Chapter Eleven - Victoria
Why him? That’s all I’ve been asking myself the whole swim over to the sandbar. Why did I have to get stuck on a deserted island with Weston Conrad?
I can say no to anyone. I’m good at it, actually. No is my favorite word these days. No, I can’t pay you, I’m broke. No, I don’t want to date you, I’m celibate. No, you can’t have my services for free, I have mouths to feed. No, there’s no candy before bed, it will rot your teeth. And no, you can’t stay out after dark because that’s the law of moms everywhere.
I have no on the tip of my tongue at all times. I hardly ever say yes. And if I was smart, I’d have said no yesterday when that stupid call came in. No, I will not play your little game and no, I will not try for this contract.
I might want West to think I’ve got a chance to beat him out of this little contest we find ourselves in, but the truth is, he will win. He always wins. I can’t compete with him. These legs are not long enough, my skirt is not short enough, and my tits are not big enough to convince anyone to choose me over Weston Conrad. He has all the resources. He has all the contacts. And most of all, he has the reputation and power. Isn’t that what they look for in people to do business with? Power?
I can’t get enough of it to make things favor me. Or hell, enough to even the playing field.
It’s hard to be a woman in business. People don’t see me as powerful, even though I am. I have quite a bit of power in certain ways.
It’s just not enough compared to big, bad Mr. Corporate.
We will get off this island this evening and he will go one way and I will go the other and by the end of the night, he will have what he came for.
I’ll be left with nothing. That’s how it always ends. I’m used to it.
Maybe I had an opportunity before this little deserted island debacle. But that’s if, and only if, I could get to Wallace first. Or simultaneously, at the very least. I won’t get to him first now. He’s not here. And West and I won’t get to him at the same time either, because he has aces up his sleeve and I’ve got nothing but low-value cards with no chance at a straight flush.
“Hey,” Weston says. He’s lying on the sand next to me. Not touching me, of course. He’s keeping his distance, I can tell. And the whole Naked Man joke earlier isn’t enough to convince me I’m wrong. He saw the fear in my eyes. He could see that all the thoughts I was trying to keep at bay were whirling around in my head. He was talking me down off that ledge I often find myself on.
“What?” I sigh.
“Do you really think I’m not a worker?”
“What?” I have to laugh. “Why?”
He shrugs. “It bugs me.”
“You and I come from very different families, Weston. It’s no secret that I was brought up one way and you were brought up another.”
“You’re so sure of that?”
“Should I not be?”
“I’m just curious why you think it.”
“Maybe because your parents have a house on Cape Cod? Or you drove a hundred-thousand-dollar car in college. Or the fact that you were at Brown and not on a scholarship.”
“So that makes me lazy.”
“I never said you were lazy. I just can’t picture you working on a boat for money.”
“How do you picture me working for money as a teenager?”
“I don’t.” I laugh. “I can’t imagine why you’d need to work as a teen. Your father doesn’t seem like the I’m-gonna-make-an-example-out-of-you type.”
“He’s not.”
“So why work?”
“I worked for the same reasons everyone works. To make money.”
“But you didn’t need money, Weston. There’s a big difference in working for a new custom paint job for your Aston Martin and what most people work for.”
“That’s not why I worked.”
“Whatever. You know what I was working for when I was a kid, West?”
“Food,” he and I say at the same time. “I’ve heard it all before, Victoria. I don’t need a reminder. And I think lobster harvesting counts as working for food as well.”
“Well, I can’t wait to see this.” I sigh. “I’m not going to turn down your offer of fresh lobster because I have principles.”
“I have principles too. You say that like you’re the only person alive with a moral compass.”
“I’m one of the few.”
“And yet you wore that skimpy skirt and low-cut shirt today. You were gonna bait Wallace with your clothes and your body. I’d have to call those morals questionable.”
I get up and kick sand on his chest. “Fuck you.”
West grabs my foot and I go down on my knees in the sand. “There’s nowhere to walk to, Tori. So get off your high horse and just stick it out for once.”
“God, I hate you.” How dare he. I kick and he lets go, avoiding my punishment. “I’m swimming back. You can do whatever you want with the lobsters.”
I crawl out of his reach and then get to my feet and walk back into the water. I’m not a strong swimmer, but the ocean is smooth, clear, and shallow over here. Our island is only about a hundred yards away, so I know I’ll be OK alone.
Alone.
God, I hate that word.
I look over my shoulder, my heart fluttering for a brief second—hoping for an equally brief interval that West will follow me. But he doesn’t. His eyes are closed and he’s lying there in the sun like he hasn’t got a care in the world.
Suck it up and swim, Victoria.
