Page 11 of That Birthday in Barbados
A waitress appears at the end of the bar, hands me an order. I look at the drink requests and reach for a bottle of rum on the wall behind me. “Hope you get back down soon,” I say and then get to work.
I feel his gaze on my back, hear the words he can’t bring himself to say. He’d like to walk away. But he won’t. And yeah, I feel sorry for him. I’ve met others like him in the time I’ve been here. People who’ve worked hard, accrued enough wealth to come to a place like the Sandy Lane. But they’re trapped in their own lives. And if they got a wake-up call, they haven’t bothered to heed it.
I think about the woman I met at the front desk earlier, and I somehow know she’s one of those people. It’s not that hard to recognize the signs and the all but visible imprints of the cuffs. And that what probably started out as a dream for her has somehow turned into a prison.
I should know. I created one of my own. Looking at the guy at the end of the bar, I find myself glad for my wake-up call, despite the hell it sent me to. Without it, I would be that guy. There is no doubt about it.
*
Four years ago
IF ANYONE HAD asked me whether I considered myself a humble person, I would have said yes. Maybe I would have hesitated before answering. Truly humble people do that, don’t they? Appear uncomfortable with any kind of spotlight? Turn the conversation away from themselves?
I don’t know if I was uncomfortable with it. Iwasn’t used to it. Growing up in the foster care system, going to college on scholarship. I got hired straight out of NYU, workedon Wall Street in a firm where I’d had to borrow money to buy the suits I needed to fit in. So yeah, I knew what humility felt like, but after three years of working my way up the ladder and being given the opportunity to skip a rung here and there, I might have boughtmy own press to some degree.
I was young, on the way to being rich by any standard I’d ever considered a measuring stick, and women seemed to enjoy my company.
On this particular night, a group of us headed downtown for dinner and drinks at Cipriani. We’re ordering a second bottle of wine when Ashley Lewis pulls a chair over and wedges it between me and Sam Hawkins, a co-worker who’s likely my biggest competition for a next promotion. Ashley tells him to move over, and he does so with a raised eyebrow and a knowing smile directed my way. There’s a bit of jealousy etched beneath it.
I stand and help her position the chair closer to the table.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I say, sitting back down, and picking up a bottle of wine, holding it poised over the glass in front of her.
“I’d love some.”
I pour her one, stopping halfway since it’s fairly clear she’s well on her way to being intoxicated.
Ashley started with the firm last year, an MBA out of Stanford, and when it came to the genetic lottery pool, she got more than her fair share of winning tickets. Beautiful enough to be on magazine covers for a living. And smart enough to run her own hedge fund one day.
For the past couple of weeks, she’s been letting me know she’d like to take our friendship outside the office. It hasn’t seemed like a great idea, but now that she’s sitting here next to me, looking great, smelling great, I realize I’m going to have a hard time turning her down.
The place is crowded, and laughter rings out from multiple tables around the room, conversation a hum beneath it. Ashley barely lets me finish answering one question before she tosses me another one, and I recognize her people skills with some admiration. She has no need to turn the focus to herself, and I wonder if this is because she is shy orso confident in who she is that she doesn’t need to display insecurity over it.
We share the risotto I’d ordered and are making our way through our mutually agreed up on sides of the plate when my phone pings. I glance at the screen and see a text from an unfamiliar number.
I pick up the phone and tap into messages. I recognize the number as the doctor’s office where I had gone for some lab work a few days ago. The blood work had been a non-negotiable part of completing an update to my health insurance policy with the firm. I recall now checking the box that gave them permission to contact me through text and email. The message is short.
Your results are in. Please come by our office between
8 and 10 AM tomorrow for some further testing.
He feels the ping of concern that hits his center. He puts the phone down.
“What’s wrong?” Ashley asks. “You look worried.”
“Probably nothing. Just getting the results back for our health insurance update.”
“What a pain, right?” she asks, taking a sip of her wine. “Everything okay?”
“I’m sure,” he says. “Maybe they missed something.”
“Yeah,” she says, reaching over to cover my hand with hers, as if she senses my uncertainty.
In all honesty, I was grateful for the connection. Before that message, I had no real plans of furthering anything with Ashley. But I went home with her that night. I did not want to be alone.
Chapter Four
