Boston (11 page)

Liesl is laughing again, before she frowns. “Oh, God, you’re doing it again, the making me laugh and feel sorry for you at the same time.” She sighs. “Did he do anything at all romantic?”

“Well, he kissed me.” I smile, thinking of it. “But then he put me in a cab and never said a word about it later.” I shake my head. “It’s so weird with him! I just don’t know what to think.”

“How much longer until your project is done?”

I shake my head again. “A few more weeks, probably. We’re getting close.”

She hesitates. “Do you sense anything from him, like that he’s into you, too? I mean,
really
into you, apart from the kisses and the flirtation now and then. Because people can sort of… tell, right?”

“The thing is,
I can’t
tell.” I hear my voice quiver. “I think, I know for sure that if I said yes, we’d have sex. And it would be fantastic.”

“So he wants you!” Her voice is hopeful, pleased.

“Yes. But, I mean, what if he wants to fuck me in private, but thinks I’m not cool enough or hot enough to really date me, like a girlfriend? What if that’s what he feels? Because that would kill me, it would just slay me!” I’m sobbing anew.

“Oh, Abby.” Liesl sounds helpless. “I don’t think feelings turn on and off based on who else is around. I mean, right?” But her voice falters, trails off. Because we both know that sometimes they do.

I sniffle. “We sometimes really bond and I feel like we have this connection. And then it just snaps and is gone, in an instant. He’s hot and cold. I don’t get it.”

I think back to Erik, his stable affection. It never blew me away, but he was consistent. Once Erik expressed interest, he kept it flowing, even and steady. Calls, smiles. Flowers. Dinner. Backrubs. Questions about my day. All the big things, and more important, the little things, to let me know he was there. And no question about it, Erik was always proud to have me at his side, whether it was at dinner, at his parents’, at a conference, with friends.

Boston is so different. I don’t know how to figure him out.

But if I can’t figure him out, at least I can figure out ideas on how to make our project together even more successful.

***

“So, Boston,” I say carefully the next Monday. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Do you?” His voice is smooth. “Please, tell me more.”

“Not that kind.” I flush. “Don’t freak out—just listen, okay? So Erik.” My voice wavers a little, then I continue. “So Erik has a friend, Maxwell Arlington, who likes to invest in small businesses and throw around his venture capital. Erik mentioned this thing we’re doing, and Maxwell said he’d be interested in meeting us and maybe helping finance the next project. You know how we were talking big and joking around about shooting on location in Japan and Iceland and getting some amazing scenery for the backdrop for the next book? Well, he might be interested in funding it. For real.”

“Shit, you serious?” Boston puts down his camera and comes closer to me.

“No. I mean, yes, serious. I’ve met Maxwell before and he’s a little bit of a pompous ass, but he’s great at knowing where to put his money. A serious investor. This could be cool for us if we really do want to work on a second book like this together.”

We’ve only talked about it briefly, but to me, it’s already sort of cemented into place in my mind in the future. I can’t fathom not working with Boston. It makes me feel vital, alive—and even though we haven’t finished this first project yet, I’m so sure it’s going to be successful that I’m eager to plan the next one. Even if we never do more than the occasional kiss, being around him keeps me so amped up, excited, aroused… not just sexually, but for life. Maybe that sounds dumb, but it’s true. I’ve never felt more alive than I have these past few months with him.

“I want to do a second book with you.” Boston’s looking right at me, his face serious, and I flush.

“Me too. Definitely.”

“Okay. So we’ll do it.” He smiles, and then touches my face. “It will be fucking amazing.”

I melt. “It will. Okay. Great.” The tension between us is so taut I’m going to die.

“So what do we need to do?”

“He’s having a party at his house this weekend, some fancy thing. Erik will bring us, if we want to go. Then we just talk with Maxwell. See what he thinks.”

“Sounds easy enough.” Boston narrows his eyes. “What is that look?”

“Look?” I smile. “No look. It’s only like I said, Maxwell can be a little bit… pretentious. Snobby, sort of. I mean, we’ll have to be—sort of—impressive.”

