Which is worse? To suspect your boyfriend is avoiding commitment, or to actually know it for a fact? At least in my ignorance, there was the bliss of possibility. The imaginings that one night (like last night for example) Seth might show up with an engagement ring and a bent knee. I laugh aloud thinking about the puppy. A puppy! I’ve lost a boyfriend, but gained a four-legged friend with a free dog-sitter thrown in. Not a bad arrangement really. In fact, Rhett is with Seth right now.
Getting on the plane brings such a strange sensation of emotions. Like it was good to leave the past where it belonged, but Taiwan was not really my future either. I take out my journal, and try to plan a new direction for my life.
GOALS:
1. General counsel at Gainnet by January 1.
2. Contentment as a single. (Or marriage proposal that isn’t forced.)
And I’m stuck here. Not exactly Purpose-Driven Life kind of stuff. Maybe that’s my problem, my goals aren’t big enough, or aren’t eternal enough in purpose. Technically, I could have the job promotion by the end of the week, and maybe that should be my goal. Then, I can think long term and more eternally. I wad up my goal sheet and shove it into my suit pocket.
Stepping off the plane in Taiwan is always a mixture of relief and dismal reality. Relief, because anything is better than a plane for eighteen hours. Dismal reality because Taiwan is, well, Taiwan. I’m sure it’s a beautiful country, somewhere, but of course I never see that. I see hotels, manufacturing facilities, offices, and fancy fish restaurants.
Business travel sounds so glamorous until you actually do it. Then, it’s like, London looks like Taiwan, and Taiwan looks like India, and India looks like Paducah. You stay in American-style hotels and meet with foreign businessmen. Travel implies there’s some sort of adventure involved, but unless you count looking into the eyes of whatever it is you’re eating, business travel has no adventure.
Once I get into the airport, I go to baggage claim. Which I don’t usually do, but my enthusiasm for this trip was showing and I thought a little time checking my bag wouldn’t be such a bad thing. My red suitcase is going around the carousel all by itself, with one lone black bag on the other side of the silver monster.
“Is this yours?” a sales engineer asks. How can I tell he’s a sales engineer? The uniform. Software engineers (like Seth) are the geeky ones. They’re the pocket-protector kings, the ones who wear nothing but free trade show T-shirts and are the butt of television jokes. Hardware engineers come up to business casual, generally going for the collared shirt with no tie and khakis or clean-lined slacks. But sales and marketing engineers are a different breed. They are the Hollywood version of engineers, savvy and intellectual, completely aware of the life around them that extends beyond video games and science-fiction movies.
“Is this your bag?” he repeats.
I nod, and he pulls it down from the carousel. “Thanks.”
I’m just standing here staring at him. My eyes say, “Are you my future husband?” Like that kid’s book Are You My Mother?
“Well, enjoy your stay,” he says and jogs off, and my stomach lurches. My life is all about unmet expectations. I must have some invisible aura that says, Run men! Run away now! Don’t look back!
When I get dropped off in front of the hotel, there’s a jewelry store outside the front door. It occurs to me that I’ve sulked here before. An Israeli man runs it, and the window is sprayed with Hebrew, Chinese, and English markings. The English says, “Sale,” and I assume the others do, too.
In the window is an antique sapphire-and-platinum ring, set with diamonds, and its price tag is in Yuan, which I can only imagine. Everything about it says “expensive,” but I feel like that ring has a beacon calling out to me: Have a pity party with me! I sigh and walk to the front door of my hotel, my carry-on bag behind me.
At the hotel, the bellman takes my bags to a room that has an elegant living room with sofas, desks, and actual square footage. Wow, traveling with the boss has its privileges, I think for approximately two seconds before my mouth drops at the sight of a second bedroom off the suite. The door is open and someone’s suitcase is sitting there open. And there’s no question in my mind whose suitcase it is.
“Excuse me, but I’m not staying with anyone.”
The nodding starts. “General Manager, Hans. He always get a suite, Miss.”
