Chapter 20 Gus

When I awaken and find the bed empty, I don't blame her for leaving. I had it coming.

Groaning, I put my hands over my face and rub stubble that needs trimming. My head aches softly between my temples and my throat is tight. Rarely do I ever feel forty, but I do today. Sharing parts of myself has apparently taken years off my life, and I did the bare minimum.

It's not about me though. It's about her—and I broke a promise to her.

I know she's not asking too much of me. Sharing parts of herself is easy for her. She does it all day, every day with millions of people. Of course she would expect the same thing of me—and of course I would fail her.

For the last two decades, I've had the privilege of avoiding this kind of thing. If a woman—or anybody—asked for more than I was willing to give, I moved on. There were always options. Women, investors, friends—whatever. I didn't have to change for anybody until now.

And I can't do it.

I pick up my phone and send her a text: Hope you're safe wherever you are. As soon as I send the message, I realize how stupid it is. Julia has traveled the world; my hope isn't going to do shit for her.

She doesn't text back. I think about sending something better, something she can actually respond to, but I don't. Maybe this is it. Maybe her silence is a signal for me to move on. I know better than to indulge in my obsession with a woman. I know better—oh, do I know better.

So maybe this is how it ends. If I can't give her what she wants, I have to forget her.

And yet she makes her presence known anytime I allow my mind to rest. Blond hair, brown eyes, a flawless body, and her quick wit. All of it comes together in a mess of temptation and frustration that leaves me caught between loathing her request and wanting her so badly I don't sleep at night.

I should know better.

A week passes. I think about her constantly. Constantly.

Another week.

Another.

Last time I felt like this, I stayed up for days obsessing over Constance, subsisting on coffee, bad cocaine, and ambition.

I don't know how I can ever, ever tell Julia about Constance. About how low I went. About how pathetic I was. She would leave me if she knew. Hell, she already leaves me every time I see her, and it hurts more each time.

She didn't want to leave. It was my fault.

I shove down my duvet, get out of bed, and head to my office. When I look out the window, London twinkles with the sparse signs of life lingering at three in the morning. It would be relaxing if I hadn't looked at this same view with Julia once.

I do anything and everything to distract myself. I write for four hours straight, editing and deleting and shaking my head and crumpling up these post-it notes until there's a small pile on the ground around my overflowing trash bin. The kicker?

I'm still thinking about Julia.

My phone sits at the edge of my desk, screen dark.

The astounding thing about this day and age—the really astounding thing—is that I can pick up my phone and force myself into Julia Ridgeway's brain in seconds, no matter where she is. Then we could suffer together.

I should know better.

I should know better.

Fuck it.

Apparently, I don't know better.

Me: Nice sunrise here in London today.

When she doesn't respond right away, tightness forms in the pit of my stomach. Forget what I said—Cartagena can't be it. The last time we were together can't be a filthy threesome where I watched her deep throat her best friend. The last time I saw her can't be the disappointed look on her face before she rolled over and turned off the lamp.

Our story is bigger than this. Our story is better than this.

Me: I'm sorry.

This time, she responds immediately: Prove it. My heart skips a beat before it begins racing furiously.

I stare at those two words, prove it, and I know I want to. I have to.

Baby steps.

Me: August is a family name. All the eldest sons in my dad's line are named August.

Me: I almost failed out of MIT the first semester of freshman year because I didn't know how to study. Had always relied on school just being easy for me.

Me: I'd like a pet, but I'm allergic to cats and don't have time to walk a dog.

She doesn't respond for a couple of minutes—agonizing minutes I spend staring at my phone and waiting for an indication that I haven't made a complete fool of myself. When the gray "typing" bubble pops up, I'm so relieved that I let out an audible exhale.

Julia: I almost failed out of Yale because I was doing coke instead of studying.

Julia: I'd like a dog, but I travel too much.

The first text is a perfect segue into the coke bender that inspired me to found FundRight, I know—but it's still too soon.

Me: Not interested in a cat?

Julia: I told you, at this point in my life, I'm looking for the possibility of love. I hear cats can be notoriously reticent to love.

I can practically see her smirking.

Me: I hear cats do well when patient, beautiful women give them a chance.

Julia: August, you're such a dork. Stop using cats as a metaphor for yourself.

This time I chuckle aloud. I had that coming.

We keep texting throughout the day. Even when I break to go to the gym, or she goes to dinner (in Lisbon, where she's currently traveling), our conversation picks up where we left off.

Me: I've read the Odyssey ten times.

Julia: The Iliad is a million times better.

Me: I'm more annoyed by people who are underwhelmed by the Mona Lisa than I am by the people in line to take selfies with the Mona Lisa.

Julia: Same. Like, did you not know what you were about to see? What did you expect?

Julia: I wish I were better at math. I hate relying on my phone calculator.

Me: On the flip side, being good at math was my entire personality until I was twenty-three.

This continues for days. Weeks. It progresses beyond texting. Sometimes I call her. Sometimes she calls me. Our conversations run late into the night or begin early in the morning. Slowly but surely, the confessions get easier.

Me: There are days when I wonder if I'm successful because I earned it, or because I had an idea in the right place at the right time.

Julia: Both can be true. You earned it…being in the right place at the right time was important though.

Me: Sometimes, I hate my parents for never giving me a brother or sister.

Julia: Feel free to borrow one of my brothers anytime.

Me: I think my assistant is my best friend. Maybe my only friend. That's sad because I pay him so much.

Julia: I don't have any friends that are women. I used to think it was because I was pretty. Now I think it's because I'm a jerk.

