The Takeover, page 23
Dots appear and then disappear on my screen.
I feel the hesitation and the pause. Did I go too far mentioning The Deal That Shall Not Be Named? I shouldn’t have talked about champagne. It’s like spiking the football.
He’s writing something else. Then he stops. They appear again. And disappear. I’ve never seen Jae hem or haw like this.
Finally, his message comes through. Don’t forget what I said the first time you mentioned Evans.
What does he mean? That I can’t trust Evans? Is he telling me to double-check the fine print? The flirty banter has suddenly gotten serious, and I don’t know why. Suddenly, I’m nervous. I want to call Jae and get to the bottom of it all, but before I can, a hard knock comes on my glass office door. I glance up to see an anxious-looking Imani, wearing orange-rimmed glasses and a matching orange polka-dot sleeveless silk shirt.
“It’s Evans. Can we talk?” she asks me, and her face tells me it’s bad news. I feel a pit form at the center of my stomach. I know then that everything is about to change.
* * *
I feel faint and nauseous as I stumble out of Imani’s office, still reeling from the news that Evans withdrew his offer. Worse, Imani let me know that right after she got the call from Evans, she got a message from Jae. Rainforest is still in the mix, but they’ve downgraded their offer. We’ll be getting at least one zero less now that Evans isn’t interested.
Jae was planning this all along.
A one-two punch.
I can’t breathe.
Dell kicks a trash can in his own office, sending it flying across the colored carpet and clanging against the far glass wall. The programmers—my people—are mostly at lunch now, thank goodness, because there’s no way I’d be able to hide the disappointment written all over my face.
The betrayal, thick and painful, sits in my throat—a lump that I can’t swallow down.
Jae knew about this. I know he did. Remember what I said about Evans …
Right. I can’t trust Evans.
But what he should’ve told me is that I can’t trust him, either.
This was a coordinated attack. Evans withdrawing. Rainforest lowballing us.
And Jae masterminded it all. He knew this was coming and he let me walk right into it, unprepared. He let me have ridiculous dreams about toasting the sale of Toggle tonight with champagne at his place. Maybe going exclusive—or hell, sleeping with me at all—was just a distraction in the first place, so I’d take my eye off the ball.
And the worst thing is: I fell for it.
Hook.
Line.
Sinker.
I’ve never been so hurt—and so angry—all at once. I’m not sure if I want to cry or scream. Or both. Why did I think after a lifetime of friends and boyfriends and one fiancé abandoning me that it wouldn’t happen … yet again?
My ears ring, and everything seems slowed down. I grab my bag and head straight to the elevators.
Jae
I’ve been expecting Nami, and dreading this moment, and yet, now is the time when I can finally, and at long last, come clean. I’m no longer under the restraints of the NDA I signed, really, since she’ll know about the withdrawal of Evans’s offer, and maybe I can explain everything.
Or maybe she’ll hate me forever.
Treely alerts me to her presence, and I watch her storm the stairs, face flushed with anger, quick stride telling me she’s coming for me. I take a deep breath. I’ll have to make her understand. I’ll just have to.
She storms into my office, eyes like molten lava.
“How could you?” she growls.
“Let me explain,” I try in my calmest voice. I don’t know if I can, but I just want the chance. “Please, sit.”
She slams her bag down and sinks into the chair, angrily crossing her legs. That’s the first victory. She might just hear me out.
“I’m sorry, Nami. I couldn’t tell you.”
“You mean you wouldn’t tell me.” She’s furious, I can see that. But she’s still talking to me. That’s good. Keep her talking. Maybe she’ll see.
“I couldn’t. I’d signed legal agreements.”
“You lied to me.” Tears brim in her eyes, and I feel I might be undone. I hate this. I knew it would be terrible, but I actually never realized how much I’d hate it. Until now.
“I didn’t technically lie. And now I can help you. I can help Toggle.”