My heart is pounding in my ears. I am in a foreign country with a man, no, check that, with a reptile who doesn’t respect the rules. No, actually he respects his own rules, which are based on who knows what. My palms are sweating.
“I’d like my own room. Can you please move my things?” I hold up my credit card. “Credit card. I pay for it.” I slap my chest for effect which might work if I were talking in gorilla.
“Hotel very busy, Miss. This room paid for, already.” The bell-man looks at me questioningly. I know it’s nothing new that older businessmen travel with younger women, but I am a lawyer, not my boss’s “baggage,” and I want to be treated as such.
I’m here on business, and I have to make this man, who speaks very little English, understand this.
I bow, “No, I’m not sharing a room with a man.” I wave my hands. “No man in my room.”
“Dining room. Your man in the dining room.”
I march downstairs, braced to knock anyone out of my way that gets in it. Hans is indeed waiting for me at the dining room. He’s smiling slyly over his standard bottle of red wine, and his sideways grin makes me more than nervous. “What took you so long?”
I must give him the benefit of the doubt. “I checked my bag, and traffic was tough. Hans, there is some type of mistake. I appear to be in your room.”
He shakes his head. “You’re not in my room. We have a suite. You have your separate room, I have mine, but this way we can work into the night, and we don’t have to be near a bed. See? No harassment here.” He stretches his arms behind his head, and just the way he moves, full of confidence and bravado, makes me even more uncomfortable.
It’s perfectly practical, I tell myself. Like getting your own meeting room in the deal. Grow up, Ashley. My mind floats back to Sophia. He’s dating a supermodel. This is nothing but my overactive imagination, but then my eyes narrow. “But what if I get tired, and you still want to work?”
“Then you shut your door and go to bed, Ashley. You have your own lock. Are you afraid I’m going to pound it down?” Hans puts his hand to his mouth and rests his chin on his palm. The way he does it, so effortlessly, reminds me of a dancer. He unavoidably captures your attention.
“I know you didn’t mean anything by the room, of course. But it’s hardly appropriate, even with the center room. I’m a single woman. A Christian single woman, and it doesn’t look right. We enter via the same doorway. I’d be mortified if my mother saw me.”
“Is your mother due in Taiwan, Ashley?”
“Well, no, but it’s the idea.”
“I’m a single man, too,” he says as he sits back in his chair, “and I’m not worried.”
“I wonder what Sophia would say to that comment about your being single. I wonder what she’d think if she called the room and I answered.”
He tosses a hand and calls my bluff. “She’d think you answered our phone. Sit down. You don’t want to make a scene. Sophia and I are not caught up in your American idealism. We are very, as they say, modern.”
Actually, I’d say amoral. “Hans, the Bible is very clear about its position on things, and that’s my guide. So if you don’t mind, I would prefer my own room just for my own peace of mind.”
He laughs at this. “You didn’t seem to have a moral issue with mauling your boyfriend on my sidewalk the other night.”
My eyes slam shut. Is there anything worse as a Christian than being reminded that you acted like less than one?
“Or should I call him your fiancé?” Hans laughs.
“Hans, I may be less than stellar in my personal affairs, but that isn’t about business. I can assure you I’m an excellent patent attorney, which is why I’m here. Why don’t we discuss that?” I sit down at his table, and once again he tries to pour me wine. I cover my glass.
“Come on, no one will see you here. Drink with me.”
“Waiter, a Diet Coke,” I say, holding up my hand. “Do you have drawings on this patent?”
“I’m a flirt, Ashley, and you’re a natural. Why don’t you do an old man’s heart good and flirt with me?” He takes his finger and loosely points up and down my figure. “No one who spends as much as you do on clothes is anything but a flirt. What’s the point, then?”
“You are not an old man and you know it, and I’m no flirt. I am a very well-dressed patent attorney, and I want the general counsel position you’ve offered me, Hans. But I’m not going to play games.” Though, I must admit, I have very little choice at the moment. I have a mortgage now.
