I hibernated like a bear in winter. I ignored my friends’ invitations for girls’ nights. I even blew off my family and spent Christmas alone with a pint of ice cream. Chocolate ice cream. With dark chocolate chunks. Of course.
Just before New Year’s, Libby showed up at my house, forced me to clean up, shower, and get into something “befitting a woman and not a wildebeest.” She sat me in front of the mirror and did my nails and makeup. “You’re not going to get over this if you don’t move on. We’re going out tonight. I know you’ve been blowing off Kara’s calls about her New Year’s party.”
“Libby, I —.”
Libby pointed a finger at me. She wasn’t even a teacher, but she had that bossy finger thing down. “I don’t wanna hear it. I’ve worked for a month planning this party, and I did it at half my normal rate because it was for Kara. There’s no way my best friend isn’t showing up. Now close your eyes so I can get some sexy eye-shadow-action on you.” I followed orders, and Libby stroked my eyes with her powder collection. “Listen. Kyle’s bringing this friend…”
“Woah.” I pulled back. “Makeup’s one thing. A guy….”
Libby forced my head closer and gave me a look that said sit still. Or else. “We’re going to take it slow. This isn’t a date. All I’m asking is that if Kyle approaches you with a guy, don’t run for cover, OK?”
I couldn’t have exhaled louder if I was running sprints. “Fine.”
Libby mentioned nothing more about the guy. I knew Libby well enough to know she did this for only one reason: to drive me nuts. Finally, as we were driving to the party early so Libby could help set up, my restraint broke. “Who’s this guy?”
“Well, well, look who’s perking up. Could there be life after Dylan after all?”
She knew how to drag things out. “What’s his name?”
“Anthony. He’s a client of Kyle’s.”
Anthony? The Italian? I didn’t know whether to turn a pale green or a flushed pink. “You mean the guy who asked me to dance at the Halloween gala?”
“Oh… You remember him?” She looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to say more, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. I crossed my arms and stared out the window.
The party was in the Warehouse District, a new venue in the industrial zone. Vintage-style Edison bulbs cast a golden hue on the concrete floor. Every other yard of wall showcased paintings that reminded me of Rembrandt, but with a bluesy edge. A portrait of an elderly couple on a porch swing drew me in, capturing their love, their years together, the joy and sadness and sweetness of life in its winter years.
“Don’t tell Kyle I know it,” Libby whispered, coming up behind me, “but he’s planning on getting me a Ricardo.”
“That painter that everyone’s been talking about?”
“Yep. He’s the artist behind everything you see here. I made a deal between him and Kara that she’d hang his stuff at her party. He gets the exposure, and she saves on decor.”
“Nice.”
“In any case,” Libby’s shoulders inched up to her ears, and she quietly squealed, “I’m excited to have a Ricardo hanging in my living room.”
“You can still afford that with all the costs you’re putting into the wedding and house?”
“Amber,” Libby lay her hand on my shoulder and spoke in a tone somewhere between caring and patronizing. “It’s not like we’re going to burn it for firewood. Kyle thinks his paintings could be a great investment.”
It really could be. Ricardo was making quite a name for himself across town, but had yet to burst onto the national or international art scenes. I leaned in to read the slip of paper under the painting before me. The painting was entitled Swinging Seniors and had a price tag of $20,000. Of course, even if it did skyrocket in value, it wouldn’t be a cash flowing investment. To get a return on the painting, they’d need to sell it, and I couldn’t imagine Libby parting with a painting she loved. Even if she could, they’d be locking up a ton of cash in the meantime.
When did I start thinking this way? It was like I had Dylan’s voice playing in my head. Why couldn’t I be happy for Libby? “His work is stunning,” I said.
Libby leaned in and whispered. “And Ricardo is already over 60.”
“So?”
She shook her head as if she couldn’t believe my thickness. “You know what happens to artists’ works when they die, don’t you? The prices go through the roof.”
“60 is hardly on death’s door.”
“The point is, he’s not going to live forever.”
“I suppose if you ever run on hard times, you could always knock him off.”
“Amber!”
“I’m going to get myself a drink.” Something told me it was going to be the first of many before this night was through.
An hour later, Kyle approached with Anthony, who stood a full head taller than himself. I had to admit his strong chin and sharp brows were something to look at. He would have appeared even more handsome if his skin didn’t have the slightly pasty look I assumed came from long days in front of a computer. “Anthony, you remember Libby’s friend Amber.”