So I do. And it’s uneventful even though my mind is a whirlwind of catastrophes waiting to happen. Sharks, or eels, or hell, whatever there is in this water that can hurt me. My imagination is in overdrive and I picture it all in my head until my feet hit the sand on the opposite beach and I walk out, shooting a look over my shoulder at Weston.
He’s swimming after me.
Which makes me smile. Ha. It feels like a win.
I shade my eyes as I watch him. He’s got his face buried in the water as his long arms reach through the small waves with as much effort as a fish. Then he dives under and disappears.
I start counting. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand, four-one-thousand… and when I get to ten-one thousand I start yelling his name.
“Weston?” I scream, running back towards the water. I stand on the edge, wondering what to do. There’s no one here to help me. My heart starts racing the second that thought enters my head. “Weston?”
I imagine his body floating up… or never appearing again. What if that pilot comes and West is gone? What will I tell his mom and dad? I will have to admit that I was here and I did nothing. And I can just see Mr. Conrad. I can almost hear his accusations. He was always there for you, Tori. Why weren’t you there for him?
“West!” I scream it louder as I run into the waves. I dive under and almost choke on the salty sea as it pushes its way into my mouth, but recover and surface, drawing in a long breath of air.
West is looking at me, the biggest smile on his face. “Did you just… try to save me?” He laughs.
I open my palm and splash water in his face. “Fuck you! Just fuck you! I was calling your name! You were under for like twenty seconds!”
“Not twenty seconds.” He chuckles, wiping the water out of his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Tori. I told you I worked in the ocean as a teenager. I can hold my breath for a minute at least. You don’t need to freak out about a twenty-second dive.” His hand comes out of the water and he’s holding up a lobster. “They live in the cracks between the rocks. These warm-water lobsters aren’t as good as the ones up in New England, but they’ll do.”
I let out a long breath and mutter, “I hate you.”
“I know,” he says, good-naturedly. “But I’ll still take care of you if you’re alone, Tori. Don’t worry. I won’t check out until you’re safe.”
He swims past me and covers the short distance back to the beach before I can even work out what those words might actually mean.
He’s mad, I know that. Maybe because I thought he was lying about the lobsters. Or maybe because I pretty much accused him of being lazy. Or maybe because I don’t think I’m safe here on this island and he’s taking it personally.
It doesn’t matter. Any and all of those reasons are good ones. And it just shows me that I was right to walk out on him three and a half years ago. I was right. I know what’s coming. An entire day filled with Weston Conrad’s caveman protection. Hours and hours of him insinuating that I’m helpless, or careless, or stupid. Or all of the above.
West is already walking back towards the little house when I get back to the beach. I pick up my shirt and skirt and carry them as I follow the little footpath.
My eyes are on West’s back, his rippled muscles and his broad shoulders.
I have lots of reasons to hate him. I do. But only one matters. Weston Conrad is sexist.
He believes women should stay home and raise children. Not have both a career and children, mind you. But literally stay the hell home and raise children. When he told me that a few weeks into our relationship I thought he was kidding. I actually laughed.
But he was serious. And we fought over this all the time.
If West and I had stayed together I’d be a stay-at-home mother. My life would consist of children, having dinner on the table when he got home from work, and running the household.
This wasn’t a guess on my part. I’m not making this up. He said this to me. Face to face, one year into our relationship. We had been fighting more and more about where we were heading as a couple. West was becoming distant and I challenged him. Accused him of cheating.
He denied it—I believed him—and said this was his major hang-up with me.
He wants a wife who is comfortable in her role.
Role.
That word still burns me. The moment that came out of his mouth I seethed. I saw red. I threw plates at him. I threw my stilettos at him.
I never actually hit him with the plates or shoes. But I did dump all his shit out on the lawn and make a scene in front of the neighbors.
The cops came—Weston was pissed off over that. And I don’t blame him. Those charges were still hanging over him at that point in time. He was taken to the station and questioned. I had to go down there and admit that it was mostly me making the scene. They wrote me a ticket.
God.
This is what happens when Weston Conrad and I spend too much time together.
I’m not interested in fulfilling anyone’s prescribed role. I’m not interested in being someone’s subordinate. I’m not interested in marrying my boss. I’m the boss. I have my own company, failing though it is. I’m the boss. Not him. And I won’t get caught in his trap again. Not even for an afternoon.
I’ll keep you safe, Tori. I won’t ever let anyone hurt you. You will never have to worry about that kind of stuff from me.
No. He’s right. I wouldn’t. Because I’d be his little trophy wife. Locked away in some fancy house with no real friends, only the awful girls from the country club to keep my mind off going mad. I don’t even know girls from a country club, but I’m assuming they’d all be good little Stepford Wives as well.
I’d rather die than live that life.
Die.