She cackles a bitter laugh. “You? You want to help Toggle? Please. By buying us for much less than your original offer?”
“I had to downgrade the price. Because I plan to keep on your people. It’s the only way I can justify it to the higher-ups. I want to help you.”
“Please. You never help anyone but yourself.”
The criticism stings. She isn’t giving me the benefit of the doubt. It’s my worst nightmare come true. “Nami. Please, listen—”
She jumps up from her seat. “Stop. Just … stop. If I were in your position, I would’ve just told you.”
“And violated all those legal agreements?”
“Yes. Because I care about you, Jae. And it would be the right thing to do.”
“Right thing to do?” This is her Hall Monitor streak, the one who thinks everything can be solved with a tardy slip. “Life is messy and gray, and sometimes the ‘right’ thing isn’t easy to figure out. No matter how hard you try, Ms. Hall Monitor. Don’t be so naïve.”
I mean to make my voice sound light and flippant, a joke, but the words come out harsher than I intend. My words slice like a knife, and she flinches.
“This isn’t some stupid tardy slip. You had to know this was wrong. There is right and wrong, I mean, I can’t believe I have to spell this out.”
“I’m not saying there’s no right and wrong. But it’s not black and white. And if you’ll just let me explain—”
“Explain what? How you used me? How you never trusted me enough to tell me the truth?”
“If I’d told you, you would’ve told everyone.”
“Why? Because hall monitors can’t keep secrets? I’m just a tattletale? You should’ve let me in. We could’ve tried to solve this together, instead of you figuring you knew better than me, better than everyone.”
It’s right now that I realize I didn’t trust her. No more than she trusted me.
And it occurs to me, in uncharacteristic fashion, I’m blowing it. I need to pivot. I need to make her see. Maybe I can convince her. She has to know we’re so right together. Who cares about business? It’s just business. But what we have is different. It’s amazing. It’s once-in-a-lifetime.
“Nami, none of this changes how I feel about you. What we have … it’s amazing. Just … I tried to warn you about Evans. I really tried. And then, when I couldn’t tell you, I thought I could be the one to protect Toggle. Help with the transition.”
“I don’t want your ‘help.’” Anger burns in her eyes. So does hurt. Hurt I created.
“If I told you, I would’ve been fired,” I say weakly.
“You should have quit. Then told me.”
“Quit?” I feel like Nami has backed me into the corner, blocked my only escape. I realize right in that second, it never occurred to me to quit. But I could have. She’s right. “Who would protect Toggle then?”
“You’re telling me when push comes to shove, you won’t lay off anyone? Toggle will remain the same.”
“Well, no, not exactly, but…”
“Then you should have quit,” Nami says. “We could have put our heads together to help Toggle. We could’ve formed a different plan, and with your luck and your credentials, you would’ve had a better job in a matter of weeks. You probably already have a dozen job offers on your ConnectIn right now.” This never occurred to me. Why didn’t it occur to me? “So why stay with the Borg?” she continues. “You know they’re a terrible company. You know every deal you land them just makes them more powerful, even as they’re making the world a worse place. You know they don’t care about their employees, or the companies they buy, or their users.”
I run both hands through my hair in frustration.
“Again, things aren’t so simple. Nothing is all good or all bad. Rainforest does good things, too.” But my sales pitch is weak.
“All Rainforest cares about is winning.” She glares at me. “That’s why you stay with them, isn’t it? Because ultimately, there’s nothing more important to you than winning.”
“No,” I say quickly, hoping she’s not right. “Yes, winning matters. And at the start, yes, that’s all I cared about. But with you, Nami, it’s always been more than that. You have to understand…” How can I make her understand? “It was always about you. I sought you out. I missed what we had in high school. Our competition, our spark. I specifically went after Toggle because I knew you would be there, and I wanted to see you. I called Dell for a meeting because I knew you would challenge me. You, unlike anybody else, are a good adversary. You challenge me in ways that are new and exciting, and you’re … you’re…” I struggle for the right words. “You’re good for me.”
