She's Out of Control (19 page)

I stare him down and for the moment, I soften.
Are you asking me to marry you?
Dr. Laura always says to get a ring and a date.
A ring and a date.
I mean, how do I ask this question, and really it's not my question to ask technically, now is it? Going off to another country involves such a level of commitment, and I sincerely doubt he's willing to make it. But I have to know for certain just for peace of mind.

I'm imagining the future, where I'm haggard from the sun and I've lost my ability to dress well after wearing nothing but Indian saris. Then, like the thirsty to an oasis, I come back to America, only to discover patent work has changed immensely since my absence. My bank account has dwindled with new tax laws and I can no longer afford Botox. Or worse yet, it's no longer even offered, the Food and Drug Administration has outlawed its use. And right here is where I have the epiphany.
I cannot change at the cellular level for any person other than Jesus
.

“I know you love me,” Seth says, his voice deep and clear. He leans in and presses his lips to mine. “I know you love people and being a patent attorney and Indian food and cheap clothes. India has it all.” He kisses me again softly, and I feel myself pull away. “And it has me.”

It has me?
Is he tripping?

“First off, let's get one thing straight. I do not like cheap clothing. I like quality clothing at an affordable price. So I just need to understand this, Seth. You want a commitment from me without having to commit yourself, am I understanding that right?”

“If things work out in India, we'll—”

“And if pigs fly, and if the stock soars, and if Frodo gets the ring back to the Mount of Doom. If. If. If! If any of these things happen, you still won't be able to commit!” My eyes close, maybe to make him disappear.

“My parents are coming tomorrow.” Seth takes my hand. “Will you at least meet them?”

As what, the keeper of his dog? His on-again, off-again girlfriend who inches closer to the altar only to be dashed like Charlie Brown and the football each time? “Let's talk about it tomorrow, Seth.”

He sighs. “I'm going home to bed. I'm sorry, Ash, I just need to know the woman I love would follow me anywhere.”

Apparently Arin will. I guess that answers our question.

17

T
his is Jen Jenkins reporting from Telecopter Seven at the wedding of Indian Princess Ashley Stockingdale.”

The studio's Rick Ramirez breaks in with a Spanish-accented laugh. “Now, Jen, she isn't really an Indian princess.”

“No, but the Indian people have certainly grown to love her here in Punjab. She's had her traditional ritual bath with herbs, and she should be emerging shortly. Her groom, Seth Greenwood, waits with visible anticipation.”

A roar from the gathering crowd rises, and Ashley appears to her fans. “Ashley's arriving now. Oh, look at her, in the traditional red wedding gown and her hair gold-leafed. She's magnificent. We've been told even her raw silk shoes, designed by Giuseppe Zanotti, are topped with handmade beaded uppers by Indian craftsmen. She is, indeed, a sight to behold. Our sources here tell us she has followed all sixteen traditional accoutrements of an Indian wedding, from the Bindi forehead dot to a perfume created especially for her.”

“What's the groom's reaction, Jen? Can you see his expression?”

“The groom appears to be inspired, Rick. His mouth is agape, and he's watching mesmerized as Ashley walks to his side. Although the wedding will follow traditional Christian vows, there's nothing traditional about this wedding, Rick. Back to you in the studio.”

I wake startled and unnerved. An Indian princess? Why do my dreams make me so pathetic? I can't even dream normally.

It's Monday morning. Three dogs and a baby. Wasn't that a movie? I think about calling in sick, but I can't do that. Hans gave me that hefty bonus for traveling because I was reliable. I sigh and do what any smart-thinking career girl in Silicon Valley would do. I pack up the crew. I've found a cage for the back of the car, and I've got everyone's leashes.

Once I pack up all the supplies baby Miles might need this side of eternity, I get into the car. I realize that everyone looks great. The dogs are fed, the baby is cleaned and dressed-to-the-nines in a little navy Tommy Hilfiger outfit I bought him, and I'm feeling downright accomplished. But I take a gander in the rearview mirror and realize not only am I sans makeup, but my hair is sticking straight out and Brea's tiny shirt is stretched to capacity across my chest. I look like an unkempt streetwalker.

