Why couldn't he and Lydia be that couple? What he wouldn't give to roll the clock back and just ask her out at that employee orientation nearly two years ago. He'd wanted to. And he could have; she'd have likely said yes, even in her anger at his misconstrued condescension. Yet he'd held back, smart enough to know not to pursue her when she was pissed, and then…
And then what? Why hadn't he chased her? Years of financial statements and merger conference calls and red-eye jet rides blended into a blob of excuses. He got busy. Life got crazy. The rise to the top meant leaving lots of important things behind.
Lame. All of it.
There was no easy answer, because at the heart of it all he had put his ambition ahead of himself. Cheating himself out of years of happiness. A thief of lives, and as he built an empire he had broken more than one heart.
His.
Hers.
Too many.
All of those thoughts whipped through his mind at breakneck speed as he tried to keep up with the conversation, grateful for a final platter of something that turned out to be tasteless and cloying. It wasn't the food. It was him, appetite vanished and the world increasing the rate of speed with which it hurtled through space.
Hours. If he was really, incredibly lucky, he had a few more hours to be with her before the entire world blew up. That video was like an asteroid on a collision course with his life. Even a nuclear bomb wouldn't break it apart enough to be harmless.
Inevitability sank in. Mike wasn't the type to give up or give in, but right now he had one of the last, few conscious choices to make before the juggernaut of that sex tape took over his life, Lydia's reputation, and Bournham Industries’ gossips. Not to mention the board of directors. With a life that had been carefully calibrated to work perfectly, he knew it was all going to topple neatly as well. Like implementing a military coup—it was always easier to conquer a highly organized society than to destroy one filled with chaos.
Efficiency and corporate sociopathy had made his company a lean, aggressive leader in media strategies. Ironic, then, that the media itself would destroy him, playing endless loops of that tape until Buddhist monks in isolation in the Himalayas could recite every sound from memory.
Lydia's mouth was moving and he realized she was saying something to him, expecting a response. Glowing and excited, her clothes were a bit rumpled from being tossed aside in a heady rush, and her hair had a carefree look to it that made him proud. He had done that. Put the wrinkles in her clothes, the pink in her cheeks, the twinkle in her eyes, the moans in her mouth and elsewhere. Achievement came in many forms, so why hadn't he reveled in this accomplishment the same way he gathered balance sheets, measuring his self worth by his net worth?
If measured instead in orgasms and smiles, he’d be a billionaire by now.
Or die trying.
Something was wrong. Deeply wrong. Matt had changed a few minutes after they'd made love. Not the cooling off most guys went through after a one-night stand, where the air seemed to go stale and sickly within seconds, making her feel cheap and used even if she'd been a willing participant in her own debauchery. Only a handful of nights like that in her life, though; she learned what felt good emotionally and what did not quite well.
Quick study, she was.
No, this was a nearly palpable grief, as if Matt were about to be sent to the gallows, or awaited bad news. If they’d been more familiar with each other, even a tiny bit, she’d have been blunt and just asked what was wrong. Instead, though, she found herself having to go at the truth from the side entrance. Putting on a good face, he kept smiling at her, reaching for her hand, pretending to listen. But something wasn't quite right, and finally she just decided to cut to the chase.
“What's wrong?” she asked. “You are acting like you just drowned a kitten by accident.” She leaned in and whispered mischievously, “I know the sex wasn't that bad.”
His eyes were unfocused and he seemed almost drunk as he shook his head, trying to rid himself of a fog. “Oh, no. Nothing.” Fake smile. She knew that one all too well; he was using the classic female maneuver, and she wasn't going to let him get away with it.
“So the sex was that bad!”
“What?” That brought him back to reality. At the table to their left was a couple who looked like they got married during WWII, wrinkled faces stretched in a look of surprise, the woman covering her face with one hand and giggling into it. The old man looked at Matt and just shrugged.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
The old man leaned over and stage whispered, “Bad sex is better than no sex, bud. Don’t ask me how I know that. And,” he said, rheumy blue eyes peering at Lydia, “get as much of it as you can while you can.”
“Marty!” his wife shouted.
Thump. “Ow! You kicked me,” he growled at her.
“You deserved it!” she snapped. The waitress looked at them nervously, standing in front of them with a heaping pile of soba noodles. Both dug into their food while Lydia and Matt tried not to laugh.
“Shall I kick you under the table?” she joked.
Matt just blinked, studying her. “You’re not my wife,” he said with a sigh.
“Then you have no excuse for having bad sex,” Marty quipped. Thump. “Ow.”
“Mind your manners,” his wife grumbled, her mouth full of wontons and noodles.
Too polite to laugh in their faces, Lydia and Matt just ignored them.
“So, where are you from?” Matt asked her. She chuckled at the “first-dateness” of the question and he seemed to recognize it too, laughing a bit as well.