She stops pacing. “I’m good for you,” she repeats, hollow.
“I was bored at Rainforest, and feeling unsatisfied, as if nothing mattered anymore, and I just knew, I just knew if I could work with you again, things would be different. That you’d light up my world, and you did—in more profound ways than I ever thought. I never thought it would lead to this … this amazing feeling, this amazing … relationship. I feel more alive than I’ve ever felt, Nami. That’s all because of you.”
I blink fast. Nami doesn’t move. Maybe it’s working. Maybe she gets it.
“You went after Toggle because I was there,” she repeats.
“Yes.”
“Because you were bored. And you thought I’d liven things up for you?” Her eyes glisten with fresh, new hurt. “You upended the lives of all the people of Toggle, people I care about, because your job was not interesting enough for you? Because you were bored?” She spits out the last word.
“No. Wait. I don’t mean it like that.” And I don’t. When she says it, it sounds terrible. Selfish. Myopic. “I wanted to see you again. I missed you. I missed … us.”
“Then call me. Text me. Ask me out for coffee.” She’s so angry now. I’m blowing it. Completely blowing it.
“You never would have said yes,” I manage, trying again. “You never gave me the time of day, Nami.”
“It’s still no reason to put yourself above everyone at Toggle. God. It’s so selfish. So careless.”
“But Nami,” I plead. I’m desperate now. “I love you.”
That’s the truth of it. I’ve loved her for a long time, I realize now. Maybe even since high school.
“It’s too late, Jae,” Nami says, shaking her head as she tightens her grip on her bag. “It’s just … all too late. It’s over.”
And then she snatches up her bag and walks straight out of my office, and out of my life.
TWENTY-THREE
Jae
Sometimes “Live, Laugh, Love” feels too hard. Might we suggest: “Exist, Scoff, Meh.”
#DAILY INSPIRATION CHANNEL
TOGGLE INTERNAL CHAT
I never realized that winning could suck so badly.
Nami hates me, and not a good, simmering, flirty hate, but real, cold hate. Nami accused me of being selfish, and I see that she’s right. It’s no wonder she’s not taking my calls. She’s probably blocked me. And I deserve it.
I sit in my apartment the following Saturday, dully staring out over Lake Michigan, missing Nami’s full-throated laugh and her razor-sharp retorts. I miss her amazing body in my bed, too, but it’s her company, her cheerful teasing of me, her annoying, yet definitely right prodding of me to do better that I miss the most. The worst part is it’s all my fault. Nami was right. I was careless with Toggle. Hell, I might have been careless with everyone and everything in my life until I met Nami.
Until I really cared about something I could lose.
None of the thin justifications I usually deploy at times like these are working. I’ve blown down the pig’s house, and I feel like shit about it. And the worst part is, there was a right thing to do. I could’ve quit Rainforest. I could’ve tried to approach Nami some other way. But I didn’t. I assumed I knew best.
My phone rings. I glance at it, hopeful to see Nami’s face, but instead, I see the stern face of my father. I almost send him to voicemail, but as I’m in the mood for punishment, I pick up.
“Jae-Yeon.” Dad’s serious, no-nonsense voice floats out on speakerphone. No “Hello.” No “How are you?” Classic Dad.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Your mother thinks we should make something different for next Sunday. If Nami likes bibimbap, your mother wants to make that. Or maybe teriyaki.”
“Nami’s not coming.”
“Why is Nami not coming,” Dad says, less in the form of a question, and more an accusation.
I sigh. I might as well just get this over with. Rip the Band-Aid off and get the lecture I deserve. Dad will love telling me how he was right about me all along, because I’ve failed him as a firstborn.
“Because I messed it all up, Dad. Because I’m a selfish, no-good businessman son who just likes the sound of his own voice, and doesn’t care about anyone else. I’m a crappy son and an even worse boyfriend, and I’ll probably never get married or have kids because I’m too selfish to have a family. I’ll just be a constant embarrassment to you, so you should probably just give up on me ever doing anything else but disappointing you.”
