Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee (25 page)

“Right.” Can’t start the car with those. Those tampon commercials say you can swim with them, horseback ride with them, drive with them... 

They
lie
.

“What’s wrong? Can’t find the key?”

“No.”

“Maybe you dropped it? On shore?” There’s still enough light as the sun starts to set. We both sweep the bare-ground shoreline. It shouldn’t be hard to spot the key fob, a bright red leather object with the logo on it. Unlike a standard car key, the key fob is designed to let me unlock and start the car as long as I have it on me.

I clearly don’t have it on me, and neither does Amanda.

“It has to be somewhere!” she says, exasperated.

We both turn slowly, in tandem, and stare at the water.

“No,” I groan. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, God.” Me and my swimming, showing off my fly stroke, powerful kicks and strokes churning the water.

These damn pants and their buttons. Weird pockets. My key fob.

But worse—

The engagement ring.

I can’t let her know about the velvet box. Losing the keys to the Tesla is bad enough.

Losing her engagement ring? Talk about a major screw-up. Teasing Declan for the ring in the tiramisu mistake is pure gold. I can’t give him leverage with my own proposal catastrophe.

My pride is at stake here.

Amanda wades into the water in her costume and bends at the waist, her arms pumping up and down in a pattern.

“What are you doing?”

“Searching for the key fob.”

“Amanda, there’s no way we can find them. Look at the size of this pond. It could be anywhere.” And I had to show off and swim a quarter mile sprint into the middle, then back. On the other hand, my butterfly skills are still quite impressive almost a decade out of college.

I still got it.

“You lost the keys! How will we get home?”

“We’ll call.”

“With
what
? Our phones are locked in the car, Mr. Leave-the-Technology-Behind-for-Authenticity.”

Shit.

Wading in, I give it a try, replicating her hand motions. Searching for a set of car keys and a jeweler’s box in a giant pond is like having sex for the first time and trying to find the clitoris. You know it’s there, and you know that finding it will change your life forever, but you also have a sinking suspicion that the search is futile.

Yet desperation drives you to continue.

As dusk settles over the placid waters, another similarity hits me.

We’ll be searching in the dark soon.

“I can fix this,” Amanda mutters to herself. “How hard can it be to find a set of keys?” I look past her. The pond is pretty big. They should call it Walden
Lake
. I had to do a quarter mile, didn’t I? And back.

The Tesla key fob could be anywhere. If I had my smartphone, I could use the keyless-entry app. If I had my key fob, I could access my phone.

I am in a double bind of my own creation.

Which means we have only one option.

“Stop,” I say, making my way slowly through the water to Amanda, who is starting to shiver. I pull her to me, my heart slamming in my chest. I’d pumped myself up for this moment, a grand pronouncement after even grander gestures, all the hope in my heart poured into a diamond ring that symbolized a promise.

A promise that is being eaten by fishes right now.

Aside from losing a mid-five-figure ring and my car keys, which is bad enough, I’ve lost the potential for this evening.

I feel like a ten-thousand pound millstone.

And I can’t say a thing about the ring.

She’s not shivering. The shaking I’m feeling is laughter. It’s the raw, bony laughter that comes from bitterness and surrender.

“The phones are in the car. The keys are in the water,” she says.

The engagement ring is at the bottom of the pond.

“And we were about to have sex in the bushes,” she adds.

I groan.

A long sigh, and then she adds, “We have to accept the facts. Let’s start walking.”

I look down at my historically-accurate shoes, which are about as comfortable as a pair of drag-queen stilettos.

She’s right, though. As dusk settles in, the mosquitoes kick up. My pants are soaked through, though my coat’s still dry, hanging on a bush branch. I ease my wet shirt into it and shake like a wet dog.

“I can’t believe you did something so impulsive. So ridiculous.”

Ridiculous.

That damn word.

“You’re never going to live this one down, Andrew.”

She’s right.

And then she kisses me.

Costumes be damned. I’m half wet, have lost my keys and the carefully-chosen engagement ring that was handmade and inscribed with the words,
There’s a pair of us
on the inside. We are stuck in the middle of nowhere, looking like historical re-enactors from a film set, and it’s at least a mile to walk to Route 2, where we might find a gas station.

