The One That Got Away (11 page)

I try not to cry. I know me crying will only make leaving more painful for him. But when I burrow against him outside the checkin area, I crumple.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers into my hair, “I'll be home so soon. You know it will go faster than we think it will.”

I nod into his shoulder and squeeze him tighter.

“I'll call you when I get home tonight,” he says, and kisses me one more time. Then the sliding glass doors shut behind him with a whoosh of air, and he's gone.

In my job, there are two kinds of moments that I live for. One, of course, is the satisfaction of walking into a completed project and seeing the tangible landscape of my ideas. It never fails to thrill me the way the flow of the space, the harmony of the shapes and textures, somehow transitions so cohesively from my mind's eye to the physical realm, exactly as I had envisioned.

But long before that point, there's the eureka. That moment near the beginning of the design process when, in the midst of all the searching, testing, not-quite-there ideas, my brain reaches something that I know instantaneously is right. And then, it's like a flame ignites in my chest, and I draw and draw and draw until I have it all sketched out on paper and I can see with my eyes that the idea inside my brain will work as well as I thought it would.

The focal piece of my design for the original Balm spa was the living wall. Right when you step into the lobby of the spa, behind the teak reception desk, stands a twelve-foot-wide column of brilliant green lemon balm plants, stretching all the way from the floor to the double-height ceiling. Inspired by the herbal blends that go into Balm's products and massage oils, the wall offers clients a prelude to the sense-soothing experience they're about to enjoy in the treatment rooms beyond. And in addition to
suffusing the lobby with their minty-lemony fragrance, the lushly clumped plants help to purify the air, absorbing carbon dioxide and chemicals and releasing oxygen in exchange. It's the perfect architectural feature for a high-end natural spa…if I do say so myself.

Dallas and Houston are getting a living wall in each treatment room. While enjoying a hot stone massage or oxygen facial, clients will breathe in the tangy scent of lemon balm and listen to the lulling sound of the leaves brushing against each other in the air from the nearby HVAC vents. The design will tie the new spas even more closely to the very plants that are the heart of Balm's brand identity (and even the bright color of the logo). As soon as I thought of it, I knew this was the solution for the new spaces—the challenge has been figuring out the implementation.

The living wall in Austin was straightforward—the huge windows provide all the sunlight the plants need, and the water is supplied by one self-contained irrigation system. But in the windowless treatment rooms of the other locations, I have had to figure out a way to provide other sources of light that will keep the plants thriving. I've also been researching ways to maximize sustainability by using the building's gray water—the wastewater from sinks, showers, dishwashers, and so forth—to irrigate the living walls. I now know way, way more than I ever wanted about red and blue light wave absorption and Texas's gray water regulations, but it's worth it.

The presentation is at the end of September, in a little less than two weeks. John, Danny, and Nicole all thought the design was fantastic. Though when I gave him and Nic a dry run of my presentation, Danny pointed out that between the living walls, special lighting, gray water system, and upscale materials I am specifying, it looked like it would be awfully expensive.

“It will be,” I told him. “But they want a high-end space. You can't get that look without spending some money.”

“True,” he said, folding his lower lip between thumb and forefinger, “but it might not be a bad idea to highlight some areas within the design where they could cut costs if they wanted to.”

Nicole's orange curls wiggled as she shook her head. “That happens later in the process,” she explained. “Ree has to knock their socks off with her ideas, and then once they start getting bids from contractors, they can figure out where to scale back. If they want to at all. But she can't show them something budget right off the bat.”

Danny spread his hands. “I'm just telling you what would be going through my head if I were the client. Yes, you want to impress an upscale clientele, but that doesn't mean they have an unlimited budget. Just maybe spend a little time roughing out a lower-cost version.”

But there
is
no lower-cost version. This isn't a bar or restaurant, where you can cut corners on materials because the whole place is going to be in the dark most of the time. It has to feel sensual, luxurious. And the living walls are all-or-nothing; the design loses all its power if you water it down to just a couple of really nice planters. Jamie doesn't need me for that.

But she does, apparently, need me for nonsense.

