What do I have to do? Get naked? Take him to bed? How do we solve this?
How do I let him solve this?
He takes one step away from my desk, and I have the urge to chase him. To shout after him. Even to scream. That’s how much I want him to stay. I’m the one who told him I wouldn’t abandon him. I said it without condition. I meant it.
But I know better than to give in to that feeling. I know better than to let myself be beholden to it.
I’ve made that mistake before, and I’m not going to do it again.
“Finn,” I call.
It’s too late. He doesn’t come back.
8
EVA
When my apartment is empty for the evening, I stride out of my office like a high-powered CEO leaving his Manhattan high rise and proceed directly to the bathroom to run a bath.
There’s conflicting evidence about how much caffeine is too much to have when you’re pregnant, but I don’t want to take the risk. Even though my craving for Diet Coke has reached monstrous proportions. I can’t have wine, either, but I need something to take the edge off the pitch deck.
That’s how I end up with a can of sparkling blackberry water.
I take an ice-cold can with me when the bath is finished running. A small shelf at the side of my soaking tub has a circular indentation for drinks.
The warm water feels good. I don’t turn it to scalding like I usually do—I read it’s not good for the baby. It’s strange how much being pregnant affects everything. And nothing. I’m expected to go about my day like normal. Meanwhile, everything’s changing. I’m tired in strange ways. My stomach feels nauseous one minute and ravenous the next. I’m exhausted, and then five minutes later I can’t imagine sleeping.
Floating in the tub with the icy metal of the can in my palm helps.
I’m not going to look at the pitch deck tonight.
I move it to the corner of my desk the next morning. No in-person meetings on my schedule for today. Paperwork. Emails. I studiously ignore the pitch deck.
At five, I leave the office. I take the pitch with me, though.
If I’m going to read it, it’s going to be on my own time. Not because Finn tries to hijack my position at the Morelli Fund to get an in.
I change out of the outfit I wore to work. Wash my face. Pat it dry.
Then I take the pitch to a sitting room that now doubles as a work room.
This is where I keep all my supplies for making terrariums. I don’t use a typical craft shelf to store them. The jars of materials are in a one-of-a-kind piece in the shape of an octagon. Irregular shelves make a pattern that seems more intentional the farther away you stand.
I start on a new terrarium.
New bowl. New layer of pebbles. New dirt.
I’m picturing something simple, but beautiful. I’ve done a sunken ship, a lighthouse, a castle. This one is going to feature a fairy house carved out of a mushroom.
It’s cute and whimsical. It might seem silly to some people, but I think life needs a little whimsy.
The pitch deck waits for me, patient but stalwart. Unrelenting.
It’s a formal business deck with black plastic binding and a clear cover.
“What’s the purpose of you?” I ask the deck conversationally. “Why not just send me an email? Or better yet, why not just tell me what he’s thinking? What’s the point of a deck?”
I work on the terrarium, pressing down the bottom layer with my fingertips. Working a tiny cactus into a spot near the center. Its flower hasn’t bloomed yet. It’s hiding in a furl of pale green, but I know it’s there. In a week there will be bright pink petals, their silkiness a contrast to the cactus’s spikes.
“How long do I put off reading you, hmm? A day? A week?”
The pitch deck doesn’t answer.
The silence seems more and more accusatory.
It’s been another twenty minutes when I finish with the first phase of the terrarium, straighten up from the worktable, and brush off my hands.
Fine. I’ll read it. But only because I’m good and ready. Not because I’m on fire with curiosity. Not because it’s burning my lungs. I angle the lamp at the corner of the table, slide the terrarium out of the way, and pull the deck in front of me.
“Let’s see what’s here.”
The cover opens to reveal the title page. Neat. A clear font. A simple title.
Hughes-Morelli Joint Venture.
My throat closes. I clear it and turn to the next page, tipping it so I can read.
It’s a proposal. An actual proposal.
Proposal, reads the top header.
And under that:
A Proposal by Phineas Hughes to Eva Morelli, regarding the contract of marriage.
There’s a paragraph of text making it explicitly clear that the proposal is meant as a supplementary document to provide context to the larger question at hand.
The first sub-heading reads: Advantages.
Then there’s a bulleted list.
ATTRACTION: According to societal standards of beauty, he’s at least an eight. Maybe even a nine when it’s gray sweatpants season. And he promises to give you two orgasms for every one of his.
NETWORK: A relationship via marriage with him will include access to a wide range of social connections that would benefit the Morelli Fund and family.
COMMITMENT: He has years of experience managing family commitments and relationships. Colloquially, this is known as being “ride or die.”
I burst out laughing, which immediately turns into a sob.
This is Finn, baring himself on literal paper.
The fourth bullet point:
FAMILY: Son of Geneva Roosevelt and Daniel Hughes. Good parents, both still living. One brother, Hemingway Hughes—a captivating conversationalist, if a bit of a rascal.
CONNECTION: Deep interest in Eva Morelli. Companionship would be mutually beneficial.
Please continue reading for a discussion of risks.
It’s an interesting choice, because a risk isn’t the opposite of an advantage. It’s not a weakness or a failing. It’s something that might go wrong in some future, hypothetical space.
A risk might not happen.
GENETICS: Genetic condition has a significant impact on both parties in a Hughes marriage.
PLAYBOY: His number is high, so to speak. This didn’t seem to be a dealbreaker before.
DANGER: Prone to adrenaline-seeking behaviors. Colloquially known as YOLO.
I laugh again. Hot tears run down my cheeks. I can hear his wry tone as if he were in the room.
ATTACHMENT: He cares about you too much. It’s a problem.
Holding back my tears is a fool’s errand. I’ve been crying a lot more lately. Between that and the morning sickness, I’m a completely different person. A watering pot, basically. My emotions are more intense than they’ve ever been. Is that because I’m pregnant? Or is that because I’m in love?
Part of me wants to call Finn right now and accept the proposal… though I’m not sure a pitch deck can really count as a marriage proposal, can it? Even if he doesn’t love me, he can be kind. We’ll have this child together either way. Maybe marriage to him is the best option.
The problem is that I wouldn’t stop loving him.
It would break my heart to live with that distance between us every single day. I can’t keep battering myself against it. His will is too strong. I’ll wind up broken, the way I was after Lane.