The Ground Rules (13 page)

“Wow,” he says. “What was he waiting for? You’re gorgeous…I would have nailed you within the hour.”

He almost did, I want to say.

“What’s wrong with the guy? I told you he was strange.”

I turn around to look at him. “It was me, Gabe,” I cry. “I wasn’t ready.”

“Oh…” he mutters, and I see joy in his eyes. He’s happy I didn’t go through with it.

I bury my face in my hands. “I actually had one of my panic attacks,” I confess.

“You didn’t!”

“Full-blown, baby. It was mortifying.”

“I’m sorry, babe,” he says, hugging me tightly. “This was a bad idea.”

I know.

“I love you so much,” he adds in a whisper, squeezing me tighter.

I hold him tight, thinking maybe there’s still a chance to end all this.

Maybe there’s still a chance for us.

I’m sure Weston will understand.

Life is strange now.

I know Gabe hasn’t technically cheated on me, but it still feels like he has. I can’t be with him. There’s too much anger in me. I need time.

He’s been very patient and kind. He says he understands how I feel. But I don’t think he really does.

We talk and officially decide to not go through with the exchange. We both agree it was a terrible idea in the first place. But I want to tell Weston in person. I don’t think it’s the kind of thing I should tell his assistant—and that would be way too awkward.

I pace around the house for days, dreading the confrontation. I don’t eat. I don’t sleep. Weston is a wonderful man, and the last thing I want to do is hurt him.

But I really can’t do this.

I dab a touch of lip gloss, looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My hair is up in a hard bun—no tendrils framing my face, not the least amount of softness. I’ve worn one of my outfits usually reserved for school—a simple black A-line skirt, a white buttoned blouse with a red Peter Pan collar. My makeup is minimal, and I haven’t bothered with accessories.

It seems an appropriate outfit for a break-up. I definitely don’t want to show up in a sultry dress, fuck-me heels, and then tell him I don’t want to see him anymore—that would just be cruel.

I put on my glasses and grab my red briefcase on my way out.

Weston has sent his car to fetch me again—it’s much better this way. I don’t drive very much in the city, and I’m likely to get lost or develop an ulcer trying to find a parking spot.

As I sit, looking out the window, my emotions are at odds. I don’t really want to do this. I’ve made my decision, yet I cannot imagine never seeing Weston again. And I know I’ll never see him again once I tell him I don’t want to do this. I wonder how he’ll react—I know he’ll be disappointed.

We meet for lunch at
Sixteen
. I’ve requested a lunch meeting instead of our usual dinner date—the last thing I want is a dark, moody restaurant—I don’t want to lose my resolve.

I’m ending this.

As I leave the elevator, I’m confident I can do this.

But then, sure enough, I see him standing against the wall at the entrance. I’ve never seen him look so gorgeous—his tall frame sleek in a snug chocolate brown V-neck shirt and slim fitted khakis. A brown distressed leather satchel hangs loosely over his shoulder, and dark hipster glasses frame his eyes.

The man looks like a friggin’ Gucci ad.

Damn.

Just when I thought he couldn’t possibly get sexier.

He flashes me that insanely wide smile of his when he spots me. He seems so happy to see me, and I’m about to dump him. My heart is filled with guilt.

He kisses me on the cheek. “I love those glasses.”

I was trying to be unsexy, but I think the glasses have backfired.

“I like yours too. Are they just for show?”

“They’re the real thing. I like to occasionally give my eyes a break from contacts.”

I take in my surroundings—wide open spaces, white linen tables, wood veneered walls as tall as the sky, and a view of Chicago to die for.

“Do you have a big prescription?” I ask as the hostess leads us to our table.

“I don’t see too well. I’ve considered Lasik eye surgery, but honestly, it scares the hell out of me,” he says, pulling a chair for me.

“I have a pretty small prescription. Point five in one eye, and point seventy-five in the other. What’s yours?”

“About two point five in both eyes.”

Splendid, I muse…we’re just two nerds having a really geeky conversation about our eye prescriptions—this isn’t sexy at all.

This is exactly the mood I was hoping for.

But then, he turns on a dime.

“I like your skirt,” his says, his green eyes as striking as ever, even behind those heavy dark frames.

“Thank you,” I say, trying to not be affected.

But it’s no use. He looks so good.

Water is poured and menus are handed out.

I barely browse the menu—too much on my mind. “Listen, Weston, thank you for meeting me today,” I start, trying to keep the mood formal. “I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience changing the time.”

“Well,” he says. “I did have plans with my children.”

“Oh no,” I say and suddenly feel like I’ve trampled a puppy. “I didn’t want to take you away from your kids.”

“It’s fine, Mirella. We’re actually having an early dinner tonight instead and going to see a movie. They hardly ever get to spend Saturday nights with me. They’re quite excited about it, in fact.”

“Oh, I’m glad to hear it,” I say, looking down at the lunch menu. I decide to opt for the leek and truffle soup and salad. Weston decides on the beef pot au feu.

“Listen,” I say, gulping a sip of water. “I wanted to meet today…” I trail off. This is a lot harder than I anticipated.

“Yes…what?”

I sigh. “Oh nothing…”

I am such a coward.

“I have something special planned. I thought it might be a good idea for us to do something fun together, get comfortable around each other,” he says. “I certainly don’t expect you to jump into bed with me right after dessert.”

