She's Out of Control Page 10
My eyes slam shut. Is there anything worse as a Christian than being reminded that you acted like less than one?
“Or should I call him your fiancé?” Hans laughs.
“Hans, I may be less than stellar in my personal affairs, but that isn’t about business. I can assure you I’m an excellent patent attorney, which is why I’m here. Why don’t we discuss that?” I sit down at his table, and once again he tries to pour me wine. I cover my glass.
“Come on, no one will see you here. Drink with me.”
“Waiter, a Diet Coke,” I say, holding up my hand. “Do you have drawings on this patent?”
“I’m a flirt, Ashley, and you’re a natural. Why don’t you do an old man’s heart good and flirt with me?” He takes his finger and loosely points up and down my figure. “No one who spends as much as you do on clothes is anything but a flirt. What’s the point, then?”
“You are not an old man and you know it, and I’m no flirt. I am a very well-dressed patent attorney, and I want the general counsel position you’ve offered me, Hans. But I’m not going to play games.” Though, I must admit, I have very little choice at the moment. I have a mortgage now.
“I love it when you’re serious with me.”
“I’m going to the room. It’s nine a.m. at home, and I want to call Seth and check on my dog.”
“Ah yes, the boyfriend who won’t marry you. Give him my very best.”
He’s not my boyfriend anymore. However, I’m not exactly going to advertise this to Hans. “Excuse me.” I grab my Diet Coke and take it with me upstairs. The room is truly luxurious and I try to avoid thinking about the fact that I’ll soon have to leave it. If Hans were the decent sort, he’d leave me the cavernous room, but then again if he were the decent sort, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
I change into my yoga pants, not that they’ve ever seen the light of a yoga studio, but they’re comfy, and officially, they are known as yoga pants. Traditionally, they are known as the sweats I eat ice cream in. I dial Seth’s work number, and he answers immediately.
“Seth Greenwood.” His voice sounds harried.
“Hi, Seth, it’s Ashley.” I straighten my shoulders. “I wanted to call and check on Rhett.” Take that, I’m not calling you. I’m calling the dog.
“Ashley, I’m so glad you called. Hang on, let me shut my door.” I hear the door kick shut, and he comes back on the line. “You’re not going to believe what’s happened.”
“Is Rhett okay?”
“The dog’s fine, but I’m not going to be able to watch him when you travel. I can probably still give him back to the pound if he’s too much for you.”
“What? Why?” I thought this was a joint custody thing.
“In case you don’t want him, the pound will probably still take him back.”
“No, I mean why can’t you watch him?”
“When I got in this morning, they announced big layoffs. They’re taking all the software jobs to India. Just leaving the bare bones here.”
“Did you lose your job?”
“No. I actually gained one.” He pauses for a moment. “I’m going to India to set up the new department.”
“That takes a bit of time, doesn’t it?” I say, as casually as possible.
“At least three months, maybe up to six.”
So this is how it is. Seth is going to India. God is actually sending him on a mission so he gets to avoid marriage. How completely convenient for him.
“So when are you leaving? Will you be home when I get there?” Before he thinks it’s about him, I add, “Or do I need to make arrangements for Rhett Butlah?”
“I’ll find him a kennel before I go.”
“He’s not going to any kennel, Seth. Tell me when you’re leaving. You can leave a message on my cell or e-mail me, and I’ll find someone from church to help me.”
“You sound upset.”
“What should I be?”
“You should be happy for me. I’m going to be going out into a real mission field.”
“So I guess this means you won’t be talking to Pastor Romanski, huh?” Our breakup is apparently permanent.
“I don’t really see the point now. God is clearly calling me to India, even if it’s only a short-term mission.”
“I’ve got to run. I’ve got some shopping to do tonight.”
“Shouldn’t we talk about this some more?” Seth asks.
“Talk about what? I think you’ve said it all.”
“We should talk about my leaving. I feel really bad, but I couldn’t know my future. I sure couldn’t have planned it any better!”
I’m not letting him off the hook. No way. What was I raised for by my mother, if it wasn’t to learn how to dole out a good dose of guilt? “Once, Seth, you knew your future wasn’t in Arizona. This isn’t about me. And it isn’t about God and the mission field. It’s never been about anything but you. Tell yourself you’re doing the godly thing all you want. It’s the cowardly thing, and I’m just thankful I’m starting to see how things really are.”
“You’re not mad, are you, Ashley? Why would you be mad?”
I slam down the phone and run to the elevator where I press the button about forty times. Finally, the elevator arrives, and I’m let out on the lobby floor like a spilled bag of flour.
Hans is still lingering over his wine with some beat-up crustacean legs in front of him. He looks at me oddly, and I stare down at the yoga pants I’m still sporting.
“I know, I know. Look, I’m going out for a minute. I need to get something.”
Hans stands up. “Not at night. Not without an escort, and it’s my pleasure.” He throws his linen napkin on the table.
“Whatever.” If I’m going to be officially and permanently dumped from halfway around the world, I guess I need some international retail therapy.
12
The streets of Taipei are bustling, with horns honking and people walking. It looks decidedly like home with all the well-dressed Asians and the fine selection of restaurants, but then the heat hits you, and you know you’re not in California any longer.
The hot, wet, brown heat is 24/7, but it does get a little better at night when you don’t have to actually visualize the air. It smells like diesel fuel and cigarette smoke, and you find yourself holding your breath without thinking. Hans is behind me, his hand pressed into the small of my back. Europeans are very protective of women, from my experience, not that I have an extensive track record, mind you.
“Thanks for coming out with me, Hans. I have to admit, I was a little worried to go by myself at night.”
“Is this going to take long? We do have work to do, but I do understand a women’s need to shop at the first inclination. Sophia has taught me well.”
“It won’t take long. I know just what I want. It’s just a question of whether or not I can afford it.”
“Things not going well with the boyfriend?”
I look straight at Hans. How does he sense this has anything to do with Seth? “No, not really. We broke up.”
To me, Hans doesn’t look so much German as like an athlete: long and lean and always dressed in the best European suits money can buy. His hair is straight, yet not stringy, and it’s dirty blond in color. His eyes are pale blue-green. He’s probably old enough to be his girlfriend’s father, but he exudes youthful playfulness. He’s not threatening in the least, which is, of course, what makes him more threatening than anyone.
“I’m going to tell you something about men,” Hans says. “If they don’t want to marry you in the first year, they are probably not going to.”
I stop walking and look at him. “I don’t know anyone who gets married that quickly.”
“No, no.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t say they would marry you in the first year, but they know by then if they’re going to marry you. If a man doesn’t talk about marriage and avoids the subject, he’s not the man for you. If after two years, he avoids the topic altogether, he’ll never comm
it.”
There’s a lump in my throat the size of a moon cake. When I’m away from home, I feel like such an idiot for my relationship with Seth. Can you even call it a relationship? I think it’s more the avoidance of a relationship. I guess because I loved Seth, I just believed he felt the same way. I saw him through my eyes, which apparently badly need Lasik.
“How do you know all that about men? Do you think you speak for all men, saying that they won’t marry if they don’t think of it in the first year? You’re not marrying Sophia.”
“Precisely. I’m not going to marry Sophia, and she knows that, or at least she should. I don’t want to marry a woman who would have an affair with a married man.”
“What? What on earth do you mean? You had the affair too! And you were the married one!”
Hans laughs and starts walking again. “True, but sleeping with her and marrying her are two different things. I loved only my wife. I still do.”
“That is the most sexist, rude, arrogant statement I have ever heard! I can’t believe you’re admitting it.”
He shrugs. “I’m only being honest. You’d do well to listen to me.”
“Seth doesn’t think that way.” I know he doesn’t think this way. But my pulse is deafening, and I want to throttle this man for the sake of all womanhood. “He just doesn’t like change, so he can’t decide if marriage is for him. It’s too major of a shift.”
“Things aren’t always the way you hope they’ll be.” Hans says, like some prophet of doom. “Seth’s a worker ant, not the type of man that makes a difference in the world. Like I said, you’re too smart for him.”
“So, if you’re speaking for all mankind, tell me why Seth won’t marry me.” I figure as long as I’ve got Hans here, I’ll take advantage of his thought process. Maybe there’s a glimpse of something here, some fragment of truth.
Hans purses his lips in a thoughtful manner and brings one hand over his mouth, with the other crossed across his chest for support. “Hmm.”
“Come on, you have a theory. Out with it.”
“I think he’s afraid of marriage. It’s got nothing to do with you. The older a man gets, the more he thinks that settling for just one woman closes his world up. In reality, your romantic possibilities get smaller as you get older, but you don’t know that. You’re still waiting for the supermodel.”
“This coming from a man who is dating a woman who could be a supermodel.”
“You could be a model yourself, Ashley. This has nothing to do with you not being beautiful. Your kind of beauty is renowned in Europe.”
“So I’m apparently in the wrong country, is that what you’re saying? I should give up citizenship for a husband? I’m certainly not renowned in America, where the world wants a size 2.” I drop my head in my hands. “I can’t believe I just said that. Look, this conversation is totally inappropriate. I’m sorry I asked.”
We’re standing outside the jewelry store now. My eyes scan the window and settle on the ring. “Are you any good at negotiating, Hans?”
“You mean haggling?”
“I guess. You see that ring right there? If I can get it for less than $2,000, I want it.”
“Done. Pretend to shop and let me handle things. Let’s go.” Hans escorts me into the jewelry store, and my mouth goes dry.
I feel so small buying my own ring, so insignificant. Yet I need to be strong and take control of my own destiny. I need to make a statement that I’m okay with being single. Still, somewhere in the background I think I can hear my brother cackling that I had to buy my own diamond, the so-called right-hand ring. Not to mention my mother. What would she say? Oh Lord, help me. But the Lord has nothing to do with directing my visit to an expensive foreign jewelry store. Only my fears and insecurities.
I hear Hans turn on his full German accent. “I’d like something for the lady. Something under a thousand dollars.” The jeweler takes out a dove gray velvet tray with several rings upon them. All of them plain. All of them gold. None of them are going to calm my broken heart. Hans shakes his head. “Thanks for your time.”
“Wait,” the seller says in perfect English. “I have just the thing.” He takes out another tray, this one with gemstones and jade. But the ring I want is behind us, and I can think of nothing else. I absently look at the rings before me, and try to remain calm. This is too much like poker. Not that I’ve ever played, but it sure feels like gambling. I start to look around the store, ignoring the immense pressure I feel in my chest. For a fleeting second, there’s the voice of reason that says this is stupid, that a ring is not going to solve my problems. But that little voice is quickly hushed by another glance at the platinum.
Finally, Hans walks over to the ring I want. “What about this one in the window? How much?”
“Ah, you have excellent taste. Just 136,000.”
Hans shakes his head. “Do the math for me. How many American dollars?”
“Four thousand.”
“Thirteen hundred.”
“No, no good.”
“Fourteen hundred.”
He shakes his head again.
“Nineteen hundred.” Hans holds up his hand. “Last price.”
The merchant nods his head. “All right. You kill my business, but all right.”
I slip the ring onto my finger, and it’s a perfect fit. I take out my credit card and hand it to the man, who stares at Hans with disdain. Hans takes out his wallet and hands his own credit card to the man.
“Hans, what are you doing?”
“Consider it a signing bonus for taking the job.”
“Hans, no. I can’t do that. I cannot take gifts from a man who is not my husband. It doesn’t look right. It isn’t right.”
The merchant ignores my cries and takes Hans’s card.
Hans whispers, “Shh . . . you can pay me later.” He shakes his head ever so slightly and I put my credit card away.
The ring is now throbbing on my hand, like Frodo’s. The ring possesses too much power, and I feel sold and soiled. I slip it off into my pocket. “I won’t wear it until you let me pay for it,” I say as we walk out of the store.
“You go back tomorrow and buy something of equal value for Sophia. Now that you know how to do it.”
“How would I know what Sophia would like?”
“She likes red and gold—flashy. Get her something red. I can’t have jewelry show up on my credit card and show up with nothing now, can I?”
“Let’s take it back, Hans.”
But I know jewelry here is not something you take back. And Hans just shakes his head. “That’s worse! Then it looks like I didn’t get my way and took the jewelry back.”
Confession: I didn’t think Sophia was smart enough to read a credit card statement. But I imagine when you start your relationship off on the wrong foot, it stays there indefinitely.
We enter the hotel. Hans stops and leans against the wall, crossing his arms and ankles. “I know what you think of me, Ashley, but let me tell you something: marriage is hard work. When one partner stops working, it’s nearly impossible, and you don’t want to enter into that with someone who won’t go the distance. You need a marathon man, not a sprinter.”
“Who stopped working at your house?”
“My wife left me for another man. She took the kids and went when she got tired of my long hours at the office, and I suppose my wandering eye didn’t help.”
“I thought you left with Sophia.”
“No, basically Sophia got left with me. No green card and no work without the kids. The rest just sort of happened. We were convenient.”
“It’s not impossible, Hans. If you still love your wife . . .”
“I’ve been married twice. I’m no good at it.” He waves two fingers around in his casual way. “But you . . .” His lanky forefinger comes toward me. “You’ve got a chance to start fresh. Start right. Start with someone who will pay you the right kind of attention. Someone who will buy you a ring out of love.”
He sighs at me. “You’ve done your shopping. Tomorrow, you work. No more preaching.”
“Fair enough. Good night, Hans.”
So here I am, sitting in my private hotel room (Hans closed both sets of doors) with expensive jewelry on the nightstand and a lump in my chest. Why do I try to fix things? I only make it worse. Now I look like a kept woman, who’s been bought with a price. I feel even emptier than when I started this trip. I reach for the Bible in my suitcase when the work international cell phone rings.
“Hello. Ashley Stockingdale.”
“Ashley, it’s Seth. Are you ready to talk about my leaving?”
I inhale thickly.
“I’m ready.” I sniffle. I look at the ring on my nightstand and am suddenly faced with all my lost dreams. Perhaps they were pathetic in nature, but dreams aren’t supposed to make sense. Like that shoe one, for instance.
“You didn’t give me a chance to explain,” Seth accuses.
“I think I did.”
“Ash, I wanted to invite you along,” he says, and I gasp an exhilarated sigh, when he continues. “There’s patent work there too. They really need help in their telecommunications areas, and I think it would be a good experience for you.”
Hans’s words come back to haunt me about Seth not wanting to marry me. He doesn’t even want to sleep with me, which in this culture is more than pathetic. I wish I could forget his kisses and his warm breath in my ear at the theater. I wish I could focus on making my dreams come true with someone else. Someone who didn’t have all these fears and hang-ups, not to mention the bad wardrobe. But I didn’t come equipped that way. I have this fierce loyalty that snaps on me like an alligator every time. I’m basically a marionette clutched in the jaws until the alligator decides to let go.
God, You are bigger than this. Please . . . fix this.
After a long pause, I find the strength to answer him with the harsh truth. “I don’t want to go to India.”