“And you think I can’t do that?” He frowns.

“No! Boston, no. I don’t mean that. I just mean that we’ll need to discuss strategy before we meet with him, okay? What do we want to focus on, what points do we want to brag about. I think we need to talk about how well my last books sold, and the great reviews you get for your photos, and how many people want you to shoot their covers. Really sell ourselves, you know?”

“Okay. I get that.” His face relaxes, although there’s some kind of tension near his eyes, I think.

“So I’ll text you all the details, okay?” I smile. “This is a great opportunity for us.”

***

Maxwell’s mansion is something out of a James Bond movie, complete with slinky women in gowns and so many black tuxes that I’m in sensory overload. I feel more glamorous than usual in a gold sheath and tall strappy heels, and Liesl did something with my hair and makeup that turned me into an otherworldly creature. Boston is amazing in his tux and I catch my breath at his handsome form and face.

The music is live, of course, and the band plays a lot of jazzy sultry numbers that are perfect to sway to on the dance floor, and when Boston asks me to dance, my whole body feels electrified. The touch of his hand on my waist makes me burn, and his fingers holding mine are warm and strong.

I like having his face this close to mine, exploring his eyes and the planes of his cheeks at my leisure. “You ready to wow our benefactor?” he says with a slight twist of sarcasm.

I smile. “Hope so. If I don’t forget my name or the titles of my books, I’ll be golden.” I don’t mean to, but I step on his foot, wince, and then step on the other one. “Sorry. Sorry! I guess I’m nervous. I just want to shine, you know?”

“You shine no matter what.” His voice is fierce, even though quiet. “And don’t you forget it, Abby.”

“Boston?” I meet his gaze.

He smiles. “All that guy needs to do is talk to you for one minute and he’ll be blown away.”

I’m touched and I feel something inside me melt and flutter. “Boston. That’s sweet.”

“It’s not sweet. It’s fucking true.”

Surprised, I meet his eyes, and flush at the emotion there. “Really?”

His thumb brushes my lip. “Abby—”

We’re interrupted by Erik. “Abby, Parker. Maxwell is here and would love to talk with you. Are you ready?”

“Uh, yeah.” Boston clears his throat and lets go of my hand.

“Absolutely.” I try to inject pep into my voice.

“Great. Follow me, okay?”

Erik puts his hand on my shoulder and guides us across the floor to a table with flowers in a crystal vase and introduces us. Well, for me it’s a reintroduction, but I shake hands again anyway, making sure to give a strong grip and make direct eye contact.

As we shake, a businessman comes up and interrupts, handing Maxwell a business card. “Maxwell. Pleasure to meet you earlier. I look forward to discussing the startup details.”

Maxwell smiles, and when the man walks away, he announces, “That’s Simon Chooch. Going to start a business importing stuffed animals and toys from China for the girls age five-to-seven market. I think it will be a huge hit, even bigger than Shopkins.”

We nod politely, and someone says “cool.” I have no idea what Shopkins are, but apparently I need to Google it later.

“So what do you think about China?” Maxwell smiles at us. “Erik and I were talking about their economic policies.” Maxwell raises his eyebrows and looks at Boston, bypassing me with his gaze. He knows I majored in economics, so I’m not sure why he is directing the question to Boston. Also, why the hell does it matter what we think about China?

Behind us, a waiter in a tux swivels with a tray of sparkling champagne glasses. I feel like I’m in some rich dream, and then I feel sick to my stomach. Maxwell is testing us—me, Boston. He wants to see if we’re savvy and smart enough to qualify for his financial approval, and it pisses me off that the quality of our work isn’t enough, that we have to suck up and prove our worthiness to this posing windbag. But the truth is that his approval and endorsement of our book could be huge for our next project, and so I summon all of my charm and quick thinking.

Boston starts to say something and I panic and interrupt. “China? Well, I studied about international finance in senior year—”

“I want to know what Parker thinks.” Maxwell’s voice is smooth.

