“I’m open to getting married eventually,” I say carefully. “I just—I’m not sure my idea of marriage is quite the same as yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just—I’d be more interested in a sort of business arrangement. Something less…volatile.”
My mom is quiet for a long moment. If I were sitting in her living room now, I know I’d see her pinching the bridge of her nose the way she always does when she’s trying very, very hard to understand something her confounding son is saying. “Honey, a life without passion?—”
“Sounds perfect for me,” I finish, wondering if it’s too soon to end this conversation. But then I feel like a shitty son, so I soften my voice and try again. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m happy.”
“You are?”
There’s that hopeful note again. And there’s that lump in my throat.
“I am,” I assure her. “I promise I’ll come see you as soon as I can, okay?”
“When?”
“Next weekend, maybe? Or the weekend after that. There’s one more big hurdle I need to get over before I can close this deal.”
“What’s the hurdle?”
“A business dinner.” I try to inject the words with some enthusiasm, but they fall flat. “The executives want to get to know me on a more personal level. We’re going out to this fancy family-style restaurant with all spouses and significant others and seeing how we all mesh as a group.”
“Oh.” There’s enough motherly concern in that syllable to power a daycare. “Will you be okay with that?”
“Yeah.” I realize as I say it that I’m actually believing it. “I’ll have Sarah with me, so that should help.”
“Sarah?” Her voice brightens like I just informed her I’ll be taking the Pope as my date to church. “Oh, she’s lovely. I thought the two of you had lost touch.”
“We’re still in touch,” I assure her, trying not to think too much about all the touching we’ve been doing lately. “Anyway, she’s coming with me to the dinner.”
“So you won’t be alone.”
There’s that lump in my throat again. “Right. So I won’t be alone.”
The lump stays put as we say our goodbyes, and I hang up and take a deep breath. What the hell is wrong with me?
Glancing down, I see I’m gripping the phone so hard the case bends. I set it down and flop onto my hotel bed, breathing in and out until the tightness in my throat eases and I can swallow like a normal human being.
But the ache in my chest isn’t going away. I put my hand over my heart, rubbing almost unconsciously. I hate this.
Talking to my mother shouldn’t make me emotional.
Thinking about Sarah shouldn’t make me emotional.
Remembering Shane shouldn’t?—
I stop there, determined to fight off these stupid waves of feeling. I’ve done it before, done it for years, with no problem at all. There’s no reason I can’t keep doing it, keep myself numb the way I’ve done for a decade.
I sit up too fast, pretty sure that’s the reason I’m dizzy. It has nothing to do with these feelings, nothing to do with Sarah or the effect she has on me.
Reassured, I fling myself from the bed and stomp off to take a cold shower.
Chapter 7
Sarah
Since I am apparently incapable of keeping my clothes on around Ian Nolan these days, I set a public place for our next get-together. A public place that does not have any discreetly located conference rooms.
