The Year I Left Read online

  You spent fifteen minutes showing me some charts and studies and graphs on your computer. All the while, I leaned over to look at your screen without pushing my chair closer to you. Weird, I know. My thoughts began to vacillate between confidence and doubt. As you moved close to me, I felt like a schoolgirl—conscious all of a sudden about the way I looked, the way I smelled, the way I sat. By the time it was over, my right hip hurt and my left leg was cramping from leaning in the opposite direction.

  But the charts were good, meticulously prepared, complete with animation. The metrics you presented were well-researched and supported by a bibliography that looked longer than my grocery list.

  “I have to prepare for my next meeting, but Jane should put some time on our calendars. A working session to get everything together to present to the others.” I stood and walked back toward the door, intent on escorting you out.

  “Carin,” you countered, placing your hand on my arm. “If you’re really interested, why wait? Let’s continue this over dinner. Tonight.”

  “But—” I started. “I don’t have time today.”

  “It’s in the interest of the business. We can’t wait. I will let Madden know where dinner will be.”

  Chapter Seven

  Voicemails

  Three weeks later, we’d had three dinner sessions and made a lot of progress. Your plans were surprisingly clear, your strategy unquestionable. Of course, once presented to the board, it flew. You talked too much. Bossed me around even more. I didn’t have to do one thing—you prepared, discussed, and connected with everyone who mattered.

  I would never admit it, but it was nice not having to do a single thing to convince the team.

  Our first expansion plan: Asia. The market was booming, consumers were clamoring for real estate investments. This demand inflated property values.

  Since that first discussion in my office, I’d been traveling to and from Europe. Jack even managed to get Charlie on a plane to Heathrow, where we spent five days together, just the two of us. Like the old days—the boy who loved to sit in his stroller and go wherever his mother took him. The boy who would tell people how much he loved shopping with his mom. There was so much of that boy left, but you had to dig to find it, buried under the cool ten-year-old facade of wanting to stay in and play video games all day.

  I spoiled him. I really did. Bought him everything he wanted, everything he saw. He didn’t want much, but when he asked for something—like those little armored truck models and civil war soldiers we saw by Buckingham Palace—he got them.

  You were on that trip too, except we only met at the London office and stayed in separate, distant hotels. So you can imagine my surprise when we ran into you while shopping in Piccadilly that Sunday.

  Charlie was sitting on the sidewalk enjoying an ice cream cone and I was buried under a pile of shopping bags. Fall came earlier in that place, so we were bundled in coats and scarves under the ever-graying sky. There was some sort of demonstration going on at the square—young people carrying placards and waving flags. I held on to my bags while I watched Charlie’s head turn from left to right, following people’s footsteps as they walked in front of him.

  “You were right, Mom,” he declared before taking a bite of his cone. “I should have brought a hat.”

  “You cold? We can get up now and start walking,” I answered, placing an arm around his shoulders. “Ice cream was a terrible idea.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It was delicious.”

  A pair of men’s sneakers appeared in front of me. I looked up to find you in a black overcoat and a gray cap, looking down on us with a smile. The crowd swarmed around us as police sirens wailed in the distance. You knelt in front of us and laid your bags on the ground. “Fancy finding you here,” you greeted. “Hi.”

  “Hey.”

  “And this young man must be Charlie?” You offered him your hand. I noticed that you had no rings, but you did wear a black leather bracelet. I compared you to Jack. He liked wearing men’s jewelry. I myself didn’t care much for it. “I’m your mom’s friend, Matt.”

  Charlie shook your hand. “Did you just come out of that store?”

  “Which one? That one? No, but I did come out of another store,” you answered.

  “Oh.” He turned back to the crowd.

  You remained fixated on the shopping bags. “Buy much?”

  Before I could answer, Charlie did. “My mom likes to shop.”

  “Because she can,” you answered. “Are you having fun, Charlie?”