“I've got to stop at home,” I explain to all my occupants, who, of course, don't understand a word. We drive across town and once at my house, I realize the only way to do this is to bring everyone inside. Because Rhett can't be trusted with upholstery. I bring the baby, his stroller to sit in, and all the dogs follow me to the front porch. Lucy and Ricky can't get up the steps, so I have to open the stroller, put the brake on, set Miles in his seat belt, and lift the dogs physically. Mean-while, Rhett is giving Miles a tongue bath.

“Ack! Get off the baby, Rhett.” I finally open the door.

Kay's gone, but her disapproving presence remains. There's a white layer of dust over her normally pristine house, and my bedroom is a graveyard for everything Rhett has apparently chewed up. There's a pair of Kay's cheap sunglasses, a few Thanksgiving knickknacks including one mangled stuffed animal turkey, there's a wooden rolling pin munched with teeth marks, and a holey pillow that used to read, “If friends were flowers, I'd pick you.”

I look for something to wear, but notice everything is covered with dust and dog hair. Looking for a light color, I decide to avoid the no-white-after-Labor-Day rule, go with calling my suit winter white, and set a new fashion precedent at Gainnet.

I can't take a shower because Miles is already in a strange place, and if one dog can leave a toy graveyard, I don't even want to think about three with a baby. So I do my best, matting down my hair with water and a mixture of gel and leave-in conditioner. Now I look greasy and helmetlike, but I'm going to make it to work, and today, that's the only goal I'm looking forward to accomplishing.

After primping for an hour, I pile all the dogs and Miles back into the car. Then I remember. I didn't bring any bottles for Miles. I drive back to Brea's house, kill the car in the garage, and close the door, running in to get formula and baby food. It then dawns on me that the pugs should stay home, and I put them back into their cages, feeling like Cruella herself.

“We're ready to go,” I say. Finally. I look at my watch. It's 9:30. I started this process at 6:30 and I'm not even at work yet.

Finally I walk into work and put Rhett in the dog area. Yes, we have a dog area. It's one of the ways that Silicon Valley geeks pretend to be relational. We have dogs. Marriage may be out of the question, but living together and dogs, they can do that. It's all so forward-thinking. Not. I'm quickly realizing that this myth of doing it all is just that. And I'm a complete moron to bring a dog and a baby to work. Does my brain function at all? Mensa, hah! I wouldn't pass the SATs at this rate.

Hans meets me on the gated back porch for dogs. “What's all this? Who is this?”

“This is Miles, my best friend's baby. It's a long story, but he's here with me today. I've brought blankets, toys, videos, you name it. This baby is going to enjoy my job, even if it kills my back.”

My cell phone rings and Hans's eyebrows lift. “I hope I'm not getting in your way,” he quips.

I answer the phone anyway. It might be Brea. “Hello?”

“Ash, it's Brea. Can I talk to my little man? His mama misses him like nobody's business.”

“It's my girlfriend,” I whisper to Hans. “The baby's mother. She wants to talk to her baby.”

Hans tosses his hand at me. “When you're available.” He places his palm on his stomach and bows. “At your leisure, naturally.” Then he walks away and slams his office door.

I put the cell phone next to baby Miles's ear, and he starts to giggle and chew on it. His baby slobber is everywhere, and I'm wondering how on earth any mother stays professional.

I wipe the phone off with my jacket. “Brea?”

“Please bring him here. Please. Please. I'm going crazy without him. John doesn't want me lifting him, but if you held him up to me . . .”

“You're asking me to bring contraband to the hospital?”

“Please, Ash. I'm begging you. Miles can't forget his mama.”

I look at Hans's closed door and quickly see my promotion dwindling, but then there's my best friend begging. It's not pretty. “All right. Do you want anything else?”

“Will you stop and get me a Jamba Juice? Miles and I like to share them.”

“Where's John?”

“He went to work.”

He went to work. Did it ever occur to him that he could take his son to work with him?
“Where's your mom?”

“She had her Christian Ladies' League at the Country Club. She'll be back this afternoon, but she said it was important for her to go because they're planning the craft fair.”

I want to explain that a country club appointment is, like, not a
job
. But I doubt I'd get very far, and Brea's feelings would be hurt. Besides, I don't want her to think I don't love Miles. I love Miles like my own. I just have no natural affinity toward this mothering thing.