And Amanda is
kissing
me.

“This is the most romantic gesture any man has ever made for me.”

“It damn well better be!”

Her laugh is almost painful to hear, the melodious chords of her voice strummed by amusement, frustration, disbelief and a charming sense that, for as much as I screwed this up, we’re in it together.

Fate.

She’s being fatalistic about the next few hours.

I’m being fatalistic about the rest of my life.

I open my mouth, feeling my knee bend just enough, the movement hard to resist.
Propose now
, a part of me hisses, the echo in my chest making my heart vibrate.

And yet I don’t. I can’t. It needs to be better than this.

I can do better than this.

I sling my arm around her shoulders and we begin the arduous walk up the dirt shore, to the path that takes us to Route 126. I don’t know what we face if we head south, and Route 2 is a busy road to the north.

“Route 2?”

“Hopefully someone will give us a ride. Or just let us use a phone before we have to walk that far,” I say with a sigh. This is befuddling. I haven’t been this—yeah, I’ll say it—
helpless
in years.

Not since I woke up in a hospital bed thirteen years ago.

“No phone. No car. No direction.”

No engagement ring.

“This’ll be one hell of a story to tell our kids,” she says under her breath as we continue, turning left.

Kids.

My right knee starts to bend again, and my hand drifts to her waist. If I just stop right now and ask, she’ll say yes, right? She just mentioned kids.
Our
kids.

Instead, I stall.

“You really want four kids?” I ask, remembering Josh’s comment back in Vegas.

“I did.”

“You
did
? As in past tense?”

“I’m an only child. I always thought having a big family would be the answer to all my problems.”

“You have problems? You’re the most with-it person I know.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “You must not know many functional people, then.”

I mull that one over as I smack a mosquito on my neck. “No. I don’t.”

A car whizzes by. We wave. The driver ignores us.

“Damn,” I shout.

“It’s Boston. What do you expect, Andrew? Would you pull over for some guy dressed like Napoleon and a woman with him who looks like she belongs in a Mormon split-off cult?”

I give her a long look.

She’s right.

The sepia-toned daylight peeks through the woods, giving dusk an eerie look. We walk on the pavement, next to each other, footsteps smaller than normal because of our strange shoes.

This is not going well.

“What about you?”

“I’m pretty with-it.”

She bumps me with her elbow. “I meant kids.”

“I want them. Not yet, but some day.”

“How many?”

“Nine.”

She begins coughing uncontrollably.

“Nine?”

“That’s right. I like my women barefoot and pregnant.”

“You can’t even say that with a straight face.”

“I’m not smiling. That’s me grimacing from these tight breeches.”

She takes a peek behind me, pulling up the tails of my coat. “Damn fine breeches they are, too.”

“For someone who doesn’t want nine kids, don’t make comments like that.”

“Good thing kids come out one at a time. Mostly.”

This conversation makes me want to pull her into the bushes and have sex.

“Amanda, I—” We stop and I reach for her left hand, rubbing her knuckles, worrying the finger that was supposed to have my ring on it by now. We should be back on shore, kissing and whispering words of love and commitment. We should be on the phone, telling our families and friends, making plans for celebration, racing back to my apartment in my car and making love with wild abandon on my bed.

Or couch.

Or kitchen counter.

I’m not picky.

Instead, we’re walking in the worst shoes ever on a messily-paved state route, hoping for a good samaritan or cop to come along and rescue us from my courting madness.

“You what?” she asks, picking up where I began.

“I think I’m losing feeling in my testicles.”

Her face scrunches with dismay and disbelief. “So...no kids, then?”

“Not if we don’t get help soon.”

Moment blown. Again.

A car flies by. This time, I jump out in front of it, hoping to force the person to stop. Instead, they swerve, grazing the thick bushes along the berm, and lay on the horn. Two sets of glaring eyes meet mine and go blurry as they accelerate. 

“Asshole,” I mutter.

“You’re going to get yourself run over,” Amanda tasks.

Who cares? The night might improve if we could get an ambulance out here for a ride back to civilization.

