Chapter 8: Love Means Having To Say You’re Sorry

Dylan Duke, according to Forbes Magazine, was shrewd, intuitive, a go getter. A man who knew what he wanted and had the courage to go for it, which was all true, except when it came to his high school crush, Jill Caruthers. Jill, without trying, had a way of unraveling his confidence. He hadn’t felt this unsure of himself since his father, barking out orders like, Go fast and Not that fast! had taught him how to drive. Yes, he knew that Jill wanted to kiss him, and that she wanted the kiss to be epic, but in a way that made things worse. Dylan wasn’t interested in one albeit glorious kiss. He wanted all of Jill’s kisses, every single one. When you got right down to it, what he wanted was to win her heart. The question was how to do it? Dylan didn’t know.

He wished there was coding, some sequential list of do’s and don’ts, a pattern to successfully woo her. Instead, all he had were his instincts and they were swimming in uncertainty. Should he dance with her or give her space? Be reserved or join Mahalo and Bonsai Boi on stage? Since he didn’t know Hindi and wasn’t about to fake it, instead of storming the stage he took a seat at the bar, one with a perfect view of Jill. She was having a good time dancing with Krisha and the bridesmaids. He wanted to cut in, have her all to himself, but didn’t want to seem clingy, so he stayed at the bar, enjoying a dirty martini and the sight of her enjoying herself.

After a while, Jill and Krisha collapsed on a couch and were soon deep in conversation. Dylan would have loved to have known what they were talking about, what made them, at times, burst into giggles. He couldn’t guess. But it was a lovely sight. More to the point, Jill laughing was a lovely sight. So lovely that Dylan found himself wanting to have her portrait painted, a picture that captured that laughter. Perhaps it was the martini talking, but suddenly he felt he needed an oil painting of Jill in his office, over the fireplace. But who should paint her portrait? Of course, DaVinci would’ve been perfect if he weren’t dead. It was moments like these that Dylan wished he were an art buff. Yes, he had expensive works of art, but they had been curated for him by an investment firm. Setting his drink down he texted Jameson, Find me the absolute best portrait artist in this entire world. He knew it would sound a bit boozy to Jameson. Dylan tended to speak in hyperbole when he was tipsy, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was finding the artist!

Mike, the groom, sat next to Dylan at the bar and ordered a beer. His tie was loose and, thanks to a few previous beers, so was he, and so he decided to pitch to Dylan his idea for a video game. Dylan gave all the appropriate verbal cues to make it appear he was listening, but really he was trying to decide on what should be the background of Jill’s portrait. His first thought was mountains and a waterfall. It vibed Olan Mills but he liked it. Of course, the inside of a palace would be nice. One of those monster gilded rooms. Or a field. Fields were cool.

“So what do you think?” asked Mike, rubbing his hands together

Dylan was about to respond with his standard reply, Send it to my people and we’ll take a look at it, but Jill was smiling broadly and walking toward him. Instead of handing Mike his business card, he handed him his empty glass, and said, “I like waterfalls,” his voice far away.

In front of him, Jill grabbed hold of his arm. “Guess what!” she cried.

“Wh—” started Dylan, but Jill’s enthusiasm couldn’t wait for him to finish.

“I’m buying more of these outrageously expensive shoes!” she cried, gripping his arm tighter.

“Okay,” said Dylan, his eyebrows lifting.

Jill gripped his other arm. “And I’m giving twenty grand to Krisha’s children’s clinic!”

“Wow,” said Dylan, that same mild annoyance he’d felt when she donated the flowers in her suite to the elderly trying to raise its ugly head, but he tamped it down.

“And we’re going to Paris tomorrow!”

Dylan stared at her, his brain needing to catch up. They were going to Paris? “But what about the wedding?” asked Dylan, scratching the back of his head.

“Krisha said to skip it,” Dylan watched her smile fade.

Dylan knew Jill had expected him to say, Paris! Yes! Let’s go! But how could he? He had meetings all day tomorrow until Mehendi started at six. Ball Baby was about to launch! There were so many moving parts, details, tweaks, weighty decisions. Dylan let out a long, alcohol-tinged breath that made Jill’s nose scrunch up. “I would love to go to Paris.”

Jill’s hands lifted then flopped to her sides. “You don’t want to go.”

Dylan’s hand flew to his heart. “I have nothing against Paris.”

“Dylan Duke,” she said narrowing her eyes. “You may be rich, but you’re still a terrible liar. You don’t want to go to Paris and you’re angry I gave twenty grand to Krisha’s children’s clinic.”