Me: You're not a jerk.

Julia: Yes I am.

Me: I think you're misunderstood.

Julia: You and my therapist both.

Julia: Maybe we should both go and make a new friend.

Me: You're the only friend I want.

And even more slowly and even more surely, I admit how much I need her.

Me: I want to make it up to you.

Me: Come to Montana.

Julia: Not yet.

Me: I miss you.

Julia: I miss you too.

Me: Can I come see you?

Julia: Soon.

And the entire time, I crave her body. Her touch. I've always been physical. My whole life, expressing myself through touch was easier than words.

She doesn't want my touch right now, I know. Even if she does want me, she won't give in. I don't want her to give in. I want it to be right. I want to be right for her.

So until then, I'm alone as usual—steadily falling for the pixels on my phone screen.

Two months later

"Need anything?" Brent whispers as he pours my coffee. He shoots me a knowing look before glancing down the length of the long glass conference table where FundRight's board of directors has gathered. There's a pleasant smell of hot pastries and fresh coffee in the air, cutting the suffocating tension in the room. Best case scenario: We make it out of here in three hours and nobody threatens to ruin anybody else's career. Worst case scenario: a boardroom bloodbath.

"Stay close," I advise.

Brent nods before making his exit. He'll be outside the door. If I give him the signal, he'll swoop right in and pretend I have a pressing phone call.

I check my phone for a text from Julia, but she hasn't sent anything today.

Me: It's been 62 days since I last saw you.

At some point, I worried about sounding desperate. Now? Doesn't matter. She knows I'm desperate to see her. My requests (near-pleas) now go out daily. But the past two months have taught us both so much about each other. At this point, nobody knows me better than Julia Ridgeway—which is insane when I reflect on how we met and got to know each other in the first place.

I shouldn't be thinking about her this morning though. My chairman, Roger motions for me to start the meeting, so I kick things off. It's our first meeting since the acquisition was formally announced in January, which makes this meeting a formality since we'll steadily transfer control to Davenport-Ridgeway over the next twelve months.

The board was split on the acquisition at first. Even when the vote to approve went through, they were still 70-30. In other words, thirty percent of the people in the room absolutely hate me. Frankly, it's a lower percentage than most rooms, so I don't give a shit. But Roger told me to play nice.

I do. I sit quietly while a few board members throw out passive aggressive comments about letting Davenport-Ridgeway take over. To them, we sold out. Normally I would have a caustic comment for them, but like I said—I'm playing nice.

Boring—that's what playing nice is.

Sighing, I glance at my phone. No response.

The minutes crawl. I get through two cups of coffee in a half hour and we're still—still—hashing out the merits of an already-finalized acquisition. I check my phone again. Apparently, I only sent the message to Julia forty minutes ago, but it feels like hours.

I look around the room at these people, knowing what I know. I toyed with their money all so I could revenge-fuck a woman who was mean to me. It was petty as hell, but all said and done, it was worth it.

I wonder what she's doing right now. I wonder where she is right now. She could be anywhere. I wonder—does she ever wake up in the morning and sit on the couch in her pajamas and read the news?

Of course she doesn't. She doesn't even wear pajamas.

Memories of her falling asleep next to me, naked as all fuck, cloud my brain, and I'm so done with this dick measuring contest. I'm in agony. I want her so much. I need her, frankly. Countless times, I've texted my pilot and told him to fuel up the jet in the middle of the night, only to come to my senses minutes later.

Screw it.

I tune out the meeting entirely and pick up my phone.

Me: I haven't stopped thinking about you since the first time I saw you at your father's party. You were wearing a gold dress no other person could ever wear without looking ridiculous. You were radiant. That was 216 days ago.

Me: I haven't been as excited to kiss someone for the first time, ever. That was 98 days ago.

Me: I haven't felt as close to anyone since the first time we slept together. That was 84 days ago.

Me: And I haven't been willing to love anyone since the last time I said it to a woman, who broke up with me after I chased her to London. I sold everything I had and showed up at her door, trying to surprise her. I've never seen anyone look so embarrassed before. That was 20 years, 8 months, and 18 days ago.

Me: After that, for 8 days, I went on a cocaine bender and came up with the idea for FundRight.

Me: I try not to, but I still think about how easy it was for her to break my heart. All she had to do was leave and never come back one morning.

Only seconds pass before a message arrives on my phone: a selfie of Julia in front of an ornate building with a fa?ade of decorative arches that house statues of gods and goddesses in togas.

Come and get me, August.

Those familiar words make my heart swell.

As for the picture, I know this one immediately. It's the Staatsoper in Vienna. Hell, I could be there in a couple hours if I wanted.

Do I want her?

I glance around at my board, all of whom are hanging on Roger's every word while he talks about governance.

Fuck this. Yeah, I want her.

"Excuse me." I stand.

All eyes swivel to me when I suddenly interrupt the meeting. A bunch of talking heads in overpriced, stale suits. We're burning money. Wasting time. And I may have plenty of time at my disposal, but even a lifetime isn't long enough to satisfy my need for Julia.

"I need to go," I announce, pushing back my chair.

On cue, Brent sweeps in and gathers my belongings.

"Where are you going?" Roger questions, frowning at me. "Gus, we're literally in the middle of the meeting."

I pause in the doorway and say, "I'm going to go get my girl."

I leave without looking back, and I vaguely hear Roger saying, "Okay then…let the minutes show that Gus Winter left the meeting…to chase a girl? Did he seriously say that?"