“How could I forget?” Anthony held two drinks in his hands and extended one to me.
I accepted it with a smile and a soft, “Thank you.” As I promised Libby, I didn’t run for cover, but I couldn’t think of much to say either. Not that I could have said much over the blasting techno music anyway. I’d need to scream in his ear to be heard, and his ear was too high up to reach. Claiming he wanted to get to know me better, Anthony proposed to Kyle that we double date that weekend. And to my surprise, I accepted.
Saturday night found the four of us together again. Anthony liked to talk. A lot. Between him and Kyle, I never had to worry about the conversation entering an awkward lull. But Anthony was also considerate. He opened the passenger door of his midnight blue Porsche for me before squeezing his giant frame into the driver’s side. When we arrived at the restaurant, Libby and I went to the little girl’s room while the hostess escorted the guys to a table. By the time we’d returned, they were deep in shop talk.
After hearing them go back and forth on a few deals they were working on, I finally broke in. “You know, I’m not even sure what venture capital is.”
Anthony gave me a polite smile. “Think of us as gasoline.”
“Toxic and smelly?” I asked.
The question jarred Anthony out of his polite smile, and he let go a loud laugh before recovering his composure. “Imagine a field with a thousand small campfires burning.” His hand panned through the air, as if laying out the whole scene. I felt certain he’d given this description before. “We hunt out the best ones and throw gasoline all over them.”
“Won’t all that gasoline just cause them to burn out faster?”
“Oftentimes, yes. But if even one out of ten turns into a forest fire, you’ll hardly miss the heat from the campfires that burned out.”
Somehow, I couldn’t picture this guy either camping or hauling gasoline. He seemed too much the urban type. “The analogy is cute and all, but I’m trying to understand it on a practical level. You find companies you like and throw money at them?”
“It’s not just money. We also bring expertise. We’ll usually take at least one seat on the board to weigh in on strategic decisions.”
I grabbed a breadstick covered in black sesame seeds and took a small nibble, even though I was so hungry I wanted to scarf it down. “Still, most of these investments fail?”
“About 75%.”
I took another bite and chewed over what seemed to be an insane financial proposition.
“I think it’s even higher than that,” Kyle said.
“Am I missing something here?” Libby asked.
“Let me clarify.” Anthony spooned a handful of olives onto his plate. “Let’s say that each of these is a company. How many do we have here?”
“Eight,” Libby said, picking up the ninth one and popping it into her mouth. She’d always been crazy for olives.
“OK, so these six are probably going to fold.” Anthony took the hint and spooned them onto Libby’s plate. He stuck his fork in another. “This one is gonna do OK, maybe make a profit. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to get our money out.” With his knife, he pushed the olive off the fork onto Libby’s plate.
“You’ve got one left,” I said, “that’s the one you’re hoping strikes gold?”
“Exactly. This little sucker turns into an olive grove so gigantic it would blow away any Sicilian. One Facebook or Google makes up for hundreds of duds.”
I finished off the last of my breadstick. Something still wasn’t sitting right with me. “And you don’t care that businesses might get run over in the process?”
Kyle laughed. “Amber, you don’t get the start-up world. It’s not like they’re taking over some nice mom and pop grocery store that’s been in the family for fifty years and running it out of business.”
“Exactly,” Anthony said. “The guys we invest in want to go big. Some of them are serial entrepreneurs, who start one company after the next. They don’t want to build some nice, small business. They’re usually in emerging fields, and it’s a race to see who’s going to control the space. Win the race, they’re billionaires. Lose, and they take their lumps, learn what they can, and look for the next opportunity.”
“The idea of building nice, reliable sources of passive income just doesn’t exist in your field?”
“Passive income?” Kyle leaned in to whisper in my ear, “Sounds like someone still has Dylan on the brain.”
I blushed, but Anthony came to my defense. “Don’t be so quick to laugh her off. The fact is, we’re not looking for good, steady profits from the individual companies we invest in. But we are from our portfolio as a whole. With an iron in so many fires, the successes and failures tend to balance out, and our overall success is more consistent than you’d think. But it’s a long-term investment for those looking to grow their wealth, not meant for those needing monthly or even yearly returns.”
Then Anthony did something I wasn’t expecting from Mr. Loudmouth Venture Capitalist. “Enough about my work. Tell me about your job, Amber.”
