My head spins with the timeline. This break isn’t what I want, but there’s no turning back because I want that account. If that means going back to Fontain to take a break, take care of my mother, and have a baby, that’s what I’m doing.
I don’t fall short—ever—and this won’t be where I start.
To my sisters: You can’t have a karaoke birthday party with 12 screaming kids in Mom’s backyard a month after she has brain surgery.
Rue: We’ll fly them up to Chicago.
Me: Don’t bother. I’ll come back to Fontain.
Rue: Remy, did you read that same message from Reese I did or am I hallucinating?
Remy: I screamed in the elevator and dropped one of the coffees.
I have no idea how I’ll handle not working for three months, but that almost makes me smile.
I give Trish until end of business on Friday to beg me to come back to work or for me to talk myself out of this plan; neither happen.
I schedule my appointment with the Fontain fertility clinic then fly to North Carolina Saturday morning.