B009R9RGU2 EBOK (12 page)

But I can already anticipate Izzy’s response: “What about Jacob?” And what can I say except “I don’t know!” And I don’t. I mean, I love Jacob. I do. And it’s not like I want to have these feelings for Billy. But I do, so I have to figure out what that
means. I can’t just ignore it. Besides, confiding to Izzy would only have her wisely recommend that I pass Billy on to someone else, which I’m not ready to do.

For now, I need to figure this out on my own.

In the memo section of my BlackBerry I’ve even started a reminder list of all the sweet little reasons I love Jacob:

Tru interrupts me with the one thing that I can’t put on hold.

“Sophie? It’s Priscilla on line two.” I wonder if Priscilla is calling to thank me for the extremely detailed email I sent her with the wrestling account’s entire background. I was extra-diligent and included every aspect of the relationship, because I refuse to give Priscilla any excuse for not doing a good job. I grab for my headset.

“Priscilla. What’s up?” No point in small talk.

“I just have a couple questions about dealing with Brandon Falken.”

“Brandon Falken?” Mr. Falken
owns
United American Wrestling, and if anyone interacts with him, it would be Elle. “What happened to Christine? She’s the PR contact. Why would you be
dealing directly with Mr. Falken?” Oh my God. Seriously? I can’t leave Priscilla alone with this account for a day before she’s ruining relationships I’ve spent years developing?

“No, no. Christine and I are getting along great.” Maybe Priscilla finally has learned to hear the nuances of stress in my voice, but whatever the reason, I am relieved to hear her explanation. Maybe she’s not entirely incompetent. “Christine and I are working on some big concept pitches. That’s all. And I know that you’ve done some big projects with the account, so I wanted to chat with you about what Brandon is like. What he wants to hear.” Of course she’s already on a first-name basis with the mogul. Priscilla proceeds to ask some absurdly basic questions about the account, and I do my best to maintain my strategy: give her every piece of advice I can, so she can either prove herself—or prove that I’ve been right about her all along. Eventually it becomes impossible not to tune out her irritatingly cultured tone of voice, rattling off mundane details I already know about the client.

The other half of my mind drifts back to the Billy/Jacob situation.

I suppose it seems awfully arrogant and perhaps a tad presumptuous to think of it as Billy vs. Jacob. Billy hasn’t exactly proclaimed himself, but he has certainly been flirtatious. And am I seriously even considering breaking up with Jacob, a totally great guy, for what will likely be a short-term fling with a movie star? I’m not naïve. But maybe if I’m even having these feelings, it’s a sign and I owe it to Jacob to be honest with him about it?

It’s so easy to give other people advice, but when it’s actually happening to you, the right answer isn’t so obvious.

Priscilla seems blissfully unaware that I am barely hanging on to our conversation. She keeps prattling away at such a chatty pace that for a second I wonder
why
she is being so agreeable with me all of a sudden. And then the thought disappears when the caller ID shows an incoming call on line one.

Jacob.

“… so, when I realized that Christine and I were thinking so similarly, it occurred to me—”

“Priscilla. I’m sorry but I have to take my other line. Let’s talk later. Or better yet, email me.” I disconnect with her and grab Jacob’s call before Tru can pick up the line.

“Hi,” I say, followed by an awkward pause. And I’m not usually one for awkward pauses.

“Sophie. Sorry I couldn’t call sooner. I’ve been swamped all day.” Jacob’s voice seems completely unaware of the tension on my half of this phone call. “So, what’s for dinner? I’m dying to find out who gets into that fight they teased on last week’s
Survivor
.”

Crazy thoughts circle my head.
This
is the romance in my life? I feel righteously indignant and entitled to an emphatic silence at the very least.

“Sophie? Are you there?” Even when you’re not on a cell phone it’s become an instinctive question nowadays.

“Yes. Yes, I’m here.” I flick a pen back and forth on my desk like a teeter-totter.

“What’s wrong?” Jacob is a cut-to-the-chase kind of guy.

“Jacob, it’s six-twenty
P.M
. You haven’t called all day. Actually, it’s been nearly two days since we last spoke. I didn’t know
if you were even coming over tonight. You can’t make assumptions.” All of a sudden Jacob’s minor inattention is a problem the size of the Grand Canyon. As if I was waiting all day for a personal email that never came. And now here he is, and he doesn’t even know how he’s ignoring me! Izzy’s faint rational voice whispers in my head,
Passive-aggressive much?

