He started with a statement. “You know about Wharton.”
She straightened in her seat. The ease gone now. It no longer suited what was happening. “Of course I know.”
Dillon had skipped his junior year, which meant they graduated high school together. They had both won partial scholarships to UC Santa Cruz, close enough they could commute for the first two years. Then Olivia’s photography began winning prizes, and UC Santa Barbara’s art department reached out, offering a full ride. UCSB’s art school was considered a gateway to greatness. Of course she went, and their relationship became defined by weekends in Miramar. Olivia racing toward her exit, Dillon plodding stolidly along. Until Wharton.
“After you left for Santa Barbara, I started working on a double major,” he told her. “Econ and accounting. Honors in both.”
“Why am I only hearing about this now?”
“Don’t give me that. You know perfectly well why.” She leaned her head back against the headrest. Sighed. “I know.”
Their weekends reached a fever pitch, the good times flaming with a unique brilliance, the bad times wreaking havoc and destruction. Olivia’s mother had repeatedly warned they were playing with fire, hurting along with them, fearful for how they both seemed almost eager to find the exit.
Which, truth be told, was how Dillon had seen it all too often. Driving back to Santa Cruz, molten with fury over whatever slight he felt able to carry away from their latest quarrel. Severing one cord after another. Letting go.
Olivia brought him back with, “Wharton.”
“It was everything I’d hoped for and more,” he said, remembering. “I didn’t know how lucky I was until I got there. My accounting prof had urged me to apply, and she was totally right. There was none of the snobbishness, none of the country-club attitude that defined other top-tier business schools. Wharton brought in a lot of kids like me. We competed, we fought, we learned.”
She said quietly, “You found a home. At long last.”
Being understood should not have hurt like it did. “Four months before graduation, I was recruited. The thrill of having several groups compete for me was something I can’t describe. I went with a boutique investment fund, they specialized in high-tech start-ups. Solid returns.” He went quiet. Remembering.
“Problems?”
“I assumed Wharton’s level playing field would exist in the real world. I was wrong. I lost out to Yalies on promotions I deserved. Twice. The third time, I left. I started an investment advisory group with five others from our group who also suffered from this unlevel playing field. Our former employers accused us of stealing clients. Which was true and not true. The clients didn’t withdraw anything, they simply gave their next tranche of funds to us. Our former group threatened us with a court action, then they went silent.” A pause, then, “I thought we were in the clear.”
The valley narrowed. The road went down to one lane, the other blocked by piles of rubble. They passed scrapers gathering piles and pouring them into gravel trucks. The noise was fierce. Going was slow enough for Dillon to become mired in memories.
When they were past and the going quieter, Olivia pressed, “What happened?”
“I thought I had discovered a major new investment opportunity. It seemed almost too perfect. Which, it turned out, is exactly what it was.”
“They set you up.” She reached across the divide and settled her hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
Her hand threatened to brand him. “We went all in. Urged our investors to do the same. They trusted us. I lost everything.”
They reached the narrow road leading up to their homes. Piles of rocks and debris rose like prehistoric grave mounds to either side. The latest storms had loosened more rubble. Dillon moved forward at a crawl. Tempted to go quiet. Pretend it was over. But he knew it wouldn’t work. If he didn’t finish the telling, the unspoken final chapter would keep burning. “Top investment funds form a pretty tight niche. My former company spread rumors that I didn’t just fail my investors. I stole funds. Making sure I could never go back. Three and a half weeks ago, I gave up. Declared bankruptcy. Selling everything and wrapping up my former life took until this week.”
There was really nothing to be said after that.
Dillon pushed the four-wheel drive over gravel and loose boulders, climbing steadily. All the while, Olivia remained curled in her seat, facing him, holding his shoulder, saying sorry in her own uniquely silent manner. Just like the very best of their former days.
When they reached her drive, Dillon asked, “Ready?”
She slipped her hand back, swung around, straightened in her seat. “Absolutely not.”
He pressed on the gas. “Here we go.”
* * *
Dillon pulled through the sycamores that flanked the entrance and stopped. When Olivia did not move, he said, “Let me do this.”
Olivia remained silent.
He went on, “There’s no need for you to go in. Not today. I’ll check things out, make sure it’s as safe as it can be. We’ll head back to town. Leave this place in our rearview mirror.”
Olivia responded by reaching for her purse. She handed over a set of keys and said, “Thank you, Dillon.”
