Three to Get Ready, page 5
She was wrong.
My secretary steps into the room. Ryan has been with me for two years. He’s very competent. I’m accidentally scowling at him when he enters the room. “Ms. Morelli, the donor is here—are you sure you want to go ahead with the meeting?”
I rearrange my face into a socially acceptable expression. “Yes. Send them in please.”
“Okay.” He steps out of my office, reappearing a moment later with someone else.
With Finn, following close behind him.
I am…dumbfounded. Ryan doesn’t know what to do with that. He looks between me and Finn.
“We’re good for the day, Ryan,” I say. “You can head out for the evening. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Finn steps back to let Ryan leave. Then he bustles into my office and puts a binder in the center of the desk, like he’s setting up for a pitch meeting.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Finn extends his hand to me. “Finn Hughes. I’m here to discuss a potential donation to the Morelli Fund.”
I shake his hand because this is so bizarre and so wrong. “I’d like to discuss you leaving my office. Immediately.”
Finn sits. He looks up at me, eyes wide with hope and resignation, until I sit, too.
“Before I go, there’s a particular project I want the Morelli Fund to work on.”
“Again, I don’t see how—”
“It’s for the Dementia Foundation.”
Oh God. Here I was, all set to be steely and unforgiving. But with Finn’s hazel eyes looking into mine with despair covered in a thin layer of hope, I can’t quite follow through on kicking him out.
I’ll have to get used to it eventually.
I fold my hands on the desk. “You’re fully capable of starting and funding your own foundation.”
Finn flips past the first few pages of his hard-copy presentation and holds the cover open. There, in plain, printed text, is the proposed structure of the project as directed by the Morelli Fund.
He glances at it, then back at me. “I don’t want my own foundation.”
His voice is so low, and so rough with regret, that I make fists under the desk instead of reaching for him. My hurt and anger are like a knot around my heart. The longing, though? That’s worse. It’s a thousand extra pebbles spilled into one of my terrariums. The balance is all off.
And I can see that longing reflected in Finn’s eyes. His hand flexes on the desk, his fist closing tight and opening again.
“Have you seen a doctor?” he asks.
“The baby is none of your concern. Neither is my pregnancy. That’s what happens when you tell someone they were a good time, but it’s over.”
His mouth tightens. This is not part of his pitch. Not even in the realm of what we’re supposed to be discussing. But it’s been so heavy to keep this to myself. To just…wake up with it every day. Go to sleep with it every night.
All I want him to say is that he wants this baby with me. I know it’s impossible.
Finn’s hand flexes on his pitch binder. “Your pregnancy is a concern to me, Eva. And so are you.”
“I can handle making an appointment.”
“But you haven’t made one yet?”
“No,” I admit.
Finn glances at the presentation, then back at me. He’s the acting CEO of Hughes Industries. He knows better than to derail philanthropic meetings with personal, emotional bullshit. “When did you find out?”
“An hour after you broke up with me.”
He blows out a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Eva.”
“Oh—did you want more details? Here’s how it went, Finn. I took twenty-four pregnancy tests and then shut down emotionally. I’m still in denial. And I’m still pissed at you.”
“I’m sorry.” The corners of Finn’s mouth turn down. The skin around his eyes is tight. He means this apology. “That I made you feel like you were alone. This child is our responsibility. Together.”
Ugh. That’s the thing. I don’t want to be his responsibility. I want to be more.
A bolt of understanding shoots through me.
This is why Sophia gets so frustrated with me for never needing her. For insisting on this one-sided duty, where I give, and nobody can give back to me. It’s a strangely fresh perspective. I’ve never allowed myself to be on the other side. Now that Finn’s turned it on me…
“Seriously, Finn. Why are you here? To ask me about a doctor? I’ll see a doctor. Don’t worry about it.”
“I am worried about it. Also, I wanted to ask you to reconsider my proposal.”
It didn’t take him long, did it? I’m pissed again. My expression drops into a Morelli glare. Not appropriate for a potential donor meeting, but if this is what he has to say?
“There was no proposal. There was an edict from King Hughes.”
He takes his hand from the proposal deck. “Do you want me to ask?”
“That’s beside the fact that I would say no.”
Another shadow across the hazel of his eyes. “Do you want me to beg?”
It wouldn’t hurt. “No. I want you to leave.”
Finn glares back at me. “Do you want me to get on one knee in front of everyone in Bishop’s Landing?”
“Now you’re just mocking me.” Also, yes. Yes, I want that very much. I’ve never wanted it with anyone else, but I want everyone to know he loves me. I don’t want some bullshit fake proposal. I want the real thing, and I want everyone to see it.
He sighs. “You know that getting married is what’s best for the child.”
“Why?” I fire the question at him like a demand. It is a demand. “So he can have a father, or so he can join the Hughes cult of secrets? I’m not doing that. I’m not raising a child in a home where he knows he’s not wanted.”
