Page 36 of Yield to Me

“I create art that asks questions about one’s own power and strength when it comes to guilt and shame,” I said. Sometimes this explanation was followed by a slew of questions about the true meaning of guilt and shame, but I was grateful that the conversation moved on to business quickly. It was intimidating being in a group of clearly educated and wealthy business partners and associates, but Owen smiled and caressed my leg under the table, as if to remind me that he was still there, still beside me, that everything was all right. He didn’t introduce me as a romantic interest and instead highlighted my artistic aspirations. I couldn’t figure out if I was pleased or disappointed. I knew what we had agreed to—we were definitely not romantic—and I knew I made it clear again and again how important my art was to me, but it still made me question who we were. Didn’t he have a rule against being seen with women? And if he was taking me out to gatherings, what did it mean about us? That he had asked me to come with him?

Once the meals were finished, red cheeks and bloodshot eyes scattered across the room, mingling from table to table. The sunset through the window had disappeared, and now the lights from the shy sea town sparkled on the water like a sky full of stars. Owen held the small of my back, pushing me towards different groups, discussing potential deals, asking specific forecasting questions of companies. Owen was on fire, pulling me closer as we moved to each new conversation. I guess I listened, but I definitely wasn’t paying attention.

“And that would make Miss Glass your girlfriend?”

At that, I snapped to attention and noticed that it was the same man from the coffee shop in Fisherman’s Wharf. He locked eyes with me, and I smiled, then turned to Owen. It was his question to answer, and I wanted to know myself.

“Not exactly,” Owen said. He kept his eyes on the man.

“Business associate then?” The man paused, a finger rubbing his chin. “Your assistant?” The smirk on his face made me think that there was some sort of past the man was hinting at, and it made my cheeks flush. Owen dropped his hand from mine and pulled out his phone, reading an email. I thought I saw a name on the screen, a woman’s name, a name I had seen before but couldn’t remember, but he clicked off the screen before I could confirm who it was.

“Drop it, Greg,” he said. “I have to deal with this. Excuse me.”

The conversation continued without Owen, and I stayed in the circle while Owen wandered to the walls and held the phone to his ear. He looked tense, and though I couldn’t hear his voice, I could tell the conversation was harsh, disturbing him. I wondered who this woman was, and how she had the power to make Owen so angry, and why he hadn’t told me about her yet. I wanted to trust Owen, to believe him when he said we were exclusive, but I knew we had rules that made it so we weren’t technically attached to each other. As I watched him, I felt like I was a buoy, floating in the ocean but never quite moving anywhere, like this relationship (if you could even call it that) was stuck in the ocean without any land in sight.

Owen called his driver, then we made our way to the front of the building. I was glad for the safe drive back to the hotel, even if it was weird that we had driven up the coast by ourselves, without the driver. “Thank you for inviting me,” I said. I squeezed Owen’s hand. He waved to a couple exiting the building, and let go of my grasp, moving a half step away, so subtle that it was almost imperceptible. Had I imagined it?

---