Boston hesitates and I interrupt again. “I think—”

Maxwell frowns, and Boston clears his throat. “Uh, my nephew goes to a local public school and they got grant money from the Chinese government to teach a Chinese language immersion class to the grade school kids in the district. It’s called a Confucius Classroom.”

Maxwell raises one eyebrow. “I think I’ve heard of that, peripherally.”

Boston turns to look at me and Maxwell. “It’s a classroom style that’s standardized by the Asia Foundation to teach Chinese with native-born speakers, using grants from the Chinese government. My sister thinks it great, her son learning another language. A lot of people are sayin’ that Mandarin is going to be the business language of the future and it makes sense to get our kids a head start.”

“Yes,” Maxwell interjects, “but don’t a lot of other people object to the Sinification of America? Conservative writers say that China’s engaged in a stealthy takeover. They’re buying American debt, American property, and they want to replace English with Chinese as the language of business.”

Boston tilts his head. “Honestly? I still see English being the global language of the future. Even if American kids study it for a few years, we as a country just don’t have the ambition and drive to learn Chinese as well as the Chinese learn English. And that fact alone makes me think it’s a wise decision to teach it in schools.” He raises one eyebrow and crosses his arms.

I wish I could give Boston a high five. Instead, I give him my brightest, best smile. Boston knows about Chinese finance! Who could have ever guessed? This is awesome.

“But are you worried at all about the Chinese buying our debt?” Maxwell has a small smug smile on his lips.

Boston shakes his head. “I’m not. China buying our debt is good for international trade and for keeping the cost of Chinese imports down.” My eyes go big with surprise, and Boston’s narrow for a second before he continues talking. The words fade into a blur. How does Boston know about this stuff?

I may be surprised, but I’m even more grateful that he’s got this. I can relax. This is good, because honestly? I hate international finance and find it hard to discuss. I can already feel my eyes glazing like donuts.

Donuts! I would kill for a Krispy Kreme right now.

Erik gets excited. “Yes! That’s what I’ve been saying for years. China has been accumulating U.S. treasury securities since 1985. They also sell way more goods and services to the U.S. than we sell to them.”

Someone adds, “Blah blah blah blah paid in U.S. dollars but pay their own workers in RMB.”

It’s ironic that I have a degree in accounting and yet I find this stuff so tedious that I could just die.

Woody Allen put the funniest thing in one of his books,
Side Effects
—a robber disabled a dog in his target home by mixing up equal parts of chopped meat and a novel by Theodore Dreiser. I imagine making myself fall asleep by eating a donut with little shreds of financial paperwork blended into the dough.

Maxwell cocks his head. “It sounds like you’ve given this some thought.”

Boston ignores that and adds, “And if the Chinese banking system stopped intervening this way, it would lead to a self-correction to the RMB, which would appreciate in value and make Chinese exports more expensive for U.S. buyers. And that might lead to unemployment.“

Erik agrees. “Due to loss of exports due to the higher prices.” He beams at Boston. Is he going to cry with joy? For a second I worry that he’s going to grab Boston and hug him—that’s how excited he looks to have found someone who likes to talk about the same boring shit he does. OMG.

Maxwell uncrosses his arms, takes a glass of champagne from a tray, and raises it. “But on the topic of American debt and profit, I’d like to talk about investing in our own local resources.” He winks and I feel a huge relief. That means he’s in. He’ll work with us.

Then Maxwell wrinkles his brow. “Parker Minelli. I feel like I’ve heard your name before. Oh, did I read about you in last month’s local Mensa newsletter?”

Boston shifts and doesn’t look at me. “Yeah, maybe,” he admits, crossing his arms. “I was in that article.”

I feel my mouth drop open.

“Yes.” Maxwell smiles, taps his glass. “Now it comes back to me. The follow-up on local children with genius IQs to see where they are today. Well, I’m glad you’re here today. I feel this is going to be a profitable arrangement for all of us. Cheers.”