"You need to get laid, Marty," Betsy said matter-of-factly as soon as I sat down on the low chair in her well-appointed corner office.
"I, um... Is that an offer?"
"Ha! If it was, you'd know it," she replied with a smirk and a cocked eyebrow. "And if HR asks, I'm telling you this as a friend, not as your CEO."
"I know, Bets. But that's not the issue right now."
"Bullshit," Betsy countered, pouring two tumblers of scotch from the decanter on her credenza. "You've needed a good fuck for the last year and a half. I know the divorce has been hard on you, but how badly has Gwen screwed you?"
"It was an amicable settlement, Gwen was very fair. She hasn't screwed me at all... Yes, I see what you did there. You're very clever." I accepted the glass she offered.
"That's why I'm the boss, Marty. Now—as your boss again—I am
declining
your resignation letter." She leaned back against her desk, and even though she only stood about five-foot-four, she loomed over me sitting in the deep chair. It was one of her favorite power poses.
"You're my Chief Operating Officer, you're a mentor to most of the staff, and you're named as an essential resource in half a dozen government contracts." Betsy continued. "If we lose you, we stand to lose seven percent of our business... and that's a conservative estimate."
"Dammit Betsy, my head is
not in the game
anymore!" I exploded as I stood and paced the room with my untouched scotch.
"Back when it was all still happening, I could pretend that... that it wouldn't. That somehow everything would go back to normal. Maybe I was delusional then, but I got by... But now... now that everything is signed, the house is sold, the lawyers are paid... It's finally real... It's all too real...
"Gwen's not my wife anymore... I'm alone for... for the first time ever... And it gnaws at me, Betsy! I'm constantly distracted. I can't focus on work... or anything really. It's only a matter of time before I make a mistake that is going to cost this company more than its fucking market share," I protested. "I am a liability!"
"Which is why you need to get laid! ...Friend again, not boss... But that's not going to happen with you moping around between the office and that little apartment full of unopened boxes you're living in."
"How do you kno-"
"Because we're friends, Marty. Pay attention... Look, I'm not going to let you resign. But you
do
need to take some time to get your head together. Go lie on a beach. Get drunk on fruity rum cocktails. Let a pretty island girl fuck your brains out... When was the last time you went sailing, Marty?"
"It's, uh... We sold the boat when the kids' weekends got too over-scheduled. Back when school and ballet and scouts and lacrosse were more important than a day out on the bay. It's been about... I dunno, eight years or so."
"You used to love sailing," she consoled gently.
"I did," I admitted. "So did Gwen."
"Bullshit," Betsy called me out again. "You always did have a blind-spot for her, Marty. Gwen only put up with your sailing weekends because you loved it. How do you think the kids got so damn over-scheduled?"
Betsy didn't start her own company, take it public, and become CEO by pulling her punches, and that one landed hard.
"...Yeah, fine." I muttered, collapsing back into the chair under the weight of a fresh wave of melancholy. I didn't like admitting that it was probably true. How long had Gwen and I been drifting apart? The kids had given us a common interest for so long, that by the time our youngest went off to college we discovered that we had nothing else in common anymore.
"How big was that boat?" Betsy asked, trying a different tack to pull me out of my funk.
"Just a twenty-foot daysailer."
"Think you could handle a forty-foot sloop?"
"A sloop is a pretty straight-forward configuration. I'm