A Deal with the Devil by Elizabeth O’Roark
22
Even before I began working for Hayes, I’d heard about Ben—Hayes’s lawyer and workout buddy, the one person alive other than Jonathan (and now me) who can reach Hayes directly. I’ve always been curious about this man Hayes allowed into the inner sanctum, so though I’m a little overwhelmed planning the luncheon, I don’t object when Hayes asks me to drive across town to pick up paperwork at Ben’s office.
The office is large and modern, with gray cement walls, dark floors, and not a single photo anywhere to give me a hint of who Ben is. I wait in the lobby, feeling oddly nervous, as if I’m meeting a boyfriend’s intimidating dad for the first time. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, but also…I’m not. Hayes respects Ben’s opinion, so I want him to like me.
For no reason whatsoever I’ve always pictured Ben a bit like Batman’s kindly older butler, a grandfatherly sort, but as a man approaches me with his hand extended, I realize I could not have been more wrong. He’s Hayes’s age, or perhaps younger, and radiates that same overwhelming self-confidence my boss does. Maybe they bonded simply because they were always the two best-looking, most assured people in any room they entered.
“Tali, right?” he asks, shaking my hand. He smiles as he’s pleased by something and tips his head for me to follow him to his office. “I’ve been hearing about you for weeks.”
We turn down the hall together. “Knowing Hayes, I’m sure that means he was bitching about me.”
He laughs. “Well, sort of. But it’s the same way he bitches about me half the time. I can’t believe you got him to take a day off. And smoothies, too. I’m impressed.”
“He was eating like a frat boy with a death wish,” I reply. “I figured I’d do my best to prevent scurvy until Jonathan gets back.”
He holds his office door open, observing me as I walk past and take the seat on one side of his desk. “It’s beginning to make sense now,” he says, taking the other. I raise a brow and he continues. “Hayes doesn’t know this, but I ran a background check on you, before you started. I saw all the photos of you with your ex, and really beautiful women are often not all that interesting. But I get it now. I see why you appeal to him.”
I laugh. “Uh, thanks? But I doubt he’d say I appeal to him.”
He flashes me a smile as he spins his chair toward the filing cabinet. “Of course not. But I’ve known him long enough to read between the lines. He’s gonna miss you when you go.”
The idea of leaving Hayes makes something sink in my stomach. And the possibility that he might miss me anchors it there.
“I doubt he’d admit that either.”
He pulls a file from the drawer and turns. “Probably not. But I suspect you’re the first person who’s tried to take care of him in a long time, if ever. His mom was dating some cricket player in Australia for half his childhood and stuck him in boarding school and sent him off to his father’s every summer. I imagine it was a lot rougher than he’d ever let on.”
My heart squeezes tight. I think of those rare moments when Hayes really lets me see his face, the one that rests between the smirks and the innuendo. When he is all bleak eyes and sharp bones, suddenly fragile. I bet that was a face he showed more as a child, until he learned how to hide it. I wish I could travel back in time to fix that for him...and I wish it harder and more fervently than I wish for anything of my own.
“He’s been in relationships though,” I venture quietly.
He slides the file across the desk to me. “Ella? Well, obviously she’s primarily focused on herself. So I don’t think that counts.”
“You know her?”
He frowns. “I’m not sure anyone truly knows Ella, but yes, we’ve met. She’s charming, but given what she did to Hayes, it’s hard to tell if any of it’s real.”
What really happened?I want to ask. Because Hayes seems to blame himself. Did he cheat? Did he shut her out, become cruel and cold? I’m not sure why the answers matter, when they’re about a man who’s never going to be mine either way.
I take the folder and rise to leave. “I’m sure I’ll see you again,” he says.
“Jonathan’s back soon, so probably not.” I’m not sure why that’s so hard to say aloud. It’s not as if I ever thought I was going to be a permanent fixture of Hayes’s life.
“Hey, Tali?” he says, stopping me as I reach the door. “Don’t give up on him, okay? He needs you more than he’ll ever admit.”
I nod, though I don’t entirely understand what he means. I’m not giving up on Hayes, but I only have a few weeks left before Jonathan’s back. What will happen after that? Will I remain part of his inner circle even then? Could I be more?
I’d really like to stick around long enough to find out.
It's nearly eight by the time I get back to my apartment and call my mother.
“Are you just getting home from work?” she asks. How many times have I called, ignoring the tiny slur to her words? Countless, and I want to ignore it tonight too. She’s the adult. It’s never felt like it was my place to judge or even wonder about how much wine she might drink at night, but that has to change.
“It’s been busy,” I reply distractedly, kicking off my shoes. I have no idea how to broach the topic I need to…but I know it won’t go well.
Her laughter sounds a trifle mocking. “Busy hanging out with the rich and famous, more likely. I’ve heard from Liddie about your glamorous little life out there.”
My jaw grinds as I fill a measuring cup with water. I can easily imagine the spin Liddie put on things, and it’s so like my mother to take her side.
“Since we’re judging each other,” I reply, slamming the microwave door, “Dr. Shriner is worried about you. She said you appear to have been drinking when you show up for family therapy.”
“I’m an adult and we’re not paying for Dr. Shriner to take care of me,” she says. “I’m allowed to have a glass of wine in the evening if I want one.”
Wearen’t paying for Dr. Shriner at all, I think. I am. And you can’t even bother to be sober for it.
“Mom,” I say, taking a slow breath as I lean against the counter, “it doesn’t look good when you can’t even stay sober for your kid’s therapy appointment. She isn’t sure Charlotte should be coming home to you under the circumstances. If you could—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” she says, her voice so shrill I have to pull the phone from my ear. “Shriner’s just looking for someone to blame for the fact that Charlotte isn’t better.”
If she were calmer right now, more rational, more sober, I might consider what she’s saying. She’s the parent. She’s supposed to be the one of us who’s right about things. But the truth is that she hasn’t been right about much in the past year, and she’s been perfectly happy to let me figure it out in her stead.
“Mom, she just wants to make sure Charlotte’s coming home to someone who’s going to be able to take care of her.” I pull my hair out of its ponytail and run my fingers through it, wishing I hadn’t called. “And right now, she’s saying that person will have to be me or Liddie, so I really need you to just...pull it together, okay? Wait to have your glass of wine until after therapy.”
“She can’t hold Charlotte there,” my mother argues.
“Jesus, Mom,” I snap, pinching the bridge of my nose, “you’re missing the point. Charlotte needs to come home to someone capable of staying sober. Can you do it or not?”
“I don’t answer to her,” my mother replies, “and I don’t answer to you either.”
I blink in shock when I hear the ring tone and realize she’s hung up on me. She fucking hung up on me.
Which means Dr. Shriner probably had a point. And unless something changes fast, I really might have to move home.