Anthony spent the next two weeks traveling on business, but he called me twice, once from France and once from Germany. We planned to get together the weekend after that, but he was pulled away last minute to Austin, Texas, to work on the terms of an acquisition offer.
So it was already late January by the time we went out on our first one-on-one date. What Anthony lacked in availability, he made up for in style. For the first time in my life, I sat in box seats at the symphony. Afterwards, he took me out for dinner at a swank Greek restaurant in the Arts District.
“Didn’t you just love that Vivaldi piece?” I asked him.
Anthony picked up a menu. “Which one was the Vivaldi?”
“The last piece they played.” I decided not to add that it was Four Seasons, Vivaldi’s most famous work. Grandma Mona used to melt over that one.
“Oh yes, it was quite nice.” Perhaps I’d embarrassed him, for he was quick to add, “There’s only one classical music piece that I can identify by name.”
“What’s that?”
“The 1812 Overture.”
“I guess it’s hard to miss when they bring out a cannon.”
“Precisely. Violins are too subtle of an instrument to distinguish one piece from another. But a cannon. Now there’s an instrument that commands attention.” Anthony gave me a self-effacing grin. “Speaking of commanding attention, the octopus here is to die for.”
I scanned the menu for the octopus and cringed when I saw the price. Anthony mistook the cringe, for he added, “I know many people find the idea of eating octopus revolting, but once you get over the image of all those legs and suckers, you’d be shocked at how good it can taste when made right.”
“You’re talking to a traditional Italian here, Anthony, not some squeamish Valley girl. If it swims in the sea, I’ve eaten it.” I read the description: grilled octopus served over santorini fava with caramelized onions, roasted red peppers, and capers. No matter how good that sounded, there was no way I was going to order the most expensive item on the menu. “The Haloumi salad also sounds quite good.” And quite cheap, only a third the price of the octopus. “I haven’t had Haloumi in years.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever had it. What is Haloumi?”
“It’s firmer and less salty than feta, best served grilled.”
“Sounds interesting. I’d like to try that.” He lowered the menu. “What do you say we split that and the octopus?”
Now he was talking. As long as he was the one ordering the crazy expensive dish, I’d gladly eat my half. Anthony ordered for the both of us. “Anything to drink?” the waiter asked. “The house Assyrtiko would be perfect with your selections, sir.”
“Sounds wonderful.” Anthony didn’t even ask the price. “We’ll take a bottle.”
The waiter returned with the wine, poured a bit into Anthony’s glass, and waited. Anthony took a quick sip and nodded, without doing any of that swirling it around or sniffing stuff. My gut told me that in a blind taste test, he probably couldn’t tell the difference between a twenty-dollar bottle of wine and a hundred dollar one. But his attention wasn’t really on the wine; it was more on me. “What do you think?” he asked when I took my first sip.
“Delicious,” I said, partly to be gracious and also because it was true. “This is the first Greek wine I’ve ever had. I like the hint of rosemary.”
“Oh?” Anthony raised an eyebrow. His face told me he was doing his best to look interested, but I could probably drop a sprig of rosemary into the glass, and he wouldn’t notice. So I decided to switch to a subject I knew all successful men found interesting: themselves.
“So tell me about that business deal you had last week in Austin.”
His energy perked right up. “It’s an AI company. That’s artificial intelligence.”
“Yes, I know. Just last week, I assigned my students a project on AI and how it affects their lives.”
“Don’t you teach fifth grade?”
“Sure, but there’s a huge push to get kids interested in science and technology. This assignment was inspired by one kid in particular, Mikey. He’s one of those kids who’s so bright; he spends most of his days bored in class. He’s convinced that someday he’s going to build a robot that can paint masterpieces.”
“He might be right. We almost invested in an AI last year that can write poetry.”
“Really? I wouldn’t think venture capital guys would be so interested in poetry.”
Anthony held up his glass. “‘That man that hath a tongue, I say is no man, if with his tongue he cannot win a woman.’”
“You know Shakespeare?” I asked.
“Only a couple of lines. My father’s family is from Verona. Pa says no respectable Hofer can go out into the world without knowing at least a few lines from The Two Gentlemen of Verona.”
Our meals arrived. Anthony had the waiter place the octopus in front of me. I dug right in. Perhaps with a bit too much enthusiasm.
“Sorry for doubting you. You definitely eat octopus like an Italian.”
