CHAPTER EIGHT
MATEO
I HAVE TO KEEP REMINDING myself that this is the solution I asked for.
Right now, gripping the armrests of my plush seat in the PEZA corporate jet, it’s hard to feel that way, but it’s true. I spent a lot of time composing arguments for Damon, then a ton of mental energy articulating my case. I ended up making Damon an offer he couldn’t refuse, alongside irrefutable reasoning.
Why doesn’t it feel like a victory?
I’m 25,000 feet in the air, and a personal flight attendant is bringing me glazed salmon and a perfect glass of Pinot Noir. I’m on top of the world and mere months from realizing my second major life’s dream. I conquered the restaurant world and am now about to build my resort and endurance race. It’s meant to conquer the mental world — because as physical as my climbing challenge is, it’s actually about the mind. People like to say that the body knows when to stop, but they’re wrong. A human body will only stop when the mind surrenders.
And yet, my nerves are shot. I can’t relax or concentrate. I’m prey waiting for its predator. It’s like there’s something over my shoulder. I can’t sit still. I’m a man waiting for the knife’s edge, seeing how true it is that anticipation of pain is worse than the agony itself.
I’ll be landing at a private airstrip south of Dallas in about 45 minutes. A car is booked to meet me. From there I’ll drive to a convention center I’ve never heard of, where Elizabeth Fucking Frasier has assembled some sort of a douchebag convention. She didn’t ask me to go. In fact, I’m sure she doesn’t even want me there — and, as far as I know, she has no idea that I’m planning to come. But her father said that this is the kind of thing Elizabeth cares about. He didn’t exactly demand that I go, but his tone was clear: Go and show her you’re a good man, or the deal is off.
The paperwork to sell the mountain is all signed, but there are contingencies in play for another two weeks. I’m allowed to kill the deal if the property fails inspection, and Damon is allowed to kill it for some legalese reason that amount to “Just because.”
He suggested we consider it a trial. See what it’s like for their family property and my ass to be sharing a bed. By the end of two weeks, Elizabeth has to not be screaming mad; that’s our mutual goal. She can’t be despondent. She doesn’t know about the contingency so that she won’t sabotage it on purpose. As far as she’s concerned, it’s all signed and done. We’ll see if she calms down enough to accept what she believes has already happened.
And if she doesn’t? If she’s still furious and hates me in two weeks? Well, I’ll cross that bridge when we reach it, but I’ll likely be fucked.
When I spoke to Damon this morning — when he told me that showing up for Elizabeth’s event might be a “step in the right direction” — he said that he gave her a “proposal,” similar to his agreement with me.
Now that the mountain is “sold,” she needs to respect his decision and come to see that what he did what was best. She can do that by at least acting civil to the new owner, and helping with the handoff. Then he told Elizabeth that he talked to me about her “school or something,” and that I seemed intrigued. Maybe, Damon suggested to her, Mr. Saint might be willing to invest, if you’re kind to him.
I don’t care about her stupid fucking idea at all. But if she’s not a total brat over the next two weeks, Damon tells me that he’ll use the mountain sale money and bankroll her idea. I guess she got her panties in a twist when he first told her the news, saying that the only place her whatever belonged was on the mountain. But the way I figure it, she has no legitimate reason why her stupid idea needs that plot of land. She’s just throwing a tantrum. And frankly, it’s none of my damn business.
I don’t like what Damon’s done, but I do understand it. To force Elizabeth to be happy with something she hates, he’s shoving the two of us together. It reminds me of how overenthusiastic parents might take childhood foes on a play date and insist that they be nice.
“Would you like a pillow, Mr. Saint?”
I look up at the flight attendant. I probably look tense enough to eat bullets. “No thanks.”
She nods, then heads toward the rear of the plane and vanishes.
I think, gripping the armrests, that I’d be cool if the plane crashed. I don’t mean it, but I think it. Because then at least I wouldn’t have to attend the douchebag convention. At least then I wouldn’t have to play nice with Medusa. A plane crash would keep me from seeing her stupid sourpuss face and those eternally frowning lips.
We land. I find my driver and attempt to endure the luxury while my gut continues to churn. It’s not going that bothers me. It’s that I have to be nice. Or attempt to, anyway. I was hoping that I’d never have to see her again.
I pull up Damon’s latest email to pass the time and prepare. I read what he’s written, about Elizabeth’s little shindig. It’s no help. I emailed him back yesterday to ask what I was walking into, specifically. But he couldn’t tell me.
“I don’t understand it,” he said. “It’s one of her brain trust things.”
Which I couldn’t understand at all. Brain trust things? He must have been talking about someone else. Maybe it’s an interior decorating group dedicated to the discover of new, cutting-edge ways to angle lamps for maximum feng shui.
I put my phone away. I wait until the driver tells me we’ve arrived because we’re not headed into metro Dallas, and hence I have no clue where we’ll end up. I gave him the address and assumed it was downtown, but I hardly give enough of a shit to look now.
We arrive at a small cluster of buildings. Almost like a college campus. The wide roads all skirt a central area, and you need a special card to get past a gate. Once inside, it looks like the kind of path you’re not supposed to drive on. I see grass and sidewalks. Some ivy. So, yeah. I guess it’s a college.
I get out when the driver stops the car, then comes around to open my door. It’s clear where I have to go; there’s a single door straight ahead with the unhelpful designation “South Annex.” On the door, it says “SPROUT.”
I turn to the driver, but he’s already heading back toward his door.
He half-bows and says, “Have a pleasant day, sir.”
And then this strange situation becomes my problem alone.