I woke up against my will at two a.m. to a string of emails from Mr. Fabrizi asking if I was sure about my decision to quit. And, confusingly enough, that he understood my growing feelings but still expected his morning schedule at four-thirty to be followed. He also wanted me to meet him at his parents' house on Mulholland Drive at nine. Why on earth would he want me to meet him there—in formal spring attire, no less? By the way, his mother is obsessed with spring colors and the change I would have to make (per his request) means I have to stop for gas after I leave my house.
It couldn't possibly be an emergency. And my leaving had better not be the reason. His parents were sweet, but no amount of smooth talking would convince me otherwise.
I was a fool for not trusting my gut instinct. The genuine surprise, however, was him greeting me by my Mini Cooper and declaring that he doesn't give second chances.
"Whatever your personal reasons are, I'll compensate for them. You probably want a higher position? I thought about it all night and decided—I'll make you my left-hand woman in decision-making."
A chuckle slipped out before I could stop it.
He said all this while standing much too close. For a man who claimed he didn't appreciate the proximity of women, he certainly liked testing that theory on me. Couldn't he stand a few steps farther back—in the grass, preferably?
"Mr. Fabrizi, I already do that as your secretary, and—"
"But you'll be paid more as my left-hand woman. Think of it as a director's position—organizing the company and meetings. Whatever personal debts you may have will be taken care of. You'll even be able to upgrade that car of yours."
"Mr. Fabrizi, I have no debts—and I love my car. Thank you for the offer, but no."
He simply turned, smiled as if ignoring my words, and walked toward the front door. I couldn't hide my agitation when his mother opened the large oak doors. Her face was still sweet and youthful—unlike the man beside me.
The meeting unfolded over a light breakfast (though Fabrizi had already eaten, thanks to me). It was mostly company news and small talk. His father was nowhere to be found, so the conversation shifted to their other son's fashion house—something Mr. Fabrizi had zero interest in—and then, to my surprise, to me.
"You look more radiant than ever," Mrs. Fabrizi said.
"Oh—it must be the sun."
"I've noticed you two look very compatible."
I caught the shift in Mr. Fabrizi's posture and was relieved we shared the same thought. We are not compatible! I know that for a fact.
"She would look even more radiant if she accepted my proposal as director. She's planning to quit for some personal reason."
I nearly snapped my head around like an owl. He had told me like a director outside. With him, the details mattered.
"Oh, that's such a shame. What personal reasons are troubling you, dear? I'm sure we can help. We've known you for so long—you're like family."
Sweet words, but not sweet when they were connected to him.
"It's time for me to—um—move on and start my life," I mumbled, trying to keep the peace while nibbling at my fruit.
"Like in terms of marriage? That could be something," Mrs. Fabrizi said, her eyes locked onto mine. "Both of my sons are in the same predicament and—"
"No, we are not—"
"And," she cut him off with a raised finger, silencing her son, "marriage is something people your age should think about before it's too late. I've put both my sons on so many blind dates. Our youngest—he can't get over his last heartbreak. As for my oldest, I was convinced he was gay by the way he treated those poor young ladies."
I wanted to laugh at Mr. Fabrizi's dramatic eye roll, and for him, the meeting was already over.
"Well," he said, "if there's nothing else to convince Ms. Marcie to stay with the company, we should be off."
"You two do look very compatible," his mother added as she waved us out.
That single sentence told me everything. She was trying to set me up.
And I needed to quit as soon as possible.