CHAPTER EIGHT
EVAN
10:15 AM: CALL RYAN from Resonant Systems. I’m in my Benz, driving myself, triple-tasking on the trip between my place and the downtown office where my personal accountant (different from LiveLyfe’s team of internal and external experts) holds court. I’m talking to Ryan, driving, catching up on email and Slack messages at the stoplights. I’m curiously Zen, handling it all while never losing track of the conversation, proving that even mania has a flow state.
I’m supposed to be at my accountant’s place by 10:45. It’s in one of the big buildings, and I’m not used to parking down here, so I’ve given myself a little leeway. Normally he’d come to me in our Austin office, but since I’m going to be down here at noon, I figured I’d get out and stretch my legs. I’m also a bit protective of this whole thing. I don’t want personal and professional numbers mingling, but there are plenty of people at LiveLyfe who have no idea that I keep an outside accountant.
Cesar Chavez exit off of Mopac. Right at the fork, past the lake on the right, into downtown’s moderate midday congestion. I’m minutes ahead, my call with Ryan is wrapping up without my needing to nudge, and I’ve answered all of my Slacks. I’m on a roll.
I’m about to hang up as I hit Congress. Ryan says, “Enjoy downtown,” and that’s when it hits me. Fuck.
I reviewed my agenda separately with both Taylor and Sam this morning, so I knew exactly what the day held. I figured it down to the five-minute block, doing my usual pre-op prep on the day to see where I could surgically insert efficiencies — like this call with Ryan, which originally had a fifteen-minute block. I can usually Tetris my schedule on the fly, and I did it for today. But Ryan’s mention of “downtown” brings it home in a way that my actual driving past Lamar doesn’t. I realize, full-on and all of a sudden, that I have that lunch with Rebecca.
It’s why I’m down here, meeting my accountant in person rather than having him come to me: because I was going to be here anyway. Because the accountant’s place is only a few blocks from the Roaring Fork, and they always give me the private back room without my having to ask.
It’s been on my mind, but the circuits in my brain wiring That thing that’s preoccupied you to That thing is today failed to fire. Even after Taylor told me, and then Sam reminded me.
I don’t know why, but the sudden arrival of this knowledge unnerves me as I pull up in front of my accountant’s building. I feel like I’ve forgotten something else, something vital. The feeling when you suspect something is missing but have no clue what it might be. This doesn’t make sense to me. I’m usually so precise. So controlled, How does someone who schedules his day to the minute forget a lunch date? Especially after a pair of reminders?
I’m thoroughly unprepared. My carefully created schedule is useless.
The building has a valet, so I’m through the door in minutes. But some asshole must have told the attendant that The Great Evan Cohen was coming and to take care of him because as soon as I enter the lobby, a chipper man in his fifties or so comes wobbling after me like C-3PO, saying my name and welcoming me.
“Good morning, Mr. Cohen! It’s a pleasure to have you in our offices today.”
I mumble a hello.
“Is there anything I can get for you?”
“No, I know where I’m going.”
“Coffee? Tea? Anything at all?”
“No.” I force myself to add: “Thanks.”
I go into the bathroom to get away from him. I hate being recognized. Sometimes success feels like a punishment.
I stand in front of the mirror and make sure everything is in order. I’m keeping things casual but professional: dark jeans, a custom white dress shirt made of Egyptian cotton, no tie, a slim charcoal blazer.
I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll through my calendar, my Asana list, even Evernote. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve forgotten something. My meeting upstairs should only take a half-hour, and then an early lunch with Rebecca. I’m overdressed by Austin standards, I sent paperwork to the accountant, and I’ve got my wallet. What else could I possibly need?
Rebecca.
Thinking her name makes me uneasy. It has something to do with her.
I think of Mateo and Hampton at the crag, looking her up on the satellite connection. I think of how my mind — before, during, and after my trip — kept returning to her web copy, her list emails, her written story. It’s all just words on a screen, and none were meant for me. But still, I feel like I’ve known this woman for years. I don’t feel like I’m about to meet a stranger, so much as I’m reuniting with someone I knew long ago.
That’s it. That’s what you’re missing.
And again: Fuck.
I meant to do research. I meant to send her more emails, asking preliminary questions. Hell: I meant to have some preliminary questions. But I haven’t prepared. I’m about to walk into a meeting with someone I don’t know, with no clue what we’ll discuss. I implied I have a use in mind, and I was serious about what I said to the guys while climbing. I do want to start my next big thing, and I get this feeling that a person like Rebecca can help.
Why?
In what way?
What, even, is the “next big thing”?
No wonder I feel unprepared. I am unprepared. Rebecca’s way of communicating online is so open and natural, I bamboozled myself into thinking I knew all I needed to know. But I don’t.
I know she’s a loose cannon, but not what might set her off. I know she’s blabbed about everyone she knows — especially this poor bastard Steve — to the world, but have no assurance she won’t do the same to me. What about our meeting? How do I know I won’t be plastered all over the net by sundown? Rebecca Presley might launch a new site, this time about Evan Cohen’s dick?
Hell, I still don’t even know what she looks like. Hampton and Mateo never did tell me what they found while searching, and although I meant to research a lot more about her, life hit me hard in the face the second I returned. This meeting has flown under my radar for what feels like forever, and now I’m about to face it with nothing but Steve’s Tiny Dick to guide me.
My phone buzzes. It’s my accountant’s receptionist, asking if I’d like anything to be waiting for me when I arrive.
I don’t reply. I don’t need anything. I understand that people want to kiss my ass, but I don’t like ass-kissing and have all the help I need. I’m not pampered and don’t want to be. I left my car with the valet for time’s sake, but part of me still wants to park in a public lot, sliding my credit card into an automated terminal to print a slip for my dash so I won’t get a ticket.
I look in the mirror one final time, then head out the door and into the elevator.
Why am I so nervous? I don’t know this woman at all.
Except that I do. She’s bared her soul for all the world to read.