Ten minutes later, we’re closer to Route 2, and no additional cars have passed. I assume it’s been ten minutes. Maybe it’s only been three. Maybe it’s been an hour. We don’t talk, focused entirely on walking, and my clothes feel like I’m wearing a giant body-sized wet cotton condom.

That is slowly drying and adhering to my body.

A low buzz comes from behind me and I duck, flinching, mind splintering.

The sound disappears.

My jaw tightens, all the muscles in my face turning to lead. Picking up the pace, I realize this is what it feels like to have everything fall apart. It’s insane. This doesn’t happen to me. To people like me.

Another buzz fills me, a low-grade hum that makes me walk faster, painful shoes be damned.

A red Mazda Miata, driven by a guy who’s wearing a fraternity shirt, flies by.

“HEY! HEY, MAN! STOP!” I bellow, moving out into the road. His companion is a young blonde, her hair whipping behind her like a veil as the guy turns into a lead foot and throws a lit cigarette at me.

In fury, I grab a rock and throw it.

Something dings.

“Andrew!” Amanda gasps. “You can’t do that!”

The convertible keeps going, disappearing around a corner.

“AAARRRRGGHH!” I scream, knowing my shout is half frustration, half pain, and half karma.

“Route 2! It’s close!” Amanda says, catching up to me. A few more steps and I see the traffic light. “Forget about that asshole.” 

“What do we do once we’re there?” I ask, rage pounding my skin. 

“Hitchhike. Hope a cop car comes along.”

“Hope?”

“We have to get home somehow.”

“Why don’t we just knock on someone’s door and ask for help?” My voice drips with sarcasm. 

It flies over her head. “There aren’t any houses here. Look.” To the right, cars whiz by on the multi-lane highway, a huge solar farm taking over a stretch of land. Up ahead, if we can safely cross without a sidewalk, is the town of Concord, where surely someone can lend us a phone.

Or a crowbar for my pants.

We reach the light. No cars appear on our side, so we move twenty feet to the right, contemplating what to do.

Someone honks. Another person honks. We ignore them. Masshole drivers are a way of life here.

The light changes and the honking resumes, a few beeps followed by one long push as a car carrying a brown canoe on top slows down and turns on its blinkers, pulling up to us.

Wait.

That’s not a canoe.

It’s a piece of shit.

Being driven by a very familiar Masshole.

Chapter Eighteen

“Need a lift?” Declan’s peering at me through Shannon’s open window in the Turdmobile.

“No, thanks. We’re fine walking,” I say, turning away.

Amanda lets out an exasperated sigh, unties her bonnet, pulls it off and hits me with it. “Get in.”

“Yeah, Mr. Darcy. Get in,” Declan says. “This is going to be one hell of a story.”

If only he knew.

 “I’m fine. I’ll just wait to catch a ride from someone. If I’m lucky, the Zodiac Killer will come along any minute.”

“He dresses better than you. Get in.” Dec’s snapping command makes me just stand there, weighing out my options, which boil down to one:

Get in the Turdmobile.

I hate when he’s right.

“What are you doing here in this part of town?” I ask as Amanda opens the back door to the tiny compact, folding her glorious ass into the tiny backseat. I’m not sure my limbs bend that much. I’m not sure I won’t split my ass seam if I try to get in.

“I think that’s the question we should be asking you.” Shannon can’t stop laughing. “We were scouting out future locations for Grind It Fresh! coffee shops in the suburbs. What the hell happened to you two?”

“What? Haven’t you seen two people out on a simple date before?” I come two inches short of needing a shoe horn to sit behind Shannon. My balls feel like they’re in the trunk. 

“Where’s your car?”

“Back at Walden Pond.”

“What happened?”

“Mr. Darcy went for a swim and lost the key fob to the Tesla,” Amanda says bitterly.

“In the water?” Shannon exclaims, laughing.

“Probably. Maybe in the bushes. I don’t know,” I grumble. “But we looked. It’s gone.”

“Why didn’t you call someone for help?”

“Phones are locked in the car.”

“And you walked all the way to Route 2 in those outfits?” Declan hoots. “How embarrassing.”