Finn scowls, leaning back an inch like he can make this less painful if there’s more space between us. He looks young and pissed and passionate. And he looks tired beyond his years.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t refute the argument that he doesn’t want this baby. I don’t even expect him to.
I sit up straight. Regain control. “I need time to think.”
“No.”
“You need to respect my boundaries, Finn. If there’s any chance of us working this out, you have to.”
“Do you want to work it out?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. We might both be better off going our separate ways.”
He closes the cover of the presentation and stands. “I’m leaving this pitch deck here for you to read. Please get in touch when you’re finished. I’d like to talk to you about it.”
There’s so much more he wants to say. It’s written all over his face and in every tense line of his body.
Is he searching for the right words, too? Part of me wants to tell him there’s nothing he can do to make it up to me. And part of me wants to call off this argument right now.
I don’t want to marry you out of obligation. If you think of me that way, I can’t. If you think of the baby that way, I can’t. I know you’re afraid. I know you didn’t think of me as a duty before. Don’t start now. Please.
None of it is prepared half as well as his pitch deck or even my first attempts at a decent terrarium. The words are a clump of broken cacti and ferns that don’t match. I can’t hand him my broken heart and say here, look. Doesn’t it make sense? Ask me to marry you like you love me. I know you love me. I thought you loved me.
It’s not getting any better. I have the distinct sense that I’m running out of time.
Finn looks at me for another long moment. It’s painful at my very core to be on the opposite side of the desk from him. To be on opposite sides of this argument. We should be on the same team. If nothing else, we should be facing this together.
What do I have to do? Get naked? Take him to bed? How do we solve this?
How do I let him solve this?
He takes one step away from my desk, and I have the urge to chase him. To shout after him. Even to scream. That’s how much I want him to stay. I’m the one who told him I wouldn’t abandon him. I said it without condition. I meant it.
But I know better than to give in to that feeling. I know better than to let myself be beholden to it.
I’ve made that mistake before, and I’m not going to do it again.
“Finn,” I call.
It’s too late. He doesn’t come back.
8
EVA
When my apartment is empty for the evening, I stride out of my office like a high-powered CEO leaving his Manhattan high rise and proceed directly to the bathroom to run a bath.
There’s conflicting evidence about how much caffeine is too much to have when you’re pregnant, but I don’t want to take the risk. Even though my craving for Diet Coke has reached monstrous proportions. I can’t have wine, either, but I need something to take the edge off the pitch deck.
That’s how I end up with a can of sparkling blackberry water.
I take an ice-cold can with me when the bath is finished running. A small shelf at the side of my soaking tub has a circular indentation for drinks.
The warm water feels good. I don’t turn it to scalding like I usually do—I read it’s not good for the baby. It’s strange how much being pregnant affects everything. And nothing. I’m expected to go about my day like normal. Meanwhile, everything’s changing. I’m tired in strange ways. My stomach feels nauseous one minute and ravenous the next. I’m exhausted, and then five minutes later I can’t imagine sleeping.
Floating in the tub with the icy metal of the can in my palm helps.
I’m not going to look at the pitch deck tonight.
I move it to the corner of my desk the next morning. No in-person meetings on my schedule for today. Paperwork. Emails. I studiously ignore the pitch deck.
At five, I leave the office. I take the pitch with me, though.
If I’m going to read it, it’s going to be on my own time. Not because Finn tries to hijack my position at the Morelli Fund to get an in.
I change out of the outfit I wore to work. Wash my face. Pat it dry.
Then I take the pitch to a sitting room that now doubles as a work room.
This is where I keep all my supplies for making terrariums. I don’t use a typical craft shelf to store them. The jars of materials are in a one-of-a-kind piece in the shape of an octagon. Irregular shelves make a pattern that seems more intentional the farther away you stand.
I start on a new terrarium.
New bowl. New layer of pebbles. New dirt.
I’m picturing something simple, but beautiful. I’ve done a sunken ship, a lighthouse, a castle. This one is going to feature a fairy house carved out of a mushroom.
It’s cute and whimsical. It might seem silly to some people, but I think life needs a little whimsy.
The pitch deck waits for me, patient but stalwart. Unrelenting.
It’s a formal business deck with black plastic binding and a clear cover.
“What’s the purpose of you?” I ask the deck conversationally. “Why not just send me an email? Or better yet, why not just tell me what he’s thinking? What’s the point of a deck?”
I work on the terrarium, pressing down the bottom layer with my fingertips. Working a tiny cactus into a spot near the center. Its flower hasn’t bloomed yet. It’s hiding in a furl of pale green, but I know it’s there. In a week there will be bright pink petals, their silkiness a contrast to the cactus’s spikes.
“How long do I put off reading you, hmm? A day? A week?”
The pitch deck doesn’t answer.
The silence seems more and more accusatory.
It’s been another twenty minutes when I finish with the first phase of the terrarium, straighten up from the worktable, and brush off my hands.