“I’m not angry.”

“But you’re not happy.”

He let out another long exhale and Jill fanned her face. “You’re just doing it differently”

“What differently?”

“Living like a multimillionaire! I thought you’d go on shopping sprees, be indulgent, and I suppose you are, just not the way I expected.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Buy something for yourself!” he said, his voice rising as he asked himself, Did you really just raise your voice.

“Did you miss the part where I said I was buying more ridiculously expensive shoes?” she asked.

Dylan squeezed his eyes shut for a second. “That’s great. And you’re great. I’m sorry, this conversation isn’t going the way--”

“I disagree,” said Jill. “It’s going exactly the way. You want me to indulge, live the multimillionaire lifestyle, but only as long as I do what makes sense to you and fits your schedule.”

“Jill, that’s not it at all. And I would love to go to Paris.”

“Just not tomorrow.”

“Ball Baby’s about to launch!”

“Don’t you have people to handle that?”

“Hitting the market at just the right moment, it’s essential.”

Jill shrugged. “So you feel you have to micromanage instead of letting people do their job.”

“I have meetings all day tomorrow,” he said, holding his hands out wide to emphasize what he meant by all day, and wondering what the heck he was thinking. The woman of his dreams wanted to go to Paris with him and he was saying no. What kind of fool was he? That was the problem, he wasn’t a fool. He had come this far by understanding the market, trusting his instincts, and, yes, micromanaging his company. He couldn’t just turn over the clutch moment to his employees. Tasting success was the worst sort of addiction. Once you’ve experienced it, you didn’t want to go back. Ball Baby had to be success and Dylan had to be here to make sure that was exactly what happened.

“Trust your people to do their job.”

“I do, within reason.”

Jill shrugged. “That’s fine,” said Jill. “Stay, go to your meetings. Launch your baby.”

“If it were any other week, I would totally be down,” said Dylan. He should have felt relief, but all he seemed capable of feeling was Jill slipping through his fingers.

“Just to be clear. You want me to be indulgent.”

“Absolutely.”

“To experience the life of a multimillionaire.
“Yes!”

“Perfect, then I’m going to Paris tomorrow.”

“Jill, I just explained--”

“Without you.”

Something clunked in Dylan’s stomach. “Without me?”

“I just said that.”

“So we’d be apart?”

“Yes.”

Dylan wanted to say, But what about our epic kiss, but knew she would likely say something like, That’s never happening! “Uh, sure.”

“Great,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll talk to Jameson, set it up.

“Perfect,” said Dylan.

“Perfect,” said Jill.

Dylan smacked his forehead as soon as she turned away. What was that! What exactly was that! Not only had he just turned down taking the woman of his dreams to Paris, they were now in a fight, a cordial fight, but a fight all the same! “Arghh!” he groaned to the ceiling. His phone buzzed. It was a text from Jameson. The greatest living portraitist is Armand Bernard. He has a four-year waiting list. Dylan rubbed his eyes. The night had started out so promising. Why had it let it fall apart?”

“No joke, you look devasted,” said Mahalo, approaching Dylan as he paced.

“Dude, not right now.”

“Okay, well, I’m about to make tracks back to the The Ritz, but before I do that, I think you need to talk.”

“About what?” Dylan snarled.

“Just blowing it with Jill.”

“I didn’t just.”

Mahalo laughed and nodded. “Yeah that was pretty much . . .” And he made an explosion sound while putting his hands out farther and farther.

Dylan buried his face in his hand. “I don’t want to talk about it.
“Cool, I’ll do it for you. Here’s the recap. Jill said, Hey, let’s go to Paris, and you were like, No way, I’ve got to stay at an Indian wedding and oversee the launch of my new baby, which happens to be called, Ball Baby.”

The two men moved to the balcony. Others were outside enjoying the evening breeze but they were at a distance so neither felt the need to lower their voice. “How did I screw this up?”

Mahalo patted his friend’s back. “You are a major screw up. That’s not my opinion. I’m just quoting your father on your twentieth birthday.”

“Why are you doing that?”

“I don’t know it just popped into my head, but here’s the deal. You are supposed to be preparing for an epic kiss with Jill.”

“There’s no way she’d want to kiss me now,” he said, curling his fist slow like he was squeezing an invisible stress ball.

Mahalo curled his lower lip and thought. “Yeah, probs not.” Mahalo could feel agony crash into his friend. “But you can fix that.”

“How! I have to be here and she’s flying to Paris in the morning!” Mahalo tapped his friend in the chest like a woodpecker. Why are you doing that?”

