CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
REBECCA
FIVE MONTHS LATER
FALL IN Texas can still be plenty hot, but as I sit on Evan’s deck this high up, I’m kind of chilly. The view is spectacular, and although I hate to admit it, I like the “queen of all that lays below” feeling I get when up here. I thought shorts and a tee would be enough for today given my current situation, but I was wrong. I want to get into the hot tub, but I know I’m not supposed to do that.
Annoying.
I consider going inside to grab another layer, but I’m too lazy. Work was hard. I had to sit in this chaise lounge all day, telling people about Evan and our relationship for the past half-hour as part of the LiveLyfe “humanizing” initiative that Evan hates, and Skyping with interesting people about the Apptitude AI before that. Oh, and once, I had to get up and refill my lemonade.
My thoughts about warming up go as far as glancing toward the glass wall to Evan’s apartment — or, I guess, our apartment. Evan’s inside, pacing, still on the phone with God knows whom. He’s been going back and forth for as long as I’ve been doing the LiveLyfe Ask Me Anything session.
I answer my final question, then bid farewell to my adoring masses. Everyone sure got a lot more interested in me and my life after Evan announced that I was his girlfriend. They’ve been flat-out fascinated ever since we got engaged, and attendance to my little Q&A sessions still keeps climbing. People are devouring the replays. All the attention makes Evan squirm, but what I told him is true: You’re lovable, Evan. Face it. Show them the real you, show them the real us, and bonding with LiveLyfe will be a given.
Even Callie Bristow has started admitting I’m a genius.
I close the laptop and set it aside. Without its warmth on my legs, I’m already cold again. I want to put my legs in the hot tub — just sit on the edge and dangle. What’s the point of having a rooftop spa if you don’t use it? I’m insulting it by sitting here.
I’m about to rise when I hear the door behind me.
Something soft brushes my shoulder. Then it’s in front of me, held by one of Evan’s hands. The exact sweater I wanted to get for myself. I could marry this guy.
“Sit up.”
I do, and he wraps the sweater around me. Then he sits beside me, in a rocking recliner.
“I thought you might be cold.”
“Hey. I don’t need some man to take care of me.”
Evan smiles at the private joke. It’s true, though; I don’t need him to take care of me. But he likes to do it, and increasingly I like to let him.
He looks me over. He does it all the time. It’s embarrassing. What am I supposed to do — just sit here and be admired?
“Take a picture,” I say. “It’ll last longer.”
“What are you, five years old?”
“Takes one to know one.”
We sit for a moment, both of us looking across the vista. A horn honks somewhere far below.
Still thinking of Evan’s gaze, I say, “I’m getting fat.”
“You’re not fat.”
“After a girl gets herself engaged, she can let herself go.” I look down at my small, just-showing belly. Then I shake it a little and do my Jabba the Hut impression.
“You’re such a dumbass,” Evan says.
“Yes. And now you’re stuck with a dumbass. And do you know what else? Do you know what genetics says that means?”
“Don’t say it.” It’s like his voice is rolling its eyes. Evan’s discovered that without all my fucked-up self-confidence issues in the way, my sarcasm is ten times sharper. I hope he can survive me.
“It means your kid is already half dumbass,” I say, rubbing my belly.
“Great.” He looks at the laptop. “So. Did you lay us entirely bare? Divulge all of our secrets? I sure hope you told the Ask Me Anything audience which positions I like best.”
“Laugh all you want, but you hired me to bond users with LiveLyfe, and thanks to me, they’re bonding like crazy.”
“I hired you as a consultant.”
“Well, there’s movement on that, too. I had some very interesting Skype calls today about the future of education.”
“Who did you talk to?”
“Frankie, some expert from the UK whose name I already forget but have in my email if you want me to get it. And Caspian.”
Evan half-laughs, half-sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“He was a perfect gentleman to me. Insulted you plenty, though.”
