Authors: S. G. Browne
Tags: #Humorous, #Romance, #General, #Contemporary, #Fiction
Fated (12 page)
As the couple and Sara go about their business, completely unaware of the sexual battle that just transpired, Destiny slips back into her dress.
“I think it’s kind of cute,” says Destiny.
“What’s kind of cute?”
“The fact that you have a crush on her,” she says. “Weird, but cute.”
“What’s weird about it?” I ask, realizing I’ve just admitted to my feelings.
Destiny just smiles as she slides her feet back into her pumps. “By the way,” she says, looking me up and down, “is that a new man suit?”
First Honesty and now Secrecy? Doesn’t anyone adhere to any standards anymore?
Destiny circles around me, licking her lips. “Looks good, Fabio. What happened to the one Secrecy stitched up for you?”
“What did she tell you?” I ask.
“Oh, a little of this and a little of that,” says Destiny. “She’s pretty talkative, that Secrecy, once she’s had a few drinks.”
Great. Not only does Destiny know I’ve fallen in love with a mortal, but she knows about Amsterdam. But how much does she know? I guess it doesn’t matter. All Jerry needs is a reason to investigate one of my humans and discover I’ve altered his fate and before you know it, I’m shoveling brimstone dog shit at one of Satan’s dogfighting farms during Mardi Gras.
“So what do you want from me?” I ask, as if I didn’t know.
“Don’t worry, Fabio,” she says, sliding up close to me, her lips a breath away from my ear. “Your secret is safe with me.”
And with that, she’s gone. Off to Las Vegas or Bangkok or wherever it is that omnipresent, immortal sluts go.
When I return my attention to the mortals in the condo with me, Sara has excused herself to the balcony, where she’s enjoying the breathtaking view of Central Park, while the soon-to-be-divorced couple argues about the condo.
The wife wants to buy it while the husband thinks it’s a bad idea. They can’t afford it. He’s lobbying for something smaller, maybe in Chelsea. But she’s not having any of that. She wants the floor-to-ceiling windows and the marble bathroom and the gourmet kitchen and the uptown prestige. She’s going to get her way, as usual, and he’s going to resent her for it. As usual.
This is the death knell for their first go-round. They’ll buy the condo, live in it for less than two years, and then he’ll file for divorce. Five years later, after they’ve remarried, they’ll do it all again, only without the $2 million condo, but with the same results.
Sometimes I feel like I’m a babysitter for a bunch of undisciplined, uncontrollable brats.
It would make my job a lot easier if they didn’t buy this place, if he would just stand up to her and say, “No, we can’t afford it.”
That’s all she wants, really. A strong, forceful man who stands his ground and takes control of situations. Someone who will make all of the decisions for her. Someone the complete opposite of her father, who fell apart when their mother died, so she, the oldest child, had to take care of the family until her younger siblings had graduated from high school.
But he’s not that man. He wants to placate her, to make her happy, to give her the things she wants because he doesn’t realize he’s doing just the opposite. And so he sits there and surrenders to her arguments and acquiesces to her demands and submits to her every wish because he loves her and he just wants her to be happy rather than standing up for himself. Rather than taking charge of the situation and telling his controlling, baggage-carrying wife to just shut the hell up.
That’s what I wish he would do. Right now. Take control of the situation. Show her he’s in charge. Be the man she wants him to be.
Irritated and frustrated, both by this maddening couple and my encounter with Destiny, I walk over behind the couch, lean down close enough to George Baer that I can smell his sweat and cologne, and shout, “Just tell her to shut the hell up!”
“Will you just shut the hell up?” he says.
His wife and I stare at him, our lower jaws unhinged.
“What?” she says.
What?
I think.
I think.
“We’re not buying this place,” he says. “We can’t afford it. So we’re just going to have to find another place that’s more reasonably priced.”
I don’t know who’s more surprised—her, the husband, or me. But just like that, I can see it unfolding before me. A shifting of reality. A new future.
Uh-oh. I think I did it again.
They’re not going to get divorced in a year. Or at all, for that matter. Instead, the wife is finally going to get to give in to her desire to be taken care of, to have all of her decisions made for her, to be relieved of the burden of responsibility. Eventually, their new dynamic will lead to a dominant/submissive relationship that will develop into a full-blown journey into the world of BDSM. This time next year, she’ll be wearing a ball gag and a leather mono-glove while confined to a custom-built cage complete with tethers and restraints.
Maybe not as noble as joining a monastery, but it’s still an improvement on their assigned fates.
Although Carla Baer is unhappy about not getting the condo, she’s so shocked by her husband’s sudden decisiveness and authority that she barely musters a cursory rebuttal. By the time they leave, the husband’s new take-charge demeanor has given him the confidence to make dinner reservations at his favorite restaurant and to tell his wife they’ll be vacationing in Mexico this year. And I’m wondering if I’ve inadvertently made things better or worse.
Maybe it wasn’t my subliminally shouted suggestion.
Maybe it was just a coincidence.
Maybe he changed their fate all on his own.
Right. And maybe Destiny will become a nun.
CHAPTER 18
I’ve never been
a big fan of change. I like my routines and the way my furniture is arranged and how my pillows are fluffed. I’m a Taurus, after all. But this is a little more significant than what side of the bed I sleep on.
a big fan of change. I like my routines and the way my furniture is arranged and how my pillows are fluffed. I’m a Taurus, after all. But this is a little more significant than what side of the bed I sleep on.
Changing the fates of humans isn’t like changing a lightbulb. It can create serious repercussions, not only for the human whose fate you changed but for every other human that person comes into contact with. It’s the whole six-degrees-of-separation concept, only instead of just being a number of steps away from knowing someone, each human is a number of steps away from impacting the fate of every other human on the planet.
A kind word from one person to another can lead to another kind word, paying the kindness forward in a series of beneficent words or deeds that can change the paths of everyone involved. Similarly, disparaging words or acts of violence can end up affecting more than just the initial recipient. Just look at Ed Gein or Ted Bundy or any number of abusers or molesters or serial killers throughout history. The number of lives they impacted is immeasurable.
Not that I’m expecting Nicolas Jansen to hack up his newfound monastic brothers or George and Carla Baer to start stocking their refrigerator with human body parts, but I have to consider the consequences of my actions.
All the people who would have fallen victim to Nicolas Jansen’s life of crime and drugs will no longer have that experience as a factor in their lives. All of his would-be cell mates and dealers and street family won’t know his negative influence. And all of those who would have tried to help Nicolas will not have to face the disappointment of his failures.
His parents finally have hope for his future. The other monks at the Orthodox Monastery of Saint-Nicolas will be affected by their new brother. And the humans Nicolas comes into contact with will be inspired by his words and deeds.
Similarly, George and Carla Baer won’t inflict their insecurities or neuroses upon anyone else. They’ll be happier people and will spread that happiness to the other people in their lives, and those people will in turn be affected in a positive manner and will pass those vibes along to the people they know and meet. And so on, and so on, and so on.
So without meaning to, I’ve affected several million humans. Some more than others. But they’re all better off to some extent today than they were yesterday. And most of them don’t even know it. They’re oblivious to their fate. To me. To the changing circumstances of their lives.
And I’m wondering if I’m going to get away with this.
“Get away with what?” asks Sara.
Apparently, I was wondering in my out-loud voice again.
Sara and I are snuggling on her couch, watching
No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain
on the Travel Channel, and eating popcorn. This is not something I’ve ever done. Any of it. I’ve never snuggled, I’ve never watched the Travel Channel, and I hate popcorn. If Styrofoam had a flavor, it would taste like popcorn. But I’m sharing it with Sara and pretending to like it because I enjoy any activity that involves being with her.
No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain
on the Travel Channel, and eating popcorn. This is not something I’ve ever done. Any of it. I’ve never snuggled, I’ve never watched the Travel Channel, and I hate popcorn. If Styrofoam had a flavor, it would taste like popcorn. But I’m sharing it with Sara and pretending to like it because I enjoy any activity that involves being with her.
“Nothing,” I say. “It’s just work stuff.”
“What kind of work stuff?” asks Sara, grabbing a handful of popcorn as Anthony Bourdain eats his way around Naples, Italy.
That’s another one of the problems I’ve discovered about dating a mortal woman. She likes to talk about everything.
Problems.
Feelings.
Sex.
Typically, any mortal sex I’ve had has been a one-night stand. Even my trysts with other immortals can’t be described as relationships. And while Destiny and I have had an off-and-on thing for most of our existence, we haven’t exactly been exclusive.
So deep, meaningful, let’s-get-to-know-each-other conversation has never been something I’ve practiced. Not to mention the fact that any significant conversation is going to involve revealing details about me, about who I am and what I do.
Rule #3: Never reveal that you’re immortal.
Naturally that means I have to lie. Which I’m beginning to discover bothers me more than I realized it would.
“I made a mistake,” I say.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” says Sara. “That’s just part of being human.”
I almost laugh, until I realize she’s being serious.
When you make a mistake at Round Table Pizza, you’re affecting somebody’s meal. When you make a mistake at the Gap, you’re affecting somebody’s wardrobe. When you make a mistake at Charles Schwab, you’re affecting somebody’s financial security. But when you make a mistake in my line of work, you kind of have to factor in how it will affect the fate of all mankind.
To an extent, human beings are kind of like pizzas and relaxed-fit jeans and retirement accounts—some of them are of more consequence than others. Though to be fair, there are a lot more pizzas in the world than IRAs. Still, that doesn’t mean a pizza can’t have an impact on someone’s financial future.
On the television, Anthony Bourdain is eating pizza.
“So what did you do?” asks Sara.
“I gave someone the wrong information,” I say.
Sara is under the impression I’m a stockbroker, working in international commodities. Which isn’t entirely false. After all, I broker stock in human beings and I trade in the commodity of fate.
“What kind of wrong information?” she asks.
“The kind that could get me in trouble,” I say.
The thing about Sara is that she has infinite patience.
“Okay,” she says, putting down the popcorn. “This mistake you made. Is it going to kill anyone?”
“No.”
“Is it going to cause the end of the world?”
I have to think about that one before I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Is it going to get you fired?”
Chances are that with everything else he has to contend with, Jerry isn’t going to notice the artificially adjusted fates of three inconsequential pizzas. It’s not as though they did anything remarkable or memorable or groundbreaking, like lay the foundation for Western philosophy or refuse to give up their seat on a bus or shoot a fifty-nine at the Masters. They made choices that thousands of humans make every day.
“Probably not,” I say.
“Then let it go,” says Sara, curling up next to me. “Whatever mistake you made, it’s probably not as big a deal as you think. And even if it ends up being a problem, you have everything you need inside of you to fix it.”
Sara has one knee across my thigh, one hand across my chest, and her head against my shoulder. I smell her hair, the scent of her shampoo. I hear the soft exhalations of her breath. I feel her pulse vibrating through my man suit. And I suddenly feel better about everything.
This is a strange sensation, this affection and familiarity, this intimacy without sex. This having someone care about me, about my concerns, and making me feel better. That warm and tingly sensation I get whenever I think about Sara is suddenly a full-blown fever. And I’m filled with an exhilaration I’ve never experienced.
So I do something I’ve never done before. I squeeze Sara and hold her close; then I kiss her on the crown of her head, enjoying the feel of her without wanting sex. When she looks up at me, I kiss both of her eyes and her forehead, then smile at her. She smiles back before returning her attention to the television, snuggling in closer.
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