The One

I shut my father down when I slap my hand on the top of the table then bring it to squeeze my mouth trying to keep the words I want to release safely inside.

Issi gives me a sympathetic bite into her bottom lip and starts to say something when her mother chimes in.

“Well, Issi can barely talk about anything but start-ups and recoveries. I don’t know a venture from a capital, but you’d think it was a darn Mardi Gras the way she talks about it.”

It’s my turn to give her the sympathetic eyes as she lifts her drink, the second from what I can see because there is an empty glass next to the one she’s working on and sucks the remaining liquid through the small red straw.

After she sets it down, she spins the ice around then stabs the red cherry at the bottom of the glass with the straw, bringing it to her mouth. She first pops the cherry inside, pulling the stem off. When she’s done chewing the cherry, I watch out of the corner of my eye as she puts the stem between her lips and it disappears into her mouth.

Thirty seconds later, she pinches it between her fingers, pulling it out of her mouth tied in a knot and I think my heart stops imagining the working of her tongue that must have required.

“Speaking of work…” Issi starts setting the knotted stem on the side of her empty plate. “I have some things I need to finish tonight. Tomorrow is a full day of festivities, and I don’t want to be distracted.” She gives her mother a forced smile. “So, I’m going to have to call it an evening.” She nods at my father, then me, and starts to pull her chair out but I’m already on my feet doing the honors.

She looks up, her hair falling back from her face and finally fully exposing the port wine mark around her sparkling, near white, blue eyes.

It’s clearly instinct when she reacts instantly, her hand moving to replace the hair that acts like a mask, but I beat her to it, sweeping the silken tendril back from her face to tuck it behind her ear. As she stands, her eyes are hooked to mine as if to say, ‘What’s your game?’

“I have some work to do as well.” I swallow and move my hand back, then look from her to the happy couple canoodling at the table. “You two need a chaperone?” I use the words as a delay, my mind racing, trying to figure out how to keep her here and ditch our parents.

Gayl smiles and my father stands. “Probably, but you won’t be doing the honors, son.”

As we stand, three women practically fall into the restaurant, all giggling and headed in the direction of the bar. They are dressed straight from the pages of Town & Country and are all carrying ostentatious handbags that I know cost more than a lot of people’s cars.

How does a guy like me know shit like that? Because one of the less fortunate parts of my job is dealing with investors. Not just Gloria, who I’ve found I get along with better than most, but the usual parade of the silver-spoon club looking to make their money work harder for them. Part of what I do is taking them out, seeing them at meetings. Few are women, but some of the men bring their girlfriends and wives, even their sons and daughters sometimes. Doing this for as long as I have, I’ve gotten my share of unnecessary education on the show that is fashion with the super-rich.

I don’t pay much attention to the three young women, but as they walk past our table, I see Issi glance up, then immediately down and away. But clearly too late.

“Issi?” A brunette wearing a wedding ring as big as a chunk of coal squeals then looks over at her compatriots. “It’s Issi!”

As I look her way, I realize I know her. It’s been probably seven or eight years, and I wouldn’t even know that except I remember exactly what happened and cringe at the memory. I don’t think she’s recognized me, and that’s a godsend because it’s better to leave that water right where it is—under the bridge.

I started out here in Michigan since I’ve moved away, but some of my first big deals were garnered here.

“Oh my God.” The highlighted blonde with an unnatural boob job stops and holds the hand of the third, whose hair must come from the same salon and who’s wearing a pink suit with a skirt so short she’s nearly answering the panties or no panties question.

“Hi, Issi!” The third hisses and I look down to see Issi turn her head and plaster a smile to her lips that tells me all I need to know about her connection to this trio.