Page 83 of Perfect Satisfaction

I’m unloading the bags when she comes out of her suite dressed in workout gear. She’s pissed. “I hear what you’re saying, Joshua, but you are wrong. You cannot... no! You listen to me. The order we agreed upon with the Australian department of defence CISO was he receive the software next. You cannot... then you get on the bloody phone and tell him you’re shifting the timeline. Again. Just after I fixed it.” There’s a long pause. “The first time was unavoidable. This time, it’s your damn ego that’s going to cost you millions.” She presses End.

I want to applaud the fact she has no qualms over hanging up on one of the wealthiest men in the world, but I refrain. I don’t want to do anything to drive more of a wedge between us.

Rubbing her temples, she doesn’t notice I’m standing here. When she does, she gives a shriek. “Christ, I didn’t know you were there.”

“I honestly don’t believe I grasped the complexity of what you do until I listened to the tail end of that call.”

Ursula smirks. “Don’t strain anything on my account. This is much more complicated than a formula about risk.”

She starts to sail past me, but I stop her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Seriously, Ursula. I mean it. Listening to that was—well, the word impressive is an understatement.”

Her eyes flick to my hand and then up to me. I quickly remove it. That’s when she speaks. “At any one time, I ran between five to ten projects of that magnitude. When I worked at MSW, I was also in charge of thousands of people reporting under me, budgets, forecasting, and a bunch of other things I’m unable to discuss.”

“What do you do for fun? Wear a cape and fly around saving people?” I joke. Is it just me or do her eyes flick to the side. “Come on, wife. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“More than you could possibly appreciate, but I’ll answer your question. For fun, I write. I find it cathartic.”

I almost fall over. “Write? For fun?”

Her hands jab onto her hips. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. It’s just”—her eyes narrow dangerously—“it contradicts the left-brain right-brain theories,” I conclude.

“It’s called balance instead of excess. I’ve had to learn to live my life by it.” With that, she heads toward the gym.

“You’re going to work out now?” I ask, confused.

She stops short so fast that her sneakers squeak on the polished concrete. “Is it problematic for me to?”

“Well, no. It’s just not your normal routine.”

Her face relaxes into something that might resemble a smile. “The first lesson taught in project management? Learn to adapt.”

With that, she makes her way into the gym. Within a few minutes, I hear the whir of the treadmill.

“Huh. Who knew?” Ursula is a writer. Then again, maybe it isn’t such a big leap considering the amount of writing I’m certain she has to do for her job.

A few minutes later, a popup hits my phone from business bloggerMoore You Want. I prop my hand on my chin while reading it aloud. “Denis Waitley said, ‘Expect the best, plan for the worst, and prepare to be surprised.’ Personally, I think the better quote would be, ‘Expect the worst, plan for a catastrophe, and prepare for sheer chaos.’ At least, that’s the word on the street about the possibility of on time delivery of the latest MSW software offering.”

Then my eyes cut to the gym doors. “Moore You Want. Son of a bitch. Ursula, you sneaky little devil.”

I don’t need to apologize to her. I need to strangle her.

Before I make concrete plans to do just that, I go back to my phone and reread her previous posts. In her words, I find something I never thought to find—glimpses of the funny, dynamic, and clever woman I met and married.

I thought I’d lost her.

Turns out I was looking in the wrong place. She’s been keeping pace with me the whole time.

I wait until Ursula’s taken a bite of her precious yogurt before I quote her word for word. “‘Expect the worst, plan for a catastrophe, and prepare for sheer chaos.’ Is that a personal philosophy or just one pertaining to your career?”

Damn, but I’d hope she’d be so caught off guard the yogurt would go flying. I was wrong. She drawls, “In my opinion, there’s really no difference.”

“Would you care to elaborate, Ms. Blogger?”

Her lips twitch. She reaches over and pats my arm condescendingly. “Aw. Was your nose even more out of joint realizing I have a tidy little following, Arek?”

“It’s not hard to repeat what’s overheard at Daddy’s dinner table, Ursula.”