Page 49 of Pick-Up
I swore, after Cliff, that I would never let a partner shape my world so entirely. No matter how gradually and insidiously he accomplished it. No matter what his apparent intentions. I will not shift into default mode.
But, I realize, my biggest anxiety of all is about the full-time job: now that I know Ethan would be my boss, even if not my direct supervisor, can I still reasonably consider applying? Would they even consider hiring me? If this goes well, can I work for him? Can we worktogether?
The wordtogetherin reference to anything about me and Ethan makes me deeply uncomfortable and more than a little nauseous. And I am summoning the courage to ask myself the truly terrifying question of why, when I feel a sensation like butterfly wings against my shin.
I’ve been so in my head that I’ve forgotten to even see through my eyes. To remember where I am standing. In this spectacular place. I look down now with alarm to find a small stingray—maybe a baby?—swimming in circles around my legs. I gasp, unsure ofwhat to do. I try not to move for fear of scaring it off. What is this magic? This place of wonder! Am I on the edge of the world? Am I inMoana?
All my worries of the moment before take a back seat. My first urge is to share this miraculous moment. I turn my head—and only my head—to look for another being, but of course I am alone. And that is a bit of a theme. It doesn’t matter. I have been handed a hefty dose of perspective. How fortunate I am to be on this planet, in this place, in this moment, right now!
My stingray buddy brushes past me three more times, her fins like velvet gliding against my skin. I’m reminded of Larry the cat, brushing up against me to beg for treats, and I stifle a laugh at the thought of his grumpy face.
Too soon, my baby stingray swims away, disappearing into the darkening distance. She is lost forever in the shadows of the coral and seaweed. The sun has begun to set. It turns the bellies of the clouds gray. The sky blushes fiery orange, then blurs to yellow. As the sun dips lower, I watch it transform from an amorphous glow into a true circle, a point of light.
It is suddenly growing quite dark. Gratitude swells inside me. And, if I’m honest, so does fear that the stingray has some shark friends following close behind. With a squeal, I jog out of the water and start up toward the villa.
Up toward the villa. That’s a nice phrase to get to think. This experience—and the opportunity—is too special to let some dude mess it up. The same dude who laid it in my lap. The complications of that swirl inside my brain. I am not evolved enough to untangle it.
So, I land on this: Forget Ethan and all his annoying perfect T-shirts and shoes. His nice hair. His crinkly eyes. His broad shoulders and muscular back. I can be professional. I can be polite. I can have nice hair too! (Well, sort of. The humidity is a challenge.)
I can avoid him and the topic altogether.
I can wow the whole team with my incredible work ethic andsuperlative skills. I can make it impossible for them not to hire me. And I can enjoy the process while I do it. I can multitask.
After all, I am a woman.
Ethan is, of course, wearing another perfect T-shirt. This one is slate gray, and I don’t notice how nicely it fits his lean frame and highlights his biceps. Because I don’t see hotness. I am aprofessional.
I am in a good headspace, I tell myself. I’ve got swagger. Because I showered for as long as I wanted, with no kids to interrupt, for what felt like the first time in years. Because my floral nap dress looks cool with my sandals and frosted pink lip (and not in fact “influencer-y” as I feared). Because I texted with Celeste before I left the room and confirmed that my children are alive and thriving. (I will FaceTime with them tomorrow.) And, most of all, because I am now friends with a stingray. Beat that!
Our small team is mingling by a tasteful tiki bar, under a short thatched awning and atop bamboo stools. I seem to be the last to arrive. When I crest the top of the stone steps, Stephanie shouts my name like we’re doing a production ofA Streetcar Named Desire. “Sashaaaa!”
Not that I notice because Professional Sasha doesn’t care, but, in my peripheral vision, I see Ethan do a double take when he spots me, and I realize he’s never seen me dressed as an actual person before, only for school drop-off or a park run. His eyes linger on my face, then track down my body, before he remembers himself.
Take that, sucker!
His gaze warms me up like a heat lamp. But I am choosing to ignore that fact for now and feel smug instead. After all, I am triumphant! Remember?
There is a new member of our group who I recognize as the resort’s owner, Martin Bernard. Of course I’ve seen him in a million classic Mafia movies, largely during my film school years. Cliff’s favorites. Or the favorites he claims in interviews now. Oddly, I havenever read an article in which he mentions his deep love ofPorky’s Revenge!.
Stephanie, who is wearing enormous gold hoop earrings and a heavy cat eye to line her eyelash extensions, grabs me by the hand and drags me over to Martin. He is probably mid-sixties, leathery from sun but still handsome in an imposing way. Instead of smaller and bigheaded like most celebrities, he is larger in life.
“You must meet Martin! Martin, this is Sasha!Escapade’s brilliant new video producer.” I like being characterized this way. I am in the club and I am brilliant! Stephanie is fast becoming my new favorite person.
Martin turns his penetrative gaze on me. I shift under it.
Taking his time, as if he’s used to people letting him set the pace, Martin lifts his hand and takes mine in his own. His palm is warm and coarse. He opens his mouth so slowly that we all lean in, concerned that he has frozen in place and might never form words again. “A pleasure,” he says finally. “Welcome. To. Paradise.”
I have never heard a human being annunciate so sharply. Thosep’s! Each word is a glass of Riesling with a crisp finish. I’m so entranced by the strange way his mouth moves that I forget to respond. Stephanie elbows me. And I bolt up straight, my power switch flipped back on.
“Th-thank you for having me!” I smile. “What a magical place you’ve created.”
He takes his time, scanning the expanse of the open-air restaurant—with its twinkle lights, intricate stonework, Moroccan tiles and tiki torches—and the surrounding landscape, as if he has not seen it a million times before. As if he never saw the blueprints, green-lit the plans. “It is,” he pronounces finally. “Magical. You’ve chosen the perfect word.”
“This afternoon, I waded into the water and saw a stingray!” I say, then look around at the others for emphasis. “It swam around me in circles!”
There are murmurs of “Oh, really?” and “That’s cool,” but no oneseems super enthralled. I am a newbie. Mental note: I must learn to be more chic and jaded.
“There are a multitude of exquisite creatures on the island,” says Martin, landing hard on that finald. “And now… there is one more.” He smiles down at me—apparently anexquisite creature. “That’s one of the many wonders that attracted me here and helped me envision the kind of transcendent destination it could become—with my Midas touch, of course.”
