She's Out of Control (12 page)

“Counseling? I don't have a problem, Ashley. You're the one with the problem.”
Oh, trust me.
“I just don't want to get married because I'm just not sure this”—he motions his hand between the two of us—“is right.”

I look at Sam, whose looking at the TV like a zombie. I just nod. I can't think of a thing to say that I won't regret.

The doorbell rings, and Seth takes out his wallet to pay for the pizza, but it's not a delivery man. It's Arin, and she tosses her long blonde ringlets to announce her cuteness. “Hi!” She steps in the door. “I'm sorry I'm so late, but I got caught up in this Italian movie playing over at Camera III.”
Camera III is for those who like to be tormented by French subtitles.
“Who died in here? You all look so sad.”

Rhett starts to growl, and Arin looks down as a puddle appears beside her off-season flip-flops.

“That's my dog.”
Who obviously shares my good taste in people
. “Seth bought me a dog to keep me company.”

I look at my ex-boyfriend's gorgeous blue eyes, and they don't touch me like they normally do. My body doesn't react physically at the sight.

Seth has a rag and some cleaning solution at the ready
. That's definitely not a good sign. Perhaps my puppy has potty issues.
Seth runs into the nearby guest bathroom and washes his hands.

“Why don't you stay and have pizza with Sam, Arin? He's in the living room.” Seth nods toward the sheet glass window. “Ashley and I are going out.” Seth grabs my suede jacket and puts it around my shoulders. “Sam, will you take Rhett out in a half an hour? Don't wait up.”

He slams the door behind us, and then he kisses me. He kisses me like he's never kissed me before. Without fear, without trepidation, without the false belief that I have cooties.

“What was that about?”

“Marry me, Ashley.”

“What?”

“Marry me.” I have waited how long to hear these words? And yet, it's nothing like I hoped for. There's not an ounce of romance in them. It's like Seth has succumbed to his fate and is willing to be sacrificed.

“You know, I don't think you mean that.” Now, I'd like to think Seth has turned into an outrageous romantic, but my fear is that he's only trying to prove something. Prove he
can
get married, and that he
can
commit and he's not like the other Reasons. I don't think he
is
like the other Reasons, but he's not like this either. “With regard to commitment, I think it's better not go cold turkey on this one.” I crinkle my nose at him, and he presses a kiss there.

“You don't think I
can
get married,” he says like we're playing
Truth or Dare
.

I picture myself standing at the front of the sanctuary alone, with only Rhett the puppy as my hero, showing up for the ceremony. All my friends crying and seething.

“This isn't
Fear Factor
, Seth. This is our life.”

“You want to do Fresh Choice?”
Salad bar where Seth dumped me for Arin the first time.

“Um, no, I don't. I'd like to celebrate Rhett.”
And maybe my emancipation from you.
“Let's go somewhere nice.”
Where you don't have to break out the coupon you're carrying in your wallet.

But really, I don't want to go anywhere with Seth, and I wonder why my mouth doesn't say so. It's not like I'm the shy type. We get into his car and drive downtown. Not a word passes between us.

Once in the restaurant, a quaint little Italian place, I'm gazing across the table at Seth with the weirdest mixture of desire and anger. I mean, when I look at him, I just think he is so gorgeous, and I'm so anxious to plop those blue eyes on our future kids. And yet when I think about his fears, I just want to force him at gunpoint to the local diamond broker and run up his Visa to high heaven.

“You know,” Seth says, wringing his hands like Lady Macbeth, “I may have spoken out of turn earlier.”

Here it comes.

“I think it's a good idea for me to talk to Pastor Romanski first before we talk serious commitment.” Seth is nodding his head, wholly agreeing with himself.

“To save you from the gallows one last time?” I mean, I thought we had broken up, but Seth hasn't arrived in this place with me yet.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I think that's a good idea, Seth, for you to talk to Pastor. Maybe God is calling you to the mission field.” I give him yet another out, and he nods. “I signed the contract for half of Kay's house, finally.”
In other words, I'm moving on.

“You did? So you're really going to do that?”

“Can't see any reason why I wouldn't. It's a great house, great neighborhood, and soon, Rhett will think of it as home.”

“Do you really like the dog, Ash?”

“I love him.”
And he actually seems to want to be with me.
Our soup arrives, and Seth searches for yet another topic where we don't have to discuss the next step. I've been enabling a commitmentphobe for nine months. I can't be healthy. In fact, I'm probably worthy of my own Oprah show. And most importantly, I miss my dog.

I get up from the table and ask the maître d' to call me a cab. There comes a day in every girl's life where she has to face the music and stop being pathetic. This is my moment.

11

W
hich is worse? To suspect your boyfriend is avoiding commitment, or to actually know it for a fact? At least in my ignorance, there was the bliss of possibility. The imaginings that one night (like last night for example) Seth might show up with an engagement ring and a bent knee. I laugh aloud thinking about the puppy. A puppy! I've lost a boyfriend, but gained a four-legged friend with a free dog-sitter thrown in. Not a bad arrangement really. In fact, Rhett is with Seth right now.

Getting on the plane brings such a strange sensation of emotions. Like it was good to leave the past where it belonged, but Taiwan was not really my future either. I take out my journal, and try to plan a new direction for my life.

GOALS:

1. General counsel at Gainnet by January 1.

2. Contentment as a single. (Or marriage proposal that isn't forced.)

And I'm stuck here. Not exactly
Purpose-Driven Life
kind of stuff. Maybe that's my problem, my goals aren't big enough, or aren't eternal enough in purpose. Technically, I could have the job promotion by the end of the week, and maybe that should be my goal. Then, I can think long term and more eternally. I wad up my goal sheet and shove it into my suit pocket.

