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His smile is wide and self-satisfied, a gorged cat licking its chops.
“There has to be something more important than the bottom line,” I say softly.
“That’s the mantra of fools and romantics,” Paul says. “And we both know you’re neither, Ms. Slate. You’re just like me. After all, you haven’t told them either.”
He laughs again at the look on my face and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. “It’s the game, and the good news is that we’re the winners. Look around. If you play your cards right, your future could look quite similar.”
I look around. I look at the desk, free of photographs. I look at the walls, adorned only by cold, unfeeling awards. I picture Clark’s stress-lined face in the anteroom, at the mercy of his horrendous boss.
And I look at Paul himself. His bespoke suit and his bad tan. His overly whitened teeth and the haughty look in his icy blue eyes. Who could love a man like this? Who would want to?
And suddenly my two separate potential futures kaleidescope in front of me, and I see Rhett standing next to Paul. I see his flannel shirt as he trudges through the snow. I see that scruffy hair, always falling out of form. I see his wide, genuine, whole-hearted smile. The enthusiasm that consumes him when he’s talking about his passions, his hopes, his dreams. Maybe Rhett doesn’t know exactly what he wants out of life yet. Maybe we are complete opposites. But I’d take his exploration, his daring, over Paul’s coldly calculated climb to the top of this sterile tower any day.
My jaw tightens. I look up at Paul, and for the first time since I said goodbye to Rhett, a smile slips over my face.
“I quit,” I say.
I don’t wait around for his reaction.
I have a man to save from a lifetime of tee times.
* * *
I burst out onto the street and immediately come to a standstill.
Just like the absolute ocean of traffic that sits before me.
I’m not surprised. It’s three o’clock on a Friday afternoon in New York City, after all. But I’m quickly realizing the logistics of chasing after Bill are a bit more complicated than they seemed in Paul’s office.
Undeterred, I pull up Uber.
Yeah. That’s not happening.
I’m offered a half dozen drivers, but all of them are at least fifteen minutes away. Bill has a head start and, from what I can tell, rich people don’t sit around at airports. The plane waiting to take him to an unhappy future is gassed up and waiting.
I desperately turn to the old school. Where the fuck is a cab?
I stand on the side of the road and wave at every one that inches past. But each seems to be filled with passengers, or have their “off-duty” lights on, or are just straight up ignoring me.
As each potential ride leads to disappointment and as each passing minute means Bill is that much further away, I start to get frustrated.
I mean, can’t a girl have a last-minute change of heart without the universe conspiring against her?
The July afternoon sun is beating down. I pull off the coat of my pantsuit, meant to keep me warm in blasting air conditioning. My stilettos are hurting my feet. My stomach is in knots.
I’m not going to be able to stop this.
A cab stops in front of me and I dive for the door. But the cabbie locks it before I can grasp the handle.
“What the fuck?” I demand.
In answer, he flicks on his “off-duty” light. He wasn’t stopping for me. He’s just sitting in traffic.
I flip him off. He rolls down the window and shouts something at me in Farsi. I don’t speak the language, but disrespect is universal.
I’ve had it. I’m sweating. I’m uncomfortable. I’m waving my arms like a lunatic on the side of the road. I’ve completely destroyed every good thing that’s come my way. And now this jerk wants to shout at me?
“Maybe you should keep your goddamn light on!” I shout, advancing on the open window.