“I love it when you’re serious with me.”
“I’m going to the room. It’s nine a.m. at home, and I want to call Seth and check on my dog.”
“Ah yes, the boyfriend who won’t marry you. Give him my very best.”
He’s not my boyfriend anymore. However, I’m not exactly going to advertise this to Hans. “Excuse me.” I grab my Diet Coke and take it with me upstairs. The room is truly luxurious and I try to avoid thinking about the fact that I’ll soon have to leave it. If Hans were the decent sort, he’d leave me the cavernous room, but then again if he were the decent sort, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
I change into my yoga pants, not that they’ve ever seen the light of a yoga studio, but they’re comfy, and officially, they are known as yoga pants. Traditionally, they are known as the sweats I eat ice cream in. I dial Seth’s work number, and he answers immediately.
“Seth Greenwood.” His voice sounds harried.
“Hi, Seth, it’s Ashley.” I straighten my shoulders. “I wanted to call and check on Rhett.” Take that, I’m not calling you. I’m calling the dog.
“Ashley, I’m so glad you called. Hang on, let me shut my door.” I hear the door kick shut, and he comes back on the line. “You’re not going to believe what’s happened.”
“Is Rhett okay?”
“The dog’s fine, but I’m not going to be able to watch him when you travel. I can probably still give him back to the pound if he’s too much for you.”
“What? Why?” I thought this was a joint custody thing.
“In case you don’t want him, the pound will probably still take him back.”
“No, I mean why can’t you watch him?”
“When I got in this morning, they announced big layoffs. They’re taking all the software jobs to India. Just leaving the bare bones here.”
“Did you lose your job?”
“No. I actually gained one.” He pauses for a moment. “I’m going to India to set up the new department.”
“That takes a bit of time, doesn’t it?” I say, as casually as possible.
“At least three months, maybe up to six.”
So this is how it is. Seth is going to India. God is actually sending him on a mission so he gets to avoid marriage. How completely convenient for him.
“So when are you leaving? Will you be home when I get there?” Before he thinks it’s about him, I add, “Or do I need to make arrangements for Rhett Butlah?”
“I’ll find him a kennel before I go.”
“He’s not going to any kennel, Seth. Tell me when you’re leaving. You can leave a message on my cell or e-mail me, and I’ll find someone from church to help me.”
“You sound upset.”
“What should I be?”
“You should be happy for me. I’m going to be going out into a real mission field.”
“So I guess this means you won’t be talking to Pastor Romanski, huh?” Our breakup is apparently permanent.
“I don’t really see the point now. God is clearly calling me to India, even if it’s only a short-term mission.”
“I’ve got to run. I’ve got some shopping to do tonight.”
“Shouldn’t we talk about this some more?” Seth asks.
“Talk about what? I think you’ve said it all.”
“We should talk about my leaving. I feel really bad, but I couldn’t know my future. I sure couldn’t have planned it any better!”
I’m not letting him off the hook. No way. What was I raised for by my mother, if it wasn’t to learn how to dole out a good dose of guilt? “Once, Seth, you knew your future wasn’t in Arizona. This isn’t about me. And it isn’t about God and the mission field. It’s never been about anything but you. Tell yourself you’re doing the godly thing all you want. It’s the cowardly thing, and I’m just thankful I’m starting to see how things really are.”
“You’re not mad, are you, Ashley? Why would you be mad?”
I slam down the phone and run to the elevator where I press the button about forty times. Finally, the elevator arrives, and I’m let out on the lobby floor like a spilled bag of flour.
Hans is still lingering over his wine with some beat-up crustacean legs in front of him. He looks at me oddly, and I stare down at the yoga pants I’m still sporting.
“I know, I know. Look, I’m going out for a minute. I need to get something.”
Hans stands up. “Not at night. Not without an escort, and it’s my pleasure.” He throws his linen napkin on the table.
“Whatever.” If I’m going to be officially and permanently dumped from halfway around the world, I guess I need some international retail therapy.