“I’d have a comeback to that, but I have to give the guy credit. He was working on GameStorming’s Einstein Module well before the idea even entered my mind. Even before Aurora.”
“What does Aurora have to do with it?”
“You know. He was trying to do something good for the world before pussy compelled him to.”
“Don’t be crude.”
Evan turns his head and gives me a stare that says, Oh, right. YOU have a problem with crude.
I hold my lecturing expression for five seconds, then I surrender and laugh. Pussy is a funny word. Unless your lover is whispering it into your ear while he’s doing wonderful things to your pussy, in which case it isn’t funny at all.
Looking at the laptop, Evan says, “Has anyone mentioned that you’re pregnant and we’re not married yet?”
“What year do you think this is?”
“I’m just wondering.”
“Nobody cares, Evan. Just like it won’t ruin your life if people know the kind of shampoo you use.”
“Someone didn’t really ask that.”
“Someone did.”
He shivers. Evan hates exposure. But the good news is that he doesn’t have to endure it for much longer. I’m live-updating my pregnancy just because people love it, but I’m careful to respect sensible boundaries. Once the baby is born, I’ll knock this shit off. People will be bonded enough by then, and I can hand the initiative over to marketing for creative adaptation. And besides, half the reason I do it is just to screw with Evan. It’s a love game we play.
“Relax,” I say. “The baby will be born after we’re married.”
I’m just now starting to show, and the wedding is in two weeks. I’d bust Evan’s balls about that, too — about the way we’re not having some long engagement so I can spend the time planning. But I don’t bother because I hate planning, and with Evan’s money, even the most elaborate planning has a way of happening so much faster. He proposed before I got pregnant and I won’t have to pick out napkins and floral arrangements. Everyone wins.
Evan reaches out and takes my hand, answering in silence.
“Who were you talking to for so long?”
“Hampton Brooks.”
“Coordinating wedding outfits?”
He laughs because it’s been one of our standing jokes. I keep saying that Hampton has to attend in an Expendable Chic suit, then rip it off at the reception so he can boogie down in something more casual. He’d never wear his company’s clothes, but it’s a hilarious picture.
“He wanted my opinion on a deal.”
“Don’t you have enough deals?”
“It’s his deal,” Evan says. “A real estate thing.”
“You don’t know anything about real estate.”
“That’s what I told him. But I figured I owed him for some advice he gave me.”
“What advice?”
“Just some stuff.”
Evan’s uncomfortable, like he’s hiding something. He and his billionaire friends act too manly for feelings, but this has come up before and I suspect that Hampton’s advice was something personal. Lucky for Evan, Hampton doesn’t like to be seen as emotional either, so I’ll have to keep wondering.
“Is he looking to buy a house or something?”
“A factory. The Billings & Pile Building.”
“A factory? For his clothing line?”
Evan nods. “I guess he wants to support American workers.”
I laugh because that’s not a motive Hampton would have.
“And get tax write-offs, and ride the positive PR.”
“Where’s the plant?”
“A little town called Williamsville. I’m not sure what state.”
“Wow. That sounds like Norman Rockwell Americana. Can you imagine?”
“What?”
“Hampton. Leaving the city.”
Evan smiles. It is funny. Hampton only leaves New York to visit other “important” cities. And he only leaves those cities for elaborate field trips, like our rock climbing, or like his jaunts to Ibiza. To say that Hampton insists on sophistication and the best of everything would be exactly right.
Evan squeezes my hand, then wanders down to caress my belly.
“I don’t want to talk about Hampton.”
“Let’s talk about Cole Ellison,” I say.
Evan looks at me and shakes his head in resignation.
“You’re regretting it, aren’t you?” I say.
“What?”
“Getting involved with a crazy person.”
He pulls me upright and then toward him. “With every breath I take.”
We kiss. For a long time. My head is dizzy. My toes — never mind the cliché —tingle.
When we finally part, he looks deeply into my eyes.
“Dumbass,” I say.