I knock on Hans's door softly. “Come in!” he shouts harshly. I open the door and his eyebrows are lifted, as though waiting for my excuse. “What now? Ashley, I've got stockholders breathing down my neck and a product to get to market. Do you think you could try to focus on your work?”

“We've been in Taiwan for two weeks. I've done everything I can to get this patent out, but I need some time for myself.” And here it comes. “Do you think you could keep an eye on Rhett in the pen out-side? I have to run really quickly to the hospital. I'll be right back, I promise.”

He crosses his arms. I won't bother to describe the look on his face. “Are you really asking me to babysit a dog while you gallivant around, coddling a child who's not your own?”

I want to suggest that Sophia could do it instead of him, but I doubt that's going to help my case. “You see, my friend Brea is having pregnancy complications and—”

Hans holds up a palm. “Do not say another word! I don't want to hear about women's issues. I have enough women issues in my life. Just go and come back when you're a man.”

“Huh?”

“Once you have morphed back into the genius patent attorney I hired, come back to us.”

“So is that a yes on the dog? Because Rhett, my puppy, is really active and—”

“Ashley,” he says evenly. “Do you suppose I care about your dog's personality?”

“Um, no.” I shake my head. “Not really, no.”

He points at the door. “Just go!”

I take Miles's balled-up fist and move it to motion bye-bye. Hans is not the least bit amused and I cut my losses, rushing out the door. One thing I learned about Hans when in Taiwan is that his patience level goes from zero to ballistic in seconds. He can be the epitome of European charm, then
Bam!
He's like the Third Reich unleashing its fury. I honestly wondered when we were in Taiwan if he was bipolar. In his mind, it's completely rational to scream an obscenity at a helpless Taiwanese employee in a meeting. And speaking of helpless employees . . .

We stop at Jamba Juice, an overpriced smoothie store, and get Brea her fruit drink. My back is killing me from all this in-and-out with the car. What a complete pain in the neck. Literally.

We get to the hospital, after a million stoplights and mall traffic at Stanford. I suddenly realize I have no warm water for Miles's bottle, and he's not happy about it. I put him in his stroller, find him a binky, which I pray is clean, and head to the cafeteria. He starts screaming. Soon I am pushing the empty stroller, carrying him on my hip, and trying to shove the binky back into his mouth. All while I'm juggling a diaper bag the size of Brazil.

Sitting right beside the hot water dispenser is Kevin. He stands up immediately, his face a study in amazement. “Ashley, what are you doing here?” He's wearing his white doctor coat and just looks yummy, though I know I shouldn't notice
. I'm on the rebound. I'm on the rebound.

“I brought Miles to see Brea.” I hold him out. “Will you hold him for a minute so I can get his bottle ready?”

“Sure.” Kevin holds Miles and the baby immediately calms.

“Wow, you've got the magic touch. I wish I'd had you last night.”
Did I just say that?
My hand flies to my forehead. “I mean . . .”

“I know what you meant. Kay told me you were at Brea's. I figured you had your hands full, but I've been on call nonstop anyway.”

“You called?”
I suddenly need call waiting?
It's like I'm fighting them off with a stick, I tell you. Not really, but it does my heart good to pretend.

“I wanted to bring Rhett to the hospital to see Brianna last night, but Kay said you had him.”

“Why didn't you call me on my cell? You could have picked him up.”
I'd trust you with my dog. And maybe a tiny piece of my heart.

“I wanted to give you some space.” He shrugs. “I tend to run roughshod over people when I want something. I'm trying to tame that.” He stares me down with those gorgeous green eyes, and
tame
is just not the word that comes to mind.

“Next time, call. It's about a child, not me. Okay?”

I turn toward the water spout and try to ignore the underlying current between us—that neon blue electrical force that I feel with my whole being. I'd forgotten how attracted I'd once been to Kevin. How his kisses had literally swirled my stomach and rocked my world. I'm staring at him while reliving the moment. I think I'm blushing now. He hands Miles back to me and my heart races at his proximity. He stays beside me, intimately close, just a moment longer than necessary, and it unnerves me.