  “Yup! My mom and I go on these trips a lot. When I don’t see her for a while because of work, she’ll take me out of school so we can spend time together.”

  “You have a great mom, young man.”

  Charlie nodded, eyes still on the people around us. We all stood at the same time.

  “Where are you guys headed next?” you asked.

  The crowd thinned out considerably after a few uniformed policemen formed a line by the fountain. We started toward the sidewalk. Just as we were to turn the corner, Charlie turned to you. “My mom and I have been eating all the fish and chips we can. I’m trying to see which ones are the best.” Then he turned to me. “Where to now, Mom? We need to find our next restaurant.”

  “Fish and chips, huh?” you responded with that same smile. The spontaneous one that’s full-blown eyes, lips, teeth. “How’s it been so far?”

  I couldn’t look away. I was hypnotized. Even then, your delight was contagious.

  “Nah.” Charlie shrugged. “Eights.”

  I knew you’d win him over.

  “I think I know this place in Covent Garden with the best fish and chips in the whole world.”

  “Like, how good? Like a ten?”

  “Like a ten,” you said with a laugh.

  “Can you take us there?” asked Charlie, tugging on my sleeve. “Mom, can Matt take us there?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, honey. Matt is here for work. I’m sure he has things to do.”

  “It’s Sunday,” you reminded me. “I’d be happy to take you there.”

  I looked at you and then at Charlie, his head bobbing like a puppet. You never liked waiting for an answer. There you were, taking my bags from me and steering us through the clumps of people who stood in our way.

  Those awesome fish and chips? The ones Charlie rated number ten, we had those with you.

  And when we got back, I tried my best to maintain some semblance of normalcy at home. Trish and her mindfulness mumbo jumbo. Being in the moment, pushing past thoughts from my head, all that stuff—I cut off all meetings at six o’clock every evening and made sure I was home for dinner. Which didn’t really make a difference because Charlie had so much homework, he gobbled everything down in three minutes. And Jack’s attention was on football. He played and replayed every Bears game, stayed up all night watching post-game analytics, went to bars with his friends during weekend games, tailgated when he could.

  I used to love seeing him so happy, so ecstatic about sports. Was that a sign? When you love someone, you just want them to be happy. Wasn’t that how it should be?

  On a Thursday night in October, Jack cooked a wonderful meal of Vietnamese beef stew. Charlie finished his work early and was down in the game room. We sat outside in the cool air, the fire pit providing just enough heat for the evening. I wrapped a blue blanket around myself and watched a squirrel hop from branch to branch. Jack had ESPN on, but he was focused on playing word games on his phone. Brutus had lain on my right foot, the weight of his body warm and secure. Lately, he’d been clinging to me, looking up at me with those soulful eyes. As if he was searching for something in mine.

  The landline announced itself rather loudly. I made no effort to move from my seat. I’d been that way for months now—our voicemail box had over a thousand messages that needed to be retrieved. Was it a crime to wish they would just erase themselves?

  “Who is it? Do you need to get it?” Jack asked, giving me a puzzled look.
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  “Nope, let it go to voicemail.”

  Jack pressed the Caller ID button. “It says American Express Plat. Shouldn’t we be getting it?”

  “You get it if you want to,” I said. By this time, voicemail had picked up.

  “Car, they’ve been calling all day and all night for weeks. What’s happening? Are we in trouble or something?”

  I sighed before rolling my eyes. “I’ve just been so busy, Jack! Why don’t you call them back if it’s bothering you that much?”

  “I wouldn’t know what to say,” he said quietly. “You’ve been handling this for so long. If you tell me to leave it be, then I will. I just want to make sure our credit is okay.”

  “Everything is fine. I’ll take the next week off to catch up on stuff here at home,” I assured him.

  He nodded and reached out for my hand. “Come move next to me,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I missed you too.” I did miss him. Or maybe I missed missing him. It had been like an out-of-body experience for me. I was there, but I was flying ten feet above the ground as an observer. Everything around me was a story playing out with me as the star.