Fine. I’ll read it. But only because I’m good and ready. Not because I’m on fire with curiosity. Not because it’s burning my lungs. I angle the lamp at the corner of the table, slide the terrarium out of the way, and pull the deck in front of me.
“Let’s see what’s here.”
The cover opens to reveal the title page. Neat. A clear font. A simple title.
Hughes-Morelli Joint Venture.
My throat closes. I clear it and turn to the next page, tipping it so I can read.
It’s a proposal. An actual proposal.
Proposal, reads the top header.
And under that:
A Proposal by Phineas Hughes to Eva Morelli, regarding the contract of marriage.
There’s a paragraph of text making it explicitly clear that the proposal is meant as a supplementary document to provide context to the larger question at hand.
The first sub-heading reads: Advantages.
Then there’s a bulleted list.
ATTRACTION: According to societal standards of beauty, he’s at least an eight. Maybe even a nine when it’s gray sweatpants season. And he promises to give you two orgasms for every one of his.
NETWORK: A relationship via marriage with him will include access to a wide range of social connections that would benefit the Morelli Fund and family.
COMMITMENT: He has years of experience managing family commitments and relationships. Colloquially, this is known as being “ride or die.”
I burst out laughing, which immediately turns into a sob.
This is Finn, baring himself on literal paper.
The fourth bullet point:
FAMILY: Son of Geneva Roosevelt and Daniel Hughes. Good parents, both still living. One brother, Hemingway Hughes—a captivating conversationalist, if a bit of a rascal.
CONNECTION: Deep interest in Eva Morelli. Companionship would be mutually beneficial.
Please continue reading for a discussion of risks.
It’s an interesting choice, because a risk isn’t the opposite of an advantage. It’s not a weakness or a failing. It’s something that might go wrong in some future, hypothetical space.
A risk might not happen.
GENETICS: Genetic condition has a significant impact on both parties in a Hughes marriage.
PLAYBOY: His number is high, so to speak. This didn’t seem to be a dealbreaker before.
DANGER: Prone to adrenaline-seeking behaviors. Colloquially known as YOLO.
I laugh again. Hot tears run down my cheeks. I can hear his wry tone as if he were in the room.
ATTACHMENT: He cares about you too much. It’s a problem.
Holding back my tears is a fool’s errand. I’ve been crying a lot more lately. Between that and the morning sickness, I’m a completely different person. A watering pot, basically. My emotions are more intense than they’ve ever been. Is that because I’m pregnant? Or is that because I’m in love?
Part of me wants to call Finn right now and accept the proposal… though I’m not sure a pitch deck can really count as a marriage proposal, can it? Even if he doesn’t love me, he can be kind. We’ll have this child together either way. Maybe marriage to him is the best option.
The problem is that I wouldn’t stop loving him.
It would break my heart to live with that distance between us every single day. I can’t keep battering myself against it. His will is too strong. I’ll wind up broken, the way I was after Lane.
It felt so real, like I was in love. Only later did I wonder why I’d thought I could love a man so much older than me. What did we have in common? Those logical questions didn’t bother me at the time. My nineteen-year-old self was willing to believe in an unlikely fairy tale.
Then, when I told Leo about my feelings for Lane, he confessed.
He confessed that it was Caroline who’d hurt him, and that his physical injuries hadn’t been the worst of it. That he believed it was the only reason Lane pursued me. By then, Lane had fallen for me. He didn’t accept the breakup easily. But by then I saw who he really was. I saw who I really was—a pawn in the game of an older man.
I cried every day for a month. I swore I’d never be so broken again.
Through my tears, I read the next part of Finn’s proposal.
I accept your decision regarding the issue of marriage. A partnership only makes sense if both parties benefit. If you feel the advantages outweigh the risks, then I would be honored to become your husband.
How am I supposed to live with this proposal in my head? How am I supposed to walk around every day knowing that Finn sat down and assessed himself with clear eyes? He offered himself to me in this business-deal format because he knew it would make me laugh. And maybe it was the only way for him to present it to me calmly, without breaking down.
I might break down, too, if I knew I only had seven years left.
Which probably explains the final section—the joint project with the Morelli Fund, benefiting the Dementia Foundation. It involves researching new treatments and preventative strategies.
Such medical innovations may help future generations of Hughes. It’s unlikely that even with help, doctors would find a cure in this generation. Basing a life around the possibility of a cure would be indulging in false hope.
I flip the cover of the proposal closed.
That’s how he thinks about hope. That it’s false. “You don’t know that for sure.”
That’s the argument. He wants all of our choices to be based on the worst-case scenario. I can see the wisdom in that kind of planning for lots of situations.
Not this one.
It would make a wedding feel like a funeral. It would turn every dream into a cruel joke.
I won’t participate in making a joke out of Finn Hughes. I won’t help him lead a sham life while his heart breaks more with every day that passes.
