Chương 2
I ran a company with twenty-three employees. Two were on maternity leave, one had quit without notice, and a client in Phoenix had discovered that its previous payroll processor had misclassified sixty-seven workers. I was also trying to plan a wedding in another country, monitor my father’s heart medication from three thousand miles away, and pretend not to notice that Julian no longer answered questions about his company without changing the subject.
“I’m not taking money out of my operating account for imported orchids,” I said.
“No one said operating account,” Julian replied.
“Then where do you think it comes from?”
He moved his phone from one hand to the other. “You have reserves.”
“For taxes, payroll, and emergencies.”
“This is important.”
“So are my employees.”
Eleanor exhaled through her nose.
“Julian is not asking you to abandon your employees.”
“Julian isn’t asking me anything.”
That landed. His face altered, not much, but enough. His jaw tightened and he sat straighter.
“We’re getting married in eleven days,” he said. “There shouldn’t be this much separation between your money and mine.”
“Your money and mine?”
“Our money.”
I stared at him.
For months I had heard versions of that phrase. Our future. Our house. Our investments. Our family. They had always sounded intimate, almost comforting, especially after the baby test turned positive and I had sat on the bathroom floor holding the plastic stick in one hand and Julian’s wrist in the other.
Our money sounded different.
Maybe because I could not remember him ever using the phrase when a bill belonged to him.
“The wedding is already over budget,” I said.
“It reflects on both of us.”
“It reflects on your mother.”
Eleanor folded her hands.
“The people attending this wedding include investors, former ministers, and members of families who have known ours for decades.”
“My parents are attending too.”
No one spoke for a moment.
Julian looked down at his phone.
Eleanor studied the invoice.
That silence told me more than an insult would have.
My parents had flown overnight from Oregon and were staying in a small hotel near the ferry terminal because Eleanor claimed the villa’s guest rooms were reserved for the bridal party. I had later learned two of those rooms were empty.
My father had been a mechanic for thirty-eight years. My mother worked at a public library until arthritis made shelving books painful. They did not know former ministers or yacht designers or anyone who had a surname engraved on a bottle of olive oil.
They had also paid off their house, saved for retirement, and never asked me for a dollar.
“Your parents will be made very comfortable,” Eleanor said.
“They are in a hotel above a nightclub.”
“They declined the property I recommended.”
“The property you recommended cost eight hundred dollars a night.”
“It was discounted.”
“My father thinks a hotel robe is stealing.”
Julian gave a brief laugh.
It came too late, like a man joining a conversation after checking whether humor was safe.
My phone buzzed inside my bag. I did not reach for it. I was afraid it would be my office, and I did not have the energy to hear another problem described as urgent.
Eleanor pushed the orchid invoice closer.
“We need to settle this before the supplier closes.”
“No.”
The word surprised all three of us.
It did not sound dramatic. It sounded tired.
Eleanor blinked once.
Julian leaned forward. “No to what?”
“To the flowers. To the extra catering deposit. To whatever else has been added without asking me. Choose a normal menu. Use flowers that grow here. I will not pay another dollar.”
A lawn sprinkler clicked on somewhere beyond the terrace. Water began ticking against leaves.
Eleanor looked toward the sound as though giving me time to reconsider.
“You’re emotional,” she said.
“I’m clear.”
“You’ve been under strain.”
“That doesn’t make the invoice smaller.”
“Maya,” Julian said.
I turned toward him. “How much have you paid?”
His eyebrows rose.
“To the wedding,” I said. “How much?”
“We’ve talked about this.”
“No, you talked around it. How much money have you personally paid?”
His phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen so quickly he might have believed I would miss it. A banner crossed the top before he turned the device facedown.
FINAL NOTICE — PAYMENT DUE TODAY.
My stomach tightened.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“It said final notice.”
“Spam.”
“That was not spam.”
He picked up the phone and slipped it into his jacket. “Can we stay on one topic?”
“What payment is due today?”
“Maya.”
“What payment?”
Eleanor tapped one finger against the invoices.
“The caterer,” she said. “Which is why we are trying to resolve this.”
I looked at Julian.
He did not meet my eyes.
Two weeks earlier I had found him awake at three in the morning in our kitchen, sitting in the dark with his laptop open and a glass of water untouched beside him. When I asked what was wrong, he said a server outage. In the morning, he claimed he did not remember saying that.
A month before that, he had asked whether my company line of credit was secured or unsecured. He made it sound like curiosity.
In May, he had convinced me to cover two months of rent on his office because a bank transfer from an investor had been “temporarily delayed.” He repaid neither month.
There had been other things. Small enough to excuse. Numerous enough to form a shape.
“How much debt are you in?” I asked.
The color rose under his collar.
“This is not the time.”
“That means there is debt.”
“Every startup has debt.”
“How much?”
“You don’t understand the structure.”
“I understand numbers with minus signs.”
His mouth hardened.
May you like
The housekeeper’s laughter outside had stopped. I became aware that the terrace doors were still open and that someone might be listening from the kitchen.
Julian noticed too. He stood, walked across the room, and pulled the doors shut.