  Another ringing phone; this time it was you. I stepped away to take it. All you wanted to know was if I’d gotten home safely because there had been an accident on I90. I thanked you for checking on me, laughed when you told me you texted Jane instead of me.

  “Who was it?” Jack asked.

  “Torres. Some data he needed.” I avoided his eyes. I don’t know why because peers and colleagues have called me at all hours of the day before.

  “You didn’t tell me Charlie got to meet him in London.”

  “I didn’t? I thought I did.”

  I was relieved when he smiled at me. “Charlie thought he was one of the male models from All Saints since he came out of that store.”

  “I didn’t even know our son was that observant.” I smiled back.

  Jack squeezed my hand. “They hit it off rather well at dinner, apparently. Charlie knew all about the history of Catalonia and the soccer team that won the finals.”

  “Did you ask them what they talked about?”

  “Not really. Charlie just kept talking about him.”

  “Ah.”

  “What about you, Carin? Is he as wonderful as his Instagram pictures make him out to be?”

  “I don’t really know him. We’ve been so focused on working on our plan.”

  “So I shouldn’t worry, then.” He squeezed my hand and smiled. It was a sad smile, his eyes frozen despite the slight curve of his mouth.

  “About him? No.” I’m a different story.

  “Sometimes I feel like I’m losing ground with you. I don’t know what to do about it. If I push, the more you’ll resist.”

  “Jack. I work in a man’s world. This isn’t new. I’ve been working with men like that for fifteen years,” I said. At that time, I found it ludicrous that he would worry at all. I moved closer to him. We were still holding hands.

  “I know, I know,” he said, looking up at me. “But Car—”

  I waved my hand in front of my face. Not the rabbit hole. And certainly not with him. “No, no. Not now. Let’s enjoy the peace and the lovely weather. There’s time for all that. It will come.”

  Chapter Eight

  Triple Date

  I craned my neck to scan the place while tapping my fingers impatiently on the table. The weeknight crowd at one of the hottest restaurants in Chicago was as expected. Young women in black halter tops, their hair cascading over their shoulders, their skirts tight, their arms looped around the handsome young men leading them through the thick mass of people. The more mature patrons were dressed to the nines.

  Lemmings. That’s what came to mind. Too many designer bags, red-soled shoes, shiny sequined dresses, large diamonds.

  Jack and I were shown to a booth in a semi-private corner of the restaurant. It was C-shaped and bulky, set for three but could really fit five, which means we were able to spread out.

  “So, we’re missing Charlie’s parent barbecue for this?” I asked, exhaling loudly to show my annoyance. “How’d you get us this table anyway? It takes months to reserve at this place.”

  He took my hand. “You look nice. So sexy with those pants. I can’t wait to—”

  “Thanks,” I answered, pulling my hand away. “Seriously, how’d you get this table?”

  “Jody.”

  “You called the owner directly?”

  “Yup,” he said, looking up at the waiter who began pouring tap water into our glasses. He waved his hand before placing it on top of his glass. “Sparkling, please.”

  I rolled my eyes again. “Tap water is fine with me.” I smiled sweetly at the waiter and turned serious when I faced Jack. “It’s a Thursday night and I have an eight a.m. meeting tomorrow. Why are we here?”

  “Because it’s important.”

  “What is?” I shook my head.

  “I want to meet the man you’re working very closely with. Is that wrong?”

  “It’s stupid,” I said, arms crossed at the table’s edge.

  “Everything’s been stupid to you lately.”

  I pretended not to see you swagger toward our table, surprising Jack when I grabbed his hand. He smiled at me and stood as you approached us. I remained seated, right hand in Jack’s.

  “You must be Jack,” you greeted with a grin.

  Jack shook your hand firmly. I saw his muscles tense at the forearm and his elbow lock in place. “Matias, it’s nice to meet you. Glad you could join us. Please, sit.”

  “Hey,” I said, just as your eyes caught mine. How many leather jackets did you have? That night it was gray, faded and worn at the elbows.

