Dad releases a jolly laugh. “Did you know the average age of a farmer in the United States is fifty-eight? We need to bolster the next generation of farmers.”
“If you say so.”
He grabs the remote, sits on the couch, and puts his feet up. “Want to watchSuits?”
The day vanishes as I watch TV with my parents. We order kung pao broccoli for dinner and talk about the stocks Mom’s been trading. We drink lavender iced tea on the muggy back porch and FaceTime Robbie, plus his lemon-poppy-seed-muffin kids. When it’s almost time for my flight to San Francisco (my next pressing work obligation to schmooze investors), my parents drive me to the airport together. They squeeze me in tight hugs outside the departures gate, tell me they love me, remind me how proud they are of the woman I’ve grown into.
And for some reason, I think I have Will Grant to thank for the quiet of this day, too.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After three days in San Francisco pitching VC firms, I touch down in Austin on Thursday morning and drive straight to the warehouse to observe some new tech. By the time I get home that night, my flowers have dried up and my fridge smells like bad dairy. I pull an Indian meal out of the freezer and heat it up, tossing the last of Camila’s bachelorette props into a trash bag. After I eat, clean out the fridge, and take the trash to the curb, I finally collapse in front of my television.Farmer Wants a Wifeis playing in the background while I scan emails on my phone.
I have a meeting with Will late tomorrow morning (I assigned his contact color Pantone Royal Blue). This meeting is just the two of us again. It’s a notification I’ve been checking day in and day out, imagining he cancels it, postpones, invites Camila or another executive to attend. But none of those scenarios have occurred.
There’s a familiar pull at my stomach, like the organ itself is rioting. It’s been rioting every time I think his name.
I have an impossible number of questions about his life over the past ten years, andthat,I tell myself, is the root of my fascination. Not the swirl of ocean blue in his otherwise crystalline eyes. Not the soft patches of brown hair that disobey his comb in the morning. Not the smooth, low, calming tone of his voice, or the sculpt of his shoulders, and definitely, absolutelynotthe way he says the wordgood.
So what if Zoe has decided she doesn’t care anymore if I’m interested in Will? So what if that’s actually true (and for the record, I’m still not sure it is)? Will Grant is technically a contract hire. On top of that, he lives in New York City, and I live in Austin. I’m pretty sure the differences in the lives we lead would be stark if you lined them up for review. He probably spends his weekends at swanky, dimly lit speakeasies he got invited to by a “New York ten”—a term Camila taught me—and meanwhile, I’m mostly bumming around breweries no more than five road miles from my home, wiping away the sweat from my bike ride with a paper towel.
And evenifwe could ignore all that, push past it for the sake of a good fling whenever one of us found ourselves in the other’s city, and we could ignore the emotional turmoil from our past, and we could ignore the fact that we don’t now and never have belonged in each other’s circles—I haveno time.None. Even when I’m traveling, I’m answering emails or taking CEO classes at night, or on the phone with someone in Asia at eight p.m.
And even if, by some miracle, we found ourselves in a situation wherenoneof the aforementioned concerns mattered—
I haven’t been intimate with a man inyears.They say you can’t unlearn how to ride a bike, but frankly, I think I might’ve forgotten how to fuck.
Will Grant is a no-fly zone.
Do not think of him.
Do not go near him.
Do not touch him.
Do not want him.
He isforbidden.
I nod to myself and pour some wine.
The next morning is productive. Our head of design hands me an ICOML when I walk into the office, and there are cupcakes to celebrate one of our designers’ birthday. It’s a Friday, and everyone is in a good mood. Camila smacks me on the butt and says, “Welcome home!” when she passes me in the hallway, not looking the least bit like someone who’s biding their time before they make a grand exit.
Part of me wonders if I dreamed what she said. If I fell asleep, then manifested a nightmare so convincing I’ve continued to believe it.
It’s seven minutes past the hour when I’m jogging back to my office. I swing around the corner and Will is waiting there, already seated across from my desk.
“Sorry!” I shout. He twists to look at me, eyes tired. I wonder how early his flight was this morning.
His hair is combed back from his face today, the curls from last weekend a bit straighter, his throat hidden behind a starched blue collar. Not Pantone Royal Blue, summer-sky blue. He stands up when he hears me (I will never be over it). There are maybe eight feet between us, but I can still see the expression in Will’s eyes. Curious, patient, cautious.
“No problem.” His voice is too warm.
I shut the door to my office to give us some privacy (that whole wall is glass, but anyway). I glance at his arms. Briefly think of the way they hugged my waist against his in that crowded bar less than a week ago.
No-fly zone.
“We should clear the air,” I blurt.
