Chapter 2 #2
I don't even remember how we got to it and why I allowed him to read it. Maybe I wanted him to know that some things were inspired by us—the quiet pull between my two characters, and even some things he's literally told me, since he was randomly philosophical and obviously very smart.
So he read it—didn't skim—read every line and then asked if I thought they were soulmates.
Which made me want to shut the screen, tell him to forget it. But instead I stuttered, "Yes, maybe?" and he hummed thoughtfully, and asked why I didn't send it out, that their story deserved to make it.
I told him I was scared. What if nobody wants to read it? Or worse, they do and realize how screwed up I am?
"That's the price." He shrugged like that applied to his life too. "If you want anything worth having, you do it scared. So send it, with fear."
I did. A few months later, Carl, my agent, called with an offer, but by then, I moved to LA with David. A boy with red flags the size of Oscar carpets.
I thought about sending Ben a thank you message, but he had a girlfriend and probably wouldn't care anyway. I told myself I made us into something bigger in my head, and if we ever met again, I'd tell him in person.
Come to think of it, without Ben, there probably would be no Emma Foster, the author, which means, no Emma Lawson, the wife—since I met Richard at my book signing.
I hope Ben never figured that out. That would be... pretty bittersweet.
"Em, we should start getting ready. The event starts in two hours." Richard's voice snaps me out of the memory. He's back in the doorway, looking at me like the earlier intimacy never happened.
I don't even care anymore. A part of me is actually glad it didn't.
"Yeah. I'll get ready soon," I mutter, flipping another page of the magazine defiantly.
He walks behind me and whispers in my ear, "We'll finish what we started when we get back home?"
I manage to give him somewhat of a smile. "Yeah. Don't worry about it."
My phone dings from my office and I rush there before Richard says anything else.
The second Ben's last name flashes over it, I nearly jump, but then I focus on the screen and realize it's Mara.
Mara: Hey babe, me and my brother are in the city! Coffee?
Staring at her name, I feel guilt starting to creep in.
After things with Ben fell apart, I let the thread between Mara and me burn too. Figured she'd take his side. Hate me even, for how things ended.
But once upon a time, Mara wasn't just his sister...
Meeting her felt like fate.
It was Valentine's Day and I sat in a café. Heart garlands were everywhere—too many when your own heart's broken—and when we locked eyes, she made a face at it like someone had pulled her teeth, which was the first thing that made me laugh in weeks.
Ten minutes later, I was reading her a message from my ex's side chick and I just knew Mara was going to become family because she simmered over it like it was her personal matter.
Then she said, "My brother's just going through that. Told him there's a special place for cheaters in hell."
I thought, Poor guy, I know that feeling. Didn't know I knew him too.
Anyway, remorse has to wait. I don't want to listen to Richard's speech about punctuality when he sniffs I could slow him down, because the rich and successful aren't late—they simply don't have time for it.
So I scramble and before I know it, we're there at the old landmark, walking through the Art Deco ritz and sconces spilling honeyed light over women in couture gowns and men in tuxedos, all of them flocking around my husband.
Richard smiles and moves through the room with that quiet entitlement you can only be born into.
He comes from lineage tracing back to forefathers with oil portraits and lands.
His hand's on my lower back like I belong.
I don't.
My father is middle-class; my mom comes from French immigrants and it's not that long ago I wiped similar floors to these, cursing my life.
Still, I smile and listen to the gossip he can narrate with barely moving lips. Something he inherited from his mother.—both skills. Somewhat adorable.
I once teased him he should've become a mime and he laughed that controlled laugh, and then said to never mention it in front of anyone. Not because it's not funny, of course it is, but because good families keep their secrets private.
"Em, this is a big night," Richard says, eyes flicking around the room urgently. "I'm trying to get to Piper. He's a little rough, the kind of guy who thinks he's smart because he's old, but play along. I need him to listen for once."
Before I can ask what rough means, someone's booming voice cuts through the murmurs. "Richard! There you are, my boy!"
Boy. Never heard anyone calling Richard a boy.
Sure, he has that young face, but he's turned forty this summer, and if you know him, you'll get he's never been allowed to be one.
Richard doesn't seem to mind, though, smiling at the round man barreling toward us with his forearm around a slender blonde at least thirty years younger and fifteen inches taller.