  And there we were. To my right, Jack wearing khaki pants and a blue Burberry blazer. To my left, you in your trademark Armani jeans and a leather jacket. I couldn’t help it. I started to map out the differences between the two of you. Clearly one was seasoned in the finer things in life, the other without a care in the world about it.

  The waiter came to take our drink orders—Moscato for me, Old Fashioned for Jack and a beer for you. Such diverse tastes. I don’t know why, but I inscribed those differences in my head. Then there was me, feeling like a harlot in leather pants and a tube top. I did have a blazer over it. A sparkly, shiny one. Gucci was into metallics that season.

  As Jack perused the menu, you leaned over to whisper in my ear, “You look stunning.”

  I moved closer to him. Farther away from you. We’d had dinner with friends before, colleagues of mine or Jack’s. Never had there been this air of ... I wouldn’t have called it tension. It was more of excitement. The thrill that seeps through every part of your body, insides vibrating. Fast pulse, lightheadedness. I crossed my legs and then uncrossed them. This was going to be an ongoing thing all throughout dinner.

  “You’ve never been here before, have you, Matias?” Jack asked.

  “No, I haven’t,” you answered, your eyes moving left to right as you propped up the menu so it stood on the table. “What’s good here?”

  “They have this spicy broccoli that’s to die for. And this thing.” I skimmed my finger across the page in front of you. “They have your favorite.”

  “Here? Better than the one we had from Star?” you asked.

  “I think so!” I clasped my hands, taking the right one away from Jack. I could see where Jack’s mind was heading and I threw a roadblock in front of it. “Jane always gets us lunch from there almost every day.” I skimmed through my words to show nonchalance.

  “Of course, that makes sense. You know each other’s favorites.”

  You egged him on. “She’s a creature of habit. She never changes her order. Everything plain. No sauce. And with white rice. I don’t know how your wife stays so slim with everything she eats.”

  “Ha!” Jack crossed his arms. “My wife,” he enunciated, “is always on the go. She’s on a perpetual treadmill.”

  I laugh
ed. A forced one that sounded more like a cough. Dinners like this were so predictable. In three, two, one, he was going to order his favorite seven-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne. And then he was going to talk business and then insist we get some dessert.

  “Carin tells me the deal with the sellers in Asia is almost in the bag. Let’s celebrate.” Jack waved the server to our table. “How’s Cristal for you?”

  The server waited patiently while you hesitated, lips pursed as if you were holding your words back.

  “It looks like we may close in early spring, but we shouldn’t celebrate prematurely,” you answered. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to stick to my beer.”

  “Ah. Here we have a superstitious guy,” Jack said. “Fine with me.”

  “Speaking of ...” I turned to you while Jack studied the menu again. I caught him looking at us from behind it. “Did you send your crew to the site just to look at potential issues that may come up in terms of infrastructure?”

  “Yes. There are none.” You paused for a second before you quipped, “Other than the fact that it’s in a typhoon belt as well as on a fault line.”

  “And still, we decided to sink a significant amount of money into this. It had better be worth the investment.”

  “Car, are we ready to order?” asked Jack from behind the menu.

  The server whipped a pad out of his pocket, pulled the pencil clipped on his ear and assumed the writing position.

  You deferred to Jack, who ordered one dish from every category. You’d think we were feeding a platoon or something. So far, I still hadn’t said much, my head whipping left to listen to you and right to listen to Jack. It felt like a ping pong match. One of you whacking the ball as if it would crack in half, the other volleying right back.

  First, it was about work. You spoke about your experience, how you had graduated at the top of your class at Wharton and then gone to work for the top consulting firm in the world. Jack hit back, not with his credentials from Northwestern, but with the fact that the equity of his company had tripled in value only three years after he started it. You changed the topic to hobbies—yours was surfing, his was buying and selling cars. Your favorite place in the world was Belize. Jack’s was Russia.