“Sophie, I said I wouldn’t be able to talk yesterday because we were dealing with the bigwigs from New York all day then and today. Remember? I promised you I’d be up for air to watch
Survivor
together and I am keeping my promise. I’m sorry, okay? You know what it’s like.”

Oh, yeah. He
did
mention that his bosses’ bosses were coming into town and that he’d be incommunicado. My haughty tone evaporates in my throat as I also remember why
I
was distracted over the last few days too. God, why am I behaving like such a shrew?

“I’m sorry too.” I know I owe him more than a begrudging apology but I still can’t seem to swallow my pride all the way. “See you at eight?”

“Yeah, okay. What about dinner? Are we still on Indian or how ’bout we revisit Mexican?” Still caught up in my own head-drama, I barely register the kindness and genuine forgiveness in Jacob’s tone.

“I’m really not in the mood for Mexican. Let’s just get some sandwiches from Westies.” It’s a café literally around the corner from my condo. All organic foods, but not über-healthy. And it’s close and easy. No fuss.

“Sounds good.”

“See you.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.” I hang up, but it takes me a while to look away from the receiver.

Jacob hasn’t been
at my condo four minutes and already I’m annoyed.

“I didn’t pick up the food, Jacob, because
I didn’t know what you wanted
.”

“Okay, Sophie. Don’t snap at me. I just asked if the food was here because I’m starving. I wasn’t attacking you.” Jacob puts his briefcase down next to the wine I opened and left on the counter. He draws me in and offers a peacemaking kiss.

“Well, it felt like you had expected me to read your mind or something.” In my head it was intended as a slightly pointed joke. The reality was much more sharp and bitter. But, unwilling to take it back, I just step aside and refill my glass as Jacob shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over the seat of one of my counter bar stools. I walk away, waiting for him to respond. Am I hoping for a fight here?

“Do you want to walk over there or shall we have them send it up?” Clearly Jacob is an expert in taking the high road and I’m not going to get him off it.

“We’ll walk over, but I have a menu. We can call down so we’re not waiting.” We go through the paces of selecting entrees and calling in the order. By the time I’ve finished explaining to the waiter the specifics of what I
don’t
want on my salad, Jacob
has removed his shoes and tie, and has a bunch of newspapers folded on his lap. He is already engrossed in something on the front page.

“So, I guess
I’ll
go get the food?” I ask, annoyed again that he’s just assumed I would do it.

“No, Sophie. I’ll go. But it won’t be ready for another couple of minutes yet.” He goes back to his article, the crinkling of the paper on my nerves. I look at my watch and stew. This is so like him, I think, as I sip more Shiraz. Cramming in one more article before dinner. It’s frustrating because I would just go to the restaurant. In fact, I’d rather wait there to make sure I get the food as soon as it’s made rather than imagine it sitting in a bag on the counter for ten minutes while I read the freakin’ paper.

“I’ll just go. Obviously, you still have work to do.” I don’t play the martyr well, but it doesn’t stop me from trying. But this is a pretty obvious bluff. All Jacob would have to do is look up from his paper and see the old, ripped sweats and the stretched T-shirt to know that there’s no way I’d show my face in public like this. But he doesn’t look up, and in fact doesn’t seem at all motivated to get up from the couch. Or perhaps he just won’t take my childish bait.

“Sophie, the food can wait a second. I’ll go get it if you’ll let me finish this one article. Take a seat and relax.” How did he get so engrossed in an article that he just
had
to finish it before we could eat? And the underlying message that I just don’t understand how important his work is didn’t escape me. Jacob always claims he sees the importance of my job and values how
difficult my career is. But in moments like these, I get the sense that he doesn’t feel that way at all. That secretly he thinks his job carries more weight than mine, and his way of proving that is by reminding us both that the world’s news matters, before generously tossing me the Entertainment section.

At least another five minutes pass while Jacob calmly finishes the article he was so set on reading. He puts his hand on my shoulder as he passes my position on the perpendicular sofa. “I’ll be back in five.” As he walks out the door, I put down the book I was only pretending to read and close my eyes.

It is impossible for me to ignore the fact that I’ve turned into a raving bitch, not to mention a lunatic, in the last four hours. I know I’m behaving in a completely irrational way toward Jacob, and his composed reactions are only aggravating me more.

By the time Jacob gets back with our food, I have polished off the rest of my generous wine pour and am working on a third. Without saying anything, he starts setting up our meal on the coffee table. And yes, our food looks perfectly fresh, and his side soup is even still hot, steam rising from its open lid. I watch him work without really seeing his actions. Just clinical, unemotional movements and the crinkling of wax paper.