stayed. Maybe it was because she knew no one else but me. Maybe it was because her father
was a drunk, too, and – like so many other people – she could only repeat her past. Or maybe it was exactly what she claims: that she loves me, despite what I did that night.
After the death of my son, I got clean. I tried turning my life around. I tried rebuilding my career. It took a long time. I made a lot of phone calls in those dark days, begged a lot of people
for second chances. I started small, with one-off gigs: consulting for cash-strapped start-ups; rescuing a software company that had fired its VP; serving as an interim CEO for a company whose
founder had a heart attack. I worked for stock options – pieces of paper – usually worthless. No one paid me cash. But once I had a little momentum, I starting offering myself as a
rent-a-CEO – a ‘turnaround guy’ is what I called myself – and had some success. The farther away from Palo Alto I went, the fewer people knew about my past. My jobs stayed
low-profile, my compensation meagre, my progress incremental. But it was progress. A little at a time, I worked my way back.
Now, standing in the middle of Florida, three thousand miles from our home, our real home, I think I understand why Libby is treating me like a stranger. She started with me when I was high, in
every sense of the word, and stuck with me when I was low. She forgave me for the things I did. She nursed me to health. And now, finally, we’re back to where we began. I have a chance to
turn around a real company, with real venture-capital investors. This is the biggest opportunity we’ve had in five years. Maybe ever. I can earn ten or eleven million dollars if I
succeed.
Libby probably wonders if I’ll ruin this chance too – the way I’ve ruined everything else in our life.
‘Hey,’ I say. I reach out, take her fingers in mine. They stay limp in my hand. ‘Everything is going to be fine. No more mistakes. I promise.’
She nods. She doesn’t return my stare. Doesn’t look at me.
She doesn’t believe me, I know.
Doesn’t believe a fucking word I say.
She leads me upstairs to the bedroom.
The bed is neatly made, with a brown duvet pulled tight as a drum head. Libby has always been fastidious – fussing with beds, stacking pantries, scrubbing toilets. Her obsession with
neatness and order developed around the same time that I began to spiral so desperately out of control. You don’t have to be Freud to figure that one out.
The ceiling of the bedroom is high and vaulted. Above the bed is a ceiling fan with oversized teak blades, like something out of post-war Havana. It twirls slowly, squeaking on each turn. Near
the bed is a window, and just beyond it, outside, the giant live oak, its branches touching the glass. There’s a sliding door that leads out to a little veranda overlooking the backyard
pool.
‘What do you think?’ she asks.
‘Little bit Cuba, little bit Shangri-La.’
I go to the bureau and pull a drawer at random. Libby has unpacked for me. Undershirts and socks sit in neat square piles, exactly fourteen days’ worth. Before we left Palo Alto, we agreed
to bring only the barest minimum with us to Florida, just a few clothes and knick-knacks. We would leave the rest of our lives behind, in our real house, awaiting our return. Our
triumphant
return, we hoped.
On top of the bureau, Libby has arranged three photographs in metal frames. One is of me, much younger, standing on a boardwalk, my hands in my pockets, staring at the photographer with a surly
sneer. Like James Dean on crystal meth.
The second photo is of Libby, sunlight dappling her face, standing alone in a forest.
The final photo shows the two of us together, sitting on a couch. Neither of us smiles.
The paltry selection makes me sad. Libby must have made an effort to choose ‘highlights’ from our years together – but so much of our past is off limits now, so much forbidden
– that this
was a drunk, too, and – like so many other people – she could only repeat her past. Or maybe it was exactly what she claims: that she loves me, despite what I did that night.
After the death of my son, I got clean. I tried turning my life around. I tried rebuilding my career. It took a long time. I made a lot of phone calls in those dark days, begged a lot of people
for second chances. I started small, with one-off gigs: consulting for cash-strapped start-ups; rescuing a software company that had fired its VP; serving as an interim CEO for a company whose
founder had a heart attack. I worked for stock options – pieces of paper – usually worthless. No one paid me cash. But once I had a little momentum, I starting offering myself as a
rent-a-CEO – a ‘turnaround guy’ is what I called myself – and had some success. The farther away from Palo Alto I went, the fewer people knew about my past. My jobs stayed
low-profile, my compensation meagre, my progress incremental. But it was progress. A little at a time, I worked my way back.
Now, standing in the middle of Florida, three thousand miles from our home, our real home, I think I understand why Libby is treating me like a stranger. She started with me when I was high, in
every sense of the word, and stuck with me when I was low. She forgave me for the things I did. She nursed me to health. And now, finally, we’re back to where we began. I have a chance to
turn around a real company, with real venture-capital investors. This is the biggest opportunity we’ve had in five years. Maybe ever. I can earn ten or eleven million dollars if I
succeed.
Libby probably wonders if I’ll ruin this chance too – the way I’ve ruined everything else in our life.
‘Hey,’ I say. I reach out, take her fingers in mine. They stay limp in my hand. ‘Everything is going to be fine. No more mistakes. I promise.’
She nods. She doesn’t return my stare. Doesn’t look at me.
She doesn’t believe me, I know.
Doesn’t believe a fucking word I say.
She leads me upstairs to the bedroom.
The bed is neatly made, with a brown duvet pulled tight as a drum head. Libby has always been fastidious – fussing with beds, stacking pantries, scrubbing toilets. Her obsession with
neatness and order developed around the same time that I began to spiral so desperately out of control. You don’t have to be Freud to figure that one out.
The ceiling of the bedroom is high and vaulted. Above the bed is a ceiling fan with oversized teak blades, like something out of post-war Havana. It twirls slowly, squeaking on each turn. Near
the bed is a window, and just beyond it, outside, the giant live oak, its branches touching the glass. There’s a sliding door that leads out to a little veranda overlooking the backyard
pool.
‘What do you think?’ she asks.
‘Little bit Cuba, little bit Shangri-La.’
I go to the bureau and pull a drawer at random. Libby has unpacked for me. Undershirts and socks sit in neat square piles, exactly fourteen days’ worth. Before we left Palo Alto, we agreed
to bring only the barest minimum with us to Florida, just a few clothes and knick-knacks. We would leave the rest of our lives behind, in our real house, awaiting our return. Our
triumphant
return, we hoped.
On top of the bureau, Libby has arranged three photographs in metal frames. One is of me, much younger, standing on a boardwalk, my hands in my pockets, staring at the photographer with a surly
sneer. Like James Dean on crystal meth.
The second photo is of Libby, sunlight dappling her face, standing alone in a forest.
The final photo shows the two of us together, sitting on a couch. Neither of us smiles.
The paltry selection makes me sad. Libby must have made an effort to choose ‘highlights’ from our years together – but so much of our past is off limits now, so much forbidden
– that this
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