"His third wife," Richard whispers fast before he steps forward, shaking Piper's hand. "Mr. Piper. Glad you could make it. Remember how I told you about my wife, Emma?"
Piper's gaze slides over me and snags right on my cleavage. "The writer, right? Richard tells me you've got quite the imagination."
"Too wild," I say, forcing a smile. "Usually gets me into trouble."
"Oh-hoh. I like that," Piper says and gestures vaguely to the blonde. "And this is my lovely wife."
When she tries to speak, he pats her hand like she's a decorative lamp he needs to turn off, and her mouth shuts.
I narrow my eyes. I'm not here to save anyone's dignity, but still.
"Sorry, I didn't catch your name?" I ask her.
She gives me a small, broken smile that says: It doesn't matter. I'm used to not mattering.
Piper gives her a brief smile. "Business talk, darling. Why don't you freshen our drinks? Two ice cubes into mine." He hands her the glass and she walks away without a word.
I blink, stunned with the public mental slaughter that just happened right before my eyes, but Piper's attention quickly refocuses on me.
"How does it feel to be a queen in waiting?" he asks.
"Oh, please." Richard waves his hand, blindingly polite. "You flatter me."
"I don't flatter. I see straight through people," Piper says, to my boobs again. What the hell.
"Your wife's smart for picking a king, and now she can spend her life doing whatever you women love doing. Manicures? Garden? Raising children?"
Oh wow. I'm not really a feminist, but I'm tempted to make him a bit smaller.
Richard forces a laugh, his eyes flicking to my fist curling and then to me, quietly pleading: Just go with it.
So I suck in air and recite the drilled lines I know so well like I'm some beauty pageant: "I'm very proud of Richard and his success. He deserves it. You should hear some of his wonderful ideas. He said you're having the best insight on current market." I smile at Richard as a cue.
He smiles proudly and takes it immediately, launching into numbers, acquisitions, a brighter tomorrow for the children, always the children. I breathe through it all, even though Piper's gaze continues to linger like he'd like to try my tenderloins and when I try to speak, he cuts over me.
Richard doesn't register it since he's too busy with his sermon.
And I? I'm sick. Over the years, I've learned how to disappear in rooms like this. It gets easier with time, which is the worst part.
Just because you've gotten good at something doesn't mean you should've had to.
"Excuse me," I cut in, sounding so syrupy, I should rinse my mouth. "My feet are killing me. I'll go sit."
"Sure, darling." Richard kisses my forehead gently. "Should I get you anything?"
"No." I smile and rush to the corner, right next to lobster, which is ironic since I'm allergic to seafood. But if I get to choose between Piper and hives, I'll take the hives.
It's also far from everyone. I hate all these events, that glittering trap.
Believe it or not, I didn't marry Richard for his money. I'm more of a rave party girl and raw conversations—or used to.
After Rich and I met, I practically stayed in Seattle for him because as a writer I could do my job from anywhere, but none of my friends were there and eventually I just gave in to his world because I do, I kind of morph a bit into whoever I am with.
Truth be told, though, I doubt I'll ever get his world.
Later, when Richard checks in, I can't help it: "Did you notice how Piper treats his wife? Or women in general?"
"Yes. It's sad to watch. But that's his generation. They do things differently," he says, tone too unconcerned for my taste.
I raise a brow at him. "It's not different. It's monstrous. Men like him disgust me."
Richard makes a face. "Look. I'm not waiting for moral guidance from him. Just need him to say yes to this deal."
"I don't have a good feeling about him," I say, eyeing the old sleaze across the room, who's back to pestering his wife.
Richard gives me an impatient eye roll and sits down. "Em, we're talking seven figures. Minimum. So leave that up to me. Okay?"
Of course. I'm just a woman who apparently loves to garden.
I give him a resigned smile. "Okay. Do your thing."
He smiles back, more genuine than me. "Good. We can't let personal biases interfere with what matters."
"And what matters?"
He fixes his Rolex. "Results. Numbers. Deals. Everything else is just noise."
I blink at him. Noise? Is that what my feelings are to him? Something to mute? That's great to know.
You know he didn't mean it like that, Emma.
Whatever.
Across the room, Piper waves our way, and before I know it Richard is there, clicking with Piper, heads bent in some passionate conversation.
The idea of him working with someone like that makes me sick, even if it's just about numbers.