I sigh. He’s making this really hard.

“You don’t want me to have another panic attack?” I joke.

He laughs. “Yes, hopefully we can avoid that today.”

“Where are you taking me?” I ask curious, thinking I can break up with him at the end of our outing. I know I’m procrastinating, but I can’t help it. I just want to spend a little more time with him before we say good-bye forever.

“It’s a surprise,” he replies, as excited as a school boy going on a field trip. “But I can tell you…it’s one of my favorite places in the world.”

I am officially intrigued. What could it be? What would be one of Weston’s favorite places in the world? The theater? The museum?

“Do you always spend Saturdays with your kids?” I ask him, enjoying a spoonful of my soup.

“I try. Before we had them, I was a real workaholic. I worked twenty-four seven. But the kids have changed me.”

“Kids will do that,” I point out with a smirk.

“You must really love children.”

“I do.”

“You are probably a great mother,” he adds, cutting into his beef.

I laugh. “I like to think so. I strive to be.”

“Did you have a good mother?” he asks, and I’m taken aback by his question. He occasionally has an uncanny way of jumping from small talk to more intimate conversation, skipping all the stuff in between, and completely ignoring social decorum. But I kind of like that about him.

I don’t really want to answer his question, but I feel I almost need to, since he asked it.

“My mother was a good mother until she fell madly in love with another man.”

“Tell me more,” he says, probably not realizing he’s being very nosy.

“She met him at a café. He was a professor of French literature, guest lecturing at the university. His name was Gilles. He was French and handsome, impeccably dressed, and he swept my mother right off her feet. She was thirty-three.” I hesitate a bit before telling him the rest—it’s not often I talk about this. “I was only six. My youngest brother was only one. I met the man just once, but I remember him clearly. She ran away to live with him in New York…and took the baby.”

“I’m sorry. That’s horrible,” he says with wide eyes. “Did your father raise you?”

“Yes…me and my two older brothers. My dad’s great.”

“Yes,” he says, fork hanging mid-air. “He would have to be.”

“What were your parents like? What’s your family like?” I ask, realizing I really don’t know much about him. In my mind, I’ve already concocted my own story—and it involves a sprawling mansion, a successful family business, impeccably dressed parents and siblings, possibly a game of croquet—a real Kennedy-esque picture.

“Well,” he starts, pausing to take a sip of wine. “Coincidentally…speaking of professors…my father was also a university professor. At Oxford. Physics. Apparently a genius mind, according to my mother. He also owned dozens of patents. He was an inventor of sorts,” he explains, trailing circles along the bottom of his glass. “My parents were both academics. My mother was just a student when she met him, and before long, she was pregnant.”

“With you?” I ask, fully engrossed in his story.

“Yes. With me. And my father didn’t want a thing to do with me…or with her, for that matter.”

His childhood was not the one I had imagined at all. In fact, it sounds even worse than mine.

“What’s worse?” I venture. “Your parent leaving you when you’re six…or before you’re even born?”

He ponders my question for a beat. “Six, I would venture,” he says, his voice soft. “I never knew him. I never had a chance to even form a connection. You on the other hand…” he trails off, putting down his fork.

“What happened to you?” I ask. For some reason, I want to know every detail.

“Well, my father supported us financially—he was a wealthy man. My mother hired a British nanny…a real Mary Poppins type.” A smile curves his lips. “Her name was Elizabeth.”

“Like your daughter?”

“Yes. We named Lizzie after her.”

“She meant a lot to you?”

“She did. I loved her more than my mother,” he says, without the slightest indication of guilt.

“Was your mother not kind?” I’m prying, but the intimate feel of the conversation allows it.

“She was very distant. She was very independent. Sometimes I sensed she wasn’t very fond of me.”

“What would make you say that?”

He sets his glass down and looks out at the Chicago skyline. “Occasionally,” he pauses for a second, “she would look at me with contempt in her eyes, and tell me I looked and acted exactly like my father.”

“I’m sorry,” is all I can say. I’m no child psychologist, but even I know something like that could really mess up a little kid.

And suddenly, I feel I understand him a little better…and I want to offer him my affection…my love. I don’t want to leave him. And I certainly don’t want to hurt him.

I was concerned I wouldn’t be able to go through with the break-up. I worried his striking eyes or his drop-dead gorgeous smile would pull me in. But I never realized
he
would pull me in…
him
.

I drop my fork and gulp a mouthful of water. I am officially royally screwed.

“I apologize,” he says. “I really didn’t mean to be so somber…but you asked.”

“I did,” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s fine.”

I smile thinly at him and neither of us utters another word.

We opt out of dessert and head toward Weston’s secret destination, whizzing in his town car. I am getting very used to being driven around.

“You don’t drive much, do you?”

“I really don’t like it. I like to multi-task and work, and I can’t very well do that if I’m driving.”

“Time is money right?” I say, crossing a leg over the other. And I notice him glance down at my stocking clad legs.

“Exactly.”

“So, how much money are you wasting with me right now?”

He gives me that sexy smile—the one which makes me crave him. “A lot. But it’s not wasted. Some things are worth it.”

I bite my lip.

I want him.

I shake my head a little.

“So, you’re not a car guy?”

“Not really. I have a few. But I consider them a necessity rather than a luxury. Occasionally, if something is weighing on me, I like to go for a drive to cool off, but that’s about it.”