“To get your attention.”

“You’ve got it so knock it off,” he said, pushing his hand away.

Mahalo continued to tap but now on his own chin. “Question: Who can kiss Jill for you?” asked Mahalo. “Answer: no one. You and you alone have to pursue her, win her back, build that chemistry that a few hours ago was bubbling over like a dangerous lab experiment. You have to do that.” More chin tapping. “Question: Who will launch Ball Baby for you? Answer: Your launch team, me, the entire creative team in Dublin, not to mention your fans.”

“My fans?”

“They’re waiting for the release. Why not make them a part of it.”

“That’s an interesting idea,” said Dylan and then he sighed. “It’s hard, Mahalo.”

“Not being as handsome as me?”

Dylan’s face broke into a reluctant grin. “Giving up control.”

“I get it. Sometimes, I can barely leave home because I know my housekeeper is going to forget to water my houseplants.”

“I’m not trying to be rude.”
“It just comes naturally.”

Dylan slugged his friend. “What’s at stake with Ball Baby is way bigger than house plants.”

“And the people you have to step in and launch Ball Baby are better at what they do than my housekeeper.”

“What’s her name?”

“Mable? Minerva? I don’t know.”

Dylan looked out at the city lights. “I blew it with Jill.” Mahalo slugged Dylan hard, it would definitely leave a bruise. “What was that for?”

“Every time you tell me there’s no fixing things with Jill I am going to hit you, and next time I’m going for that pretty face of yours.”

Dylan shoved Mahalo. Mahalo shoved back. It was intense enough that the other wedding guests that’d been lingering on the balcony went inside. Dylan’s martini was throwing off his timing, and though he couldn’t remember how, he ended up in headlock.

“You can fix this,” Mahalo said through gritted teeth. “But you’ve got to believe it.” He tightened his grip. “Do you believe it?”

“I believe it.”

“Louder!”

“I believe it!” cried Dylan and Mahalo let him go.

The two men, hunched over, took a moment to catch their breath. “How do I do it?”

“Apologize.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” said Dylan, lifting his hands.

“Like stab her? No you didn’t do that,” he said, putting a hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “But you didn’t make her feel like a million bucks.”

Dylan nodded.

My advice. “Apologize, if for no other reason that chicks dig it, go to Paris.”

“Go to Paris,” said Dylan.

“And woo her.”

“Woo her. I can do that.”

Mahalo smiled. “And I thought I was going to have to kick you in the face. Good job.”

The next morning, before dawn, Jill stepped into Dylan’s jet and was surprised to see him sitting in one of the last of the four rows.

“I put him in coach,” said Gayle, handing Jill a hot towel. “From what I understand he deserves no better.”

Jill sat in one of the recliners in the first row. “Wasn’t there room where they keep the luggage?” asked Jill.

“There is, and I would have put him there were the FAA not such sticklers.” Gayle poured Jill a glass of cold water. “Is there anything else I can get you? After we take off, we’ll be serving a full breakfast before helping you settle in for a nice rest.”

“Thank you, Gayle.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with our pilot.”

Dylan took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Jill” he said.

Jill said nothing.

She was probably wearing air buds, so he raised his voice. “I’m sorry!” he said, almost shouting.

“I heard you the first time,” she said, not bothering to turn around.

If this apology was going to work, it needed to be genuine. Anything else Jill would see through. “You were right. I need to let the people I employ do their job. It’s a scary thing for me, but you were right.” He didn’t expound on how scary it was for him, but it was terrifying. According to his numbers, if Ball Baby didn’t take, he could end up losing millions, laying off employees, and liquidating assets. But Mahalo was right. Being with Jill was more important. Dylan called his launch team, and as their jaws dropped, explained that he was handing over Ball Baby’s launch to them. He was going to Paris. “I really am sorry.”

Jill turned around. “You’re forgiven,” but with a coldness that said, but you’re never kissing me.

Mahalo wasn’t there to slap some optimism into his head, but that was okay. A little bit of progress was still progress. By the time they got to Paris his hope was that she would again look at him the way she had when they were about to kiss. The flight from Atlanta to Paris was just eight hours. It seemed likely that in eight hours Jill would still be giving him the cold shoulder. He needed to buy himself some time. They would take the long way to Paris. They would fly to Nice and from there drive, take the train, or a horse and carriage. Whatever it took to slow things down and, Dylan hoped, rev things up between them. It might not work, but he had to try. It was time to woo Jill Caruthers.