Dad says absolutely nothing on the phone. But part of me takes his silence as implicit agreement.
“We are going to Golden Dragon Buffet,” he tells me after a beat.
He means the all-you-can-eat Americanized Asian fusion, greasy, serve-yourself restaurant off the interstate that Mom can’t stand, where Dad used to take me after soccer practice every Saturday in fourth grade. Mom thought the neon-orange sweet-and-sour chicken was loaded with too much sugar and food dye, but Dad loved the frugality of it, and didn’t much care how long the questionable California rolls sat in the salad bar. I was a kid and greedily took as many fortune cookies as I could fit in my pockets from the giant wooden boat sitting at the entrance. Dad just loved that he could eat whatever he wanted, for as long as he wanted, for $7.99.
“Dad, it’s two in the afternoon.”
“I’ll meet you there. Twenty minutes.”
Then he hangs up.
I know from the tone of Dad’s voice it’s not an invitation. It’s a command. I might as well get it over with. I deserve whatever scolding is coming.
A half hour later, Dad and I sit across from each other in a booth, the red pleather seats cracked behind our backs, the air filled with the aroma of old sesame oil. The oversize floor tiles feel slippery, as if it’s just been mopped, or maybe years of grease buildup means no matter how often they scrub, it’ll never quite be clean.
“Your mother hates Golden Dragon,” Dad tells me, as if I don’t know. As if the very mention of this buffet won’t make her groan, roll her eyes, and reach for a bottle of antacids. He might demand perfection from his own bulgogi, but when dining out, his standards are purely about economics.
Add Dad’s unreasonable love of cheap, greasy Americanized Asian cuisine to the list of questionable judgments, but I don’t say this aloud.
Dad’s plate is piled high with all varieties, as well as some of that risky buffet sushi. Then again, Dad has an iron stomach. I don’t think I ever remember him sick. Not once when I was growing up. Even when we all had the stomach flu, somehow, he never fell ill.
I’ve opted for what I know is safe: fried rice, sesame chicken, and two of their double-fried egg rolls. It’s also what I used to get as a kid, plus or minus a dozen fortune cookies. Dad and I fall into silence again, eating, and I begin to hope that maybe this will be the end of it. I’ll just stew in Dad’s quiet disapproval while we both eat greasy, lukewarm, extra-saucy, extra-fried food. After we’ve eaten half our servings from the first trip to the buffet, Dad speaks again, but he keeps his eye on his plate.
“I wanted to talk to you about Charlie.”
Huh. Not what I was expecting. “Okay,” I say tentatively.
“You saw that I was not happy with his engagement.”
“Right. About that, Dad. Not cool. He was so upset. And Nick is so great, and I thought we were all past—”
“No,” Dad interrupts, holding up a hand. “I like Nick. I am happy for Charlie. I have told them this.”
“Why didn’t you show it, then?” I’m ready for a fight.
“Because you are the oldest, Jae-Yeon. You are supposed to marry first.” He keeps his eyes locked to mine. “It is your duty.”
“Are you kidding? You were mad at Charlie because he’s getting married first?”
“No.” Dad shakes his head. “I was upset with you for not getting married first.”
We stare at each other a beat. And once more it’s like the two of us are speaking right past each other.
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about, Dad. Who cares who gets married first? It doesn’t really matter.”
“It does to me.” Dad points to his own chest. “In my family, it matters.”
Once more, I’ve failed Dad, but I had no idea what I was being tested on. It’s like Dad has this secret checklist that I know nothing about, everything that goes into a “good son,” and I keep missing boxes that I didn’t even know existed. “You brought Nami home, and I thought we were moving in the right direction.”
I sigh, my eyes rolling up to the ceiling. Here we go. Another way I disappointed Dad.