I wiped the sauce off my chin. “You date many Italian girls?”
“You’re the first since high school.” A bit of Italian-American accent crept into his voice.
Under this spit and polish, did there still dwell a neighborhood Italian boy? “What do they call you at home? Anthony or Tony?”
He winked at me. “Tony, of course.”
“When did you make the switch?”
“When I started my MBA. Anthony sounds more professional.”
“What do you think of yourself as?”
“Tony. Anthony’s my out-in-public, professional name. Tony’s my private, at-home name.”
I cut into the octopus, avoiding Anthony’s gaze. “What do you want me to call you?”
“For now? Whatever you want.” Anthony reached over and forked a piece of octopus for himself.
“For now?”
His enormous brown eyes were soaking me up. “Yeah. For now, we’re just getting to know each other. There’s no pressure.”
“But eventually?”
“Look, I’ve dated plenty of women over the years. But I’ve always known that when I get married, it will be to an Italian girl. For now, it’s only our second date. There’s no commitment, no pressure. But I want my wife to call me Tony.”
“Is that why I’m here?” I grinned uncomfortably and reached for my glass. “So you can see if I’m that Italian girl who might call you Tony?”
“Of course. When Libby first told me about you, she said you were only interested in relationships that could lead somewhere. She said this like it was a warning, that I shouldn’t get involved with you unless I was serious.”
That Libby, always watching out for me. “And it didn’t scare you away?”
“Just the opposite.” His eyes were still on me, and the halloumi salad sat untouched. “That’s what I’m looking for as well. I’m sick of just living out of my suitcase.”
“Does that mean you’re thinking of leaving your job?”
“No way. I love my work. But I no longer want to come home from a business trip to some empty apartment. I want a real home.”
“And a family?” I knew what he was going to say—he was an Italian after all—but I still wanted to hear it.
“It wouldn’t be a home without a family.” Anthony finally broke the tension by digging into his salad. “This loomy stuff’s not bad.”
I pressed my lips together as I reached over to jab at some greens and a cube of cheese. “I like the salty chewiness of it.”
“Could you make something like this for us sometime?”
I let that last comment slip by unanswered. “You really think I’m the one you’d like to build a family with?”
“Who knows? It’s only our second date. But I like what I see so far. Didn’t Libby tell you what I said after we met?”
“No.” I couldn’t believe that Libby would hold out on me!
“That you remind me of my mother.”
By the time Libby’s wedding arrived on a beautiful April afternoon, I’d been dating Anthony for over three months. Technically. But between his work hours and business trips, we’d gone out less than ten times in that period, so we were still not so serious that I would have brought him as my date to a wedding. Especially one where I was Maid of Honor. But as a friend of Kyle’s, he’d been invited on his own.
Even so, going as his date wouldn’t have been so bad had it not been for one thing: the Best Man. I hadn’t seen Dylan since I dropped off the paperwork at The Death Trap on Haber. I don’t know what I expected from Dylan. Was I thinking he was going to ride his bike to the wedding? That he was going to show up in his work clothes? Whatever it was, I’d grown so used to my story about his austerity, that I wasn’t prepared to see him drive up in a newish car, wearing a perfectly presentable tux. Granted, both of them were rented, but they were hardly an embarrassment either.
Still, you couldn’t compare his Ford to Anthony’s Porsche. Heads turned when Anthony, in his Armani tux, came around to the passenger side, opened my door, and escorted me out in my bridesmaid dress.
Dylan barely made eye contact the entire wedding, and if he saw me coming, he’d quickly make his excuses and leave. I always considered him to be tough, as someone who could take anything and keep chugging forward. And I was right. He was tough. But he still felt pain. Watching him slip away from me like an eel the entire weekend, I knew I’d hurt him badly. That pain wouldn’t stop him, but it must sting something awful.
Still, there’s only so much a Best Man can avoid a Maid of Honor. Libby wanted a traditional wedding, so at the processional, I walked down the aisle alone, just before the flower girls and the bride herself. But at the recessional, the Maid of Honor and Best Man are paired together. Of course, the recessional is much faster, and all eyes are on the bride and groom. Still, Dylan didn’t meet my eyes as he extended his arm. I took it for the short, fast walk back up the aisle. At the end, I just managed to whisper, “Dylan, I’m so sorry,” before he let go of my arm and disappeared.
I took off toward the lady’s room, tears streaking my mascara as they ran down my cheeks.
