30
I love him. I love him. I love him.
I realized this last night, the one night out of the week that we have spent apart. He wasn’t there with me within arms reach. I couldn’t sleep a wink. I lay in my bed all night keenly aware of two things. How crappy the mattress is and how much I miss him. Not just the sex, either. I miss all of him. His presence. His almond shaped eyes. The sweet smell of his coconut shampoo. Even his five o’clock shadow that comes in around three o’clock two days after the shave.
Gatsby Tristan Wild.
Gatsby Tristan Wild.
Gatsby Tristan Wild.
This man is starting to have a crazy amount of power over me. Influence. Whatever you want to call it. It’s like there’s this gravitational pull between us. He’s the North Pole. I’m the South Pole. I’m a positive charge. He’s a negative charge. And when we come close to each other, we have to collide.
“Hey darling.” Gatsby waltzes over to my desk and plants a big wet kiss on my lips. I tilt my head back. He takes the opportunity to run his fingers in between my thighs.
Dammit. I should’ve ‘forgotten’ to wear underwear again. Like I had on Wednesday. When he discovered that I wasn’t wearing panties, we used our lunch break for something other than lunch. Gatsby kisses me again. His tongue runs around along my teeth. I arch my back forward and run my fingers through his hair. But I don’t get up.
Gatsby Tristan Wild.
Gatsby Tristan Wild.
Mrs. Gatsby Tristan Wild.
The thought just pops into my head. Agh! No, no, no, I say to myself. Don’t even go there, Annabelle. It has been a week! Only a week! It has been just one week since our first disastrous date and since I showed Gatsby Atticus’ incriminating email.
“You look very pretty today,” Gatsby says, lifting me out of my chair and wrapping his arms around me. I love the feeling of his strong, powerful pecs against my breasts. But what’s also nice is that he had noticed that I’d gone the extra mile today.
Maggie Mae had helped me pick out a brand new pair of four-inch heels and a sensible, yet sophisticated sexy suit. A matching skirt and jacket and a beautiful pink blouse to go on the inside. I love the way the flowing material peeks out from underneath the tailored jacket giving my outfit a sense of femininity.
I’m also wearing my hair down at my shoulders, not up in a bun or a ponytail, and the waves give my face some sort of glow. At least, according to Maggie Mae. The makeup is also all her. Instead of simple eyeliner and mascara, she gave me exquisite smoky cat eyes, brushed and lined my eyebrows, and even made me wear foundation, blush, and lipstick. To complete the look, she added eyelashes. I hated them at first. They nearly glued my eyes shut completely, but once they were set, they did make my eyes appear to be at least twice as big.
“Well, today’s a big day. I am meeting your father, remember?”
Gatsby rolls his eyes. Sighing, he drops his arms and turns away from me, toward the window.
“Don’t remind me.”
“What?” I stare at him. In the glass, I see my reflection. The eyelashes make me feel like Marilyn Monroe, and I try to pull off her innocent open-eyed look. I flutter my eyelashes at Gatsby and wait for his response.
“What are you doing?” he asks, clearly not getting it. Nope, I didn’t succeed at all. Not even in spirit. I’ve just confused him!
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Not looking forward to your dad coming?”
He shakes his head.
“I’m not ready to see him.”
Gatsby’s been dreading this meeting since he told his father about the Atticus situation. Ever since I got that email from Atticus accidentally, Gatsby has been doing some investigating. And found a number of unpleasant things about him and his situation.
Apparently, Atticus has manipulated Wild International’s financial data to artificially depress the share price of the company prior to the IPO. He has done this in exchange for a bribe from the investment bank. Gatsby thinks that he has done this because Atticus’ shares are held in trust, and he can’t get access to any proceeds from the offering anyway.
“When was the last time you saw him?” I ask.
“Um, let me think. It’s been a few months. Probably not since Easter.”
“Was that the last time you spoke to him?”
Gatsby nods.
“I can’t believe it’s been that long.” I shake my head. “My mom and I used to talk almost every day. I can’t imagine not seeing her for that long. Or talking to her for that long.”
As soon as we got back together after our big fight last weekend, I told Gatsby everything. I told him about my mother and how close we were. I told him about her death. I told him how much I missed my sisters and that I hated how we no longer spoke. These were all the things that I regretted not telling him before, and I had to make it right. We stayed up almost all night talking even though he had a very important meeting the following day with the partners from the investment bank. I really appreciated it.
Gatsby chuckles wistfully. “My father and I have a very complicated relationship. We’re not at all like you and your mom.”
“Do you ever want it to be different?”
“I don’t know, Annabelle. I don’t even think it can.”
I can’t believe that. It is his father. I just couldn’t understand why they were so distant from one another.
“Dr. William H. Wild is a very complicated man. He is my father, but he has never been a dad. He has spent my entire childhood building Wild International into the world class pharmaceutical company that it is. He’s accomplished a lot. But he also missed out on a lot.”
“Like what?”
“Like my childhood. My brothers’ childhoods. Definitely my sister’s childhood. He has been there for us in the sense that he lived in the same house, and we saw him for a few dinners a week. But I frankly don’t remember him ever doing anything with me or taking me anywhere or teaching me anything. He was a ghost. A phantom. Someone who just paid the bills.”
“And your mom?”
“She wasn’t really around much either.”
“Why was that?”
“I don’t know, Annabelle.” Gatsby is getting exasperated. “Why do young mothers with rich families not spend time with their kids? Because they can, that’s why. Because there are lots of other people around who pick up the slack. Is that what you want to hear?”
“No, not at all.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to hear some sociological explanation of what happens in rich families. I want to hear what happened to yours.”
“Agh, you’re impossible.” Gatsby shakes his head and walks away from me. Getting any information about him and his childhood is like prying jewelry from a dragon. He guards it with all of his might and is incredibly cautious about anyone who he lets into his space.
But I just stand here and wait. I am not going to let him off the hook so easily.
“Fine, fine,” he finally relents. A little smile dances on my lips, but I try to keep most of it at bay.
“My mother is fifteen years younger than my father. They are not a good couple. They have hardly anything in common except for their obsession with this company and their family. No, let me correct that, the family name.”
“Were you two ever close?” I ask.
“You mean when I was a baby?”
I nod. He thinks about it for a moment. His eyes smile, but his face remains steadfast, unemotional. Some memories are creeping up, but he won’t share them with me.
“It’s complicated. Maybe when I was really young, but I don’t really remember. Most of my memories are of my nanny. We were really close.”
Now his face relaxes entirely.
“I called her Abuelita when no one else was around. It was our little secret.”
“Abuelita?” The word sounds familiar.
“It means grandmother in Spanish. I had to call her Ms. Isabel when my parents were around, but when they weren’t around, she was my grandmother. She taught me everything I know. She taught me how to cook and how to clean up after myself. She taught me about patience and honesty and integrity.”
Suddenly, Gatsby’s eyes tear up. He looks away trying to hide his feelings from me. I go over to him and wrap my arms around him. It’s not that I want to see him cry or want him to be in pain, but I’ve been waiting to see this side to him for a long time.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
“Nothing.” He turns away from me, rejecting my embrace. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not. Your Abuelita was important to you.”
He shakes his head, and I feel him breaking down a little inside. His shoulders slag and his head bows down.