She called me yesterday with a frantic last-minute request for my presence at a viewing of a house she is suddenly interested in buying. A viewing that was already scheduled for exactly one hour before I had to be on the road to Palm Springs for Jay and Dominic's wedding. A viewing for a brand-new house that she has already stated she has no interest in renovating. And no, it was out of the question for the Realtor to push the appointment any earlier, or for Jamie to wait until Monday, when I was back; Thursday at 2:30 it must be, or the baby Jesus would weep. And
so here I am at 3:52, cross-eyed with impatience, counting down the remaining eight minutes until I have no choice but to firmly inform her that I truly, absolutely, must leave
right now
or I will almost certainly miss my flight.

I haven't even dared to glance at my phone. It's been buzzing like a hornet with texts from Danny; Nicole; her husband, Chris; and Eamon, all of whom are sitting outside right now in Eamon's car, anxious to be on the road. In order to avoid an irritating two-hour layover in Dallas, we're road-tripping the three and a half hours there in the Jeep, then jumping on a direct flight to Palm Springs. Only my confidence in Eamon's ability to lay waste to northbound Interstate 35 has kept me here this late; I hate the thought of skipping out on a client, no matter how necessary it might be.

Finally, at 3:56, Jamie pauses in her detailed inspection of the powder room linen closet, flicks her tan, chicken-bone wrist to show the dial of her watch, and smiles. “By the way, doll, you should giddy on out if you need to—I don't want you to miss your flight.”

Dismissed! I practically curtsy, I'm so relieved. I throw an air kiss at her scented cheek and make tracks out of the house. Eamon's silver Jeep is waiting across the street, and when he spots me he leans on the horn.

“Mahler! You said three-thirty; it's almost four! Get your ass in this car!”

The window behind him slides down and Nicole's disembodied head appears. Except for her dimples and her pinup-girl lipstick, she is almost invisible behind her special Palm Springs accessories—a huge, floppy-brimmed hat and seventies-style bugeye sunglasses. “Ree, we're going to miss our flight!” she yells. “Let's get on the road!”

“I'm so sorry!” I gasp, as I reach the car. “I thought she'd never stop talking.” I throw my bag in the back, climb in next to
Nicole, and toss my sandals over my shoulder onto the heap of luggage.

Danny cranes around from shotgun to give me a kiss. “All right, are we ready to go?”

“Yes! Onward!” I scuff my bare feet happily on the upholstery of the floor.

Eamon fires up the car, cranks the Al Green, and guns it for the highway. Nicole and Danny both start rattling at me at once. We are giddy with excitement at peeling out of the city on a Thursday afternoon road trip, headed for fun. I haven't been so excited for a long drive since my seventh-grade overnight field trip to Washington, D.C.; I spent the whole six-hour bus ride covertly staring at the boy I had a crush on, hoping the conversation in the back of the bus would lead to a game of spin the bottle. Come to think of it, I realize as I sneak a glance at Eamon in the driver's seat, this isn't all that different.

He apologized again, the last time I saw him, for the way he behaved a couple weeks ago when Noah visited. By then, I was just anxious to forget it; I'd rather forget that entire weekend. I miss Noah now, badly. But I also realized, in the first few days after he left, that the sense of calm I suddenly felt was just the absence of the stress that had bunched in my shoulders over the course of his visit. I haven't been able to shake a lingering sense of disappointment in the way he handled that conversation with his parents—or, I guess really, the way he failed to handle it. I've been pissed at Noah before; until now, I've never felt like he let me down. But with that, he did.

Once we're roaring along the interstate, Chris reaches into the bag at his feet and hands around beers. It feels deliciously naughty to be drinking here, and as it grows darker outside, it's like we are
cocooned inside the car, growing tipsier and looser as the hours pass. We've rehashed every ridiculous story from our overlapping high schools and colleges, and I've been laughing till my stomach hurts.

“Okay, boys and girls,” Danny announces finally. “Time for a round of I Never!”

We all groan in unison. I remember when I first started college, everybody was obsessed with those purity tests that, in a mere five hundred questions, would quantify your level of sexual experience and, by association, sophistication. My score dropped from ninety to about seventy after my freshman year, then worked its way down a few more ticks during the first couple years after college, but after I started dating Noah it just flatlined. I think for most people, once you reach a certain threshold, you're unlikely ever to go crashing beyond it. My threshold does not generally win me a lot of bragging rights in contests such as these.

“Oh, you love it,” Danny insists. “Come on, I'll start with an easy one. I've never had sex.”

Eyes rolling, we all take swigs of our beers.

“Eamon needs a drink,” yells Nicole, who forgot months ago that she hated him and is now giving Danny a run for his money in the fan club department. She dives into Chris's bag in search of something nonalcoholic, but he's only brought beer.

“I've got water in my backpack, if you can reach it,” Eamon says, so she clamors ass-in-the-air over the seat, retrieves a bottle of water, and hands it forward. Eamon uncaps it and takes an enthusiastic glug. It occurs to me that participating in a game of I Never with a client—who holds a small but historic place on my own personal sex roster—is on the short list of the world's worst ideas. I can most definitely live without ever hearing the highlights of Eamon's sexual history, or filling him in on mine.

“Okay, clockwise—Ree, you're next!” says Danny.

And there goes my chance to avoid this whole disaster. If I demur now, Nicole and Danny will yell at me for being a wet blanket, even though they both know perfectly well how legitimate my reasons for not wanting to participate are. So, at the dignified age of thirty-one, I cave to peer pressure. “Ummmm, I never slept with somebody of my own gender. Or the opposite gender in your case, Danny.”

He shakes his head emphatically. “Gold star gay and proud of it!”

“My turn!” says Chris. “I never had sex outside.” Everybody drinks to this one, including Eamon. I note with guilty fascination that he also drinks to sex in a moving vehicle, sex in a restaurant bathroom, and sex in a locker room, but
not
sex in a pool.

“No way, man,” he laughs when questioned on it by Danny. “You do not do that in a pool that somebody else has to swim in.”

“Speak for yourself,” mutters Danny, tipping back his beer bottle yet again.

Then it's Eamon's turn. He takes a swig from his water bottle and levels a pointed stare at Danny. “I never had sex on the Plate Tectonics couch.”

“The what?” I ask, over Danny's shout of laughter.

“We had this couch in our suite in college,” Eamon explains, his smile lingering around his words. “I don't even know where the hell it came from—”

“It was already there by the time I got there,” interjects Danny, shaking his head.

“It was this gnarly old gray sectional that all of our friends had to sleep on when they came to visit—and also, that
I
had to sleep on every time you sexiled me—”

Danny studies the ceiling of the car in feigned innocence.

“The bitch of it was, the sections were tiny. And there was no way of securing them together. So you'd go to sleep and then wake
up two hours later to find that the pieces had slid apart and your ass was hanging halfway down the middle of the couch. You'd push it back together again, and then an hour later it would be your elbow. God, that thing was awful.”

“So how did you manage to have sex on it, then?” asks Nicole.

“Athleticism and sheer mental fortitude,” Eamon responds.

By the time we arrive at the Ace Hotel in Palm Springs, which is home base for the wedding weekend, I've learned far more about all of them than I ever expected to—or ever needed to, for that matter. Yawning, we check in and shuffle off to our rooms: Eamon is next door to Danny and me, and on the ground floor below us are Nic and Chris. While I inspect the room, Danny flings himself on one of the beds and spreads his long limbs like a starfish. I make a beeline for the striped flannel robes hanging on the wall and toss one on while I get ready for bed.

“It must be good to get to see so much of Eamon again,” I venture, my back to Danny.

“Yeah. I haven't seen him this relaxed since college. He got the crap kicked out of him for six years up there in San Fran.”

“How so?”

“His coach, Howard, is a psychopath. Total Doc Brown type,” Danny explains. “He operates by mind games and mental torture. ‘Well, if I thought you could do
x
, I'd tell you to do
y
, but I know you can't do it,' and so forth. Reverse psychology. Inventing sadistic drills no one's ever heard of before. Always pushing his athletes harder and harder and harder.” He joins me by the sink and continues. “So Ame rolls up there when he finishes school, and Howard's like, ‘Everything you've done till now is
wrong, it's a miracle you've done as well as you have, and if you want a prayer of doing anything significant in this sport from now on you have to do exactly what I tell you and only that.' ”