Stepping off the plane in Taiwan is always a mixture of relief and dismal reality. Relief, because anything is better than a plane for eighteen hours. Dismal reality because Taiwan is, well, Taiwan. I'm sure it's a beautiful country, somewhere, but of course I never see that. I see hotels, manufacturing facilities, offices, and fancy fish restaurants.

Business travel sounds so glamorous until you actually do it. Then, it's like, London looks like Taiwan, and Taiwan looks like India, and India looks like Paducah. You stay in American-style hotels and meet with foreign businessmen. Travel implies there's some sort of adventure involved, but unless you count looking into the eyes of whatever it is you're eating, business travel has no adventure.

Once I get into the airport, I go to baggage claim. Which I don't usually do, but my enthusiasm for this trip was showing and I thought a little time checking my bag wouldn't be such a bad thing. My red suitcase is going around the carousel all by itself, with one lone black bag on the other side of the silver monster.

“Is this yours?” a sales engineer asks. How can I tell he's a sales engineer? The uniform. Software engineers (like Seth) are the geeky ones. They're the pocket-protector kings, the ones who wear nothing but free trade show T-shirts and are the butt of television jokes. Hardware engineers come up to business casual, generally going for the collared shirt with no tie and khakis or clean-lined slacks. But sales and marketing engineers are a different breed. They are the Hollywood version of engineers, savvy and intellectual, completely aware of the life around them that extends beyond video games and science-fiction movies.

“Is this your bag?” he repeats.

I nod, and he pulls it down from the carousel. “Thanks.”

I'm just standing here staring at him. My eyes say, “Are you my future husband?” Like that kid's book
Are You My Mother?

“Well, enjoy your stay,” he says and jogs off, and my stomach lurches. My life is all about unmet expectations. I must have some invisible aura that says, Run men! Run away now! Don't look back!

When I get dropped off in front of the hotel, there's a jewelry store outside the front door. It occurs to me that I've sulked here before. An Israeli man runs it, and the window is sprayed with Hebrew, Chinese, and English markings. The English says, “Sale,” and I assume the others do, too.

In the window is an antique sapphire-and-platinum ring, set with diamonds, and its price tag is in Yuan, which I can only imagine. Everything about it says “expensive,” but I feel like that ring has a beacon calling out to me:
Have a pity party with me!
I sigh and walk to the front door of my hotel, my carry-on bag behind me.

At the hotel, the bellman takes my bags to a room that has an elegant living room with sofas, desks, and actual square footage.
Wow, traveling with the boss has its privileges
, I think for approximately two seconds before my mouth drops at the sight of a second bedroom off the suite. The door is open and someone's suitcase is sitting there open. And there's no question in my mind whose suitcase it is.

“Excuse me, but I'm not staying with anyone.”

The nodding starts. “General Manager, Hans. He always get a suite, Miss.”

My heart is pounding in my ears. I am in a foreign country with a man, no, check that, with a reptile who doesn't respect the rules. No, actually he respects his own rules, which are based on who knows what. My palms are sweating.

“I'd like my own room. Can you please move my things?” I hold up my credit card. “Credit card. I pay for it.” I slap my chest for effect which might work if I were talking in gorilla.

“Hotel very busy, Miss. This room paid for, already.” The bell-man looks at me questioningly. I know it's nothing new that older businessmen travel with younger women, but I am a lawyer, not my boss's “baggage,” and I want to be treated as such.

I'm here on business, and I have to make this man, who speaks very little English, understand this.

I bow,
“No
, I'm not sharing a room with a man.” I wave my hands. “No man in my room.”

“Dining room. Your man in the dining room.”

I march downstairs, braced to knock anyone out of my way that gets in it. Hans is indeed waiting for me at the dining room. He's smiling slyly over his standard bottle of red wine, and his sideways grin makes me more than nervous. “What took you so long?”

I must give him the benefit of the doubt. “I checked my bag, and traffic was tough. Hans, there is some type of mistake. I appear to be in your room.”

He shakes his head. “You're not in my room. We have a suite. You have your separate room, I have mine, but this way we can work into the night, and we don't have to be near a bed. See? No harassment here.” He stretches his arms behind his head, and just the way he moves, full of confidence and bravado, makes me even more uncomfortable.

It's perfectly practical,
I tell myself
. Like getting your own meeting room in the deal
.
Grow up, Ashley.
My mind floats back to Sophia. He's dating a supermodel. This is nothing but my overactive imagination, but then my eyes narrow. “But what if I get tired, and you still want to work?”

“Then you shut your door and go to bed, Ashley. You have your own lock. Are you afraid I'm going to pound it down?” Hans puts his hand to his mouth and rests his chin on his palm. The way he does it, so effortlessly, reminds me of a dancer. He unavoidably captures your attention.

“I know you didn't mean anything by the room, of course. But it's hardly appropriate, even with the center room. I'm a single woman. A Christian single woman, and it doesn't look right. We enter via the same doorway. I'd be mortified if my mother saw me.”

“Is your mother due in Taiwan, Ashley?”

“Well, no, but it's the idea.”

“I'm a single man, too,” he says as he sits back in his chair, “and I'm not worried.”

“I wonder what Sophia would say to that comment about your being single. I wonder what she'd think if she called the room and I answered.”

He tosses a hand and calls my bluff. “She'd think you answered our phone. Sit down. You don't want to make a scene. Sophia and I are not caught up in your American idealism. We are very, as they say, modern.”

Actually, I'd say amoral.
“Hans, the Bible is very clear about its position on things, and that's my guide. So if you don't mind, I would prefer my own room just for my own peace of mind.”

He laughs at this. “You didn't seem to have a moral issue with mauling your boyfriend on my sidewalk the other night.”

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?”