Page 46 of Corkscrew You
“I’m not aphonecall,” I object.
Sitting across the desk from me, he draws his hands down his face. I can see this isn’t easy for him, but at leastheunderstands his reasons for doing it. Whereas I am completelyin the figging dark.
“Nate, help me out here,” I say. “What’s going on?”
He hesitates, glances away, up at the poster Mom pinned on the office wall. It’s got an illustration of a whale on it and the wordsDream Big. Pretty low-key for Mom. Her favoured decorative motif is a mandala, in more colours than exist in nature.
“I’m stuck,” is what he says, eventually. “Between responsibilities. To my family. And to here – this business.”
From looking like an illegal dumping ground two days ago, the desk is now almost bare. All that’s on it is a jotter pad, a sharpened pencil, and the new computer. Nate likes things tidy.
“I don’t want to have to put them first,” he goes on. “Before you.”
OK, finally – a glimmer of understanding.
“You don’t want to risk losing me like you did your fiancée?” I venture. “Because you can’t give me enough time and attention?”
He nods. Whyhecouldn’t have said that, I may never know. But then there’s a lot about Nate Durant that confuses and frustrates me. Number one, why he feels compelled to make life socomplicated.
I prop my forearms on the desk, lean towards him.
“Nate, I’m not your fiancée,” I say, gently. “I’m me. I know what it takes to run this business, so I will never be unrealistic in my expectations of you. I know that the last day-and-a-half wasnotnormal and that from now on we’ll have to knuckle down and spend more time working than we will with each other.”
I have to shift position on the chair because it’s cut the circulation to my legs. Nate’s watching me, attentive but wary.
“And whatever’s going on with your family,” I continue, “we can deal with it.Together.If you need time off here, I can cover for you. Yesterday, we proved we could be a team. Why can’t you bring yourself to have faith in me?”
“Idohave faith in you,” he begins. “But—”
But—? I don’t want to hear, “But—”! Why is it so figging hard for people to trust me? To see that Idohave what it takes? I’m so angry at Nate right now, and I suspect a lot of that is delayed anger at everyone else who’s underestimated and patronized me. What comes after this “But—” had better be good!
“I’m no good at doing things half-assed,” he says. “If it were just the business to juggle, then, yeah, I could agree to see how we go. But the family situation … I can’t take my eye off the ball there. I’llhaveto spend more time at home. No more … staying over. I might not be around much at all…”
His hand moves forward, as if he wants to reach for mine. Instead, he picks up the pencil. Gives me a look that’s half-pleading, half-adamant.
“Shelby, I care about you. Which is why I never, ever want to promise you something I can’t deliver. And I wish I could give you some kind of timeframe, but I don’t have one. I haven’t a clue how things with Dad are going to pan out.”
He sticks the sharp point of the pencil into his fingertip, winces slightly, but doesn’t take his eyes off me.
“Can you – is it too much to ask you to wait? Until I can do this right?”
OK, so I have to remind myself how much I value honesty. And I can see Nate is being honest here. I can see how genuinely conflicted he is. I have empathy for him, too. I know what it’s like to have a family in crisis, how afraid and unhappy it makes you. The uncertainty of it all issoexhausting.
Then again, I also want to twist his head off and shove it up his butt. Why is it soimpossiblefor him to just go with the flow a bit more? To trust in the universe, as Mom would say. Trust inme?
“Nate, you’re forcing me to decide between waiting around for you and calling it off right now.”
He winces again, but can’t deny it’s the truth.
“I can’t make that kind of decision at a moment’s notice,” I tell him. “You’ll have to givemetime, too.”
He takes a deep breath. “That’s fair,” he says.
His voice is even, but he looks like he’s discovered another rotten apple core in his desk drawer. I suppose it’s a small triumph that he’s not using his poker face. That he’s prepared to let his guard down at leastthatmuch.
“I’m sorry,” he adds, to my slight surprise. Nate’s always struck me as someone who doesn’t feel a need to justify doing what he believes is right. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know,” I say with a sigh, because he means it. “But Iamhurt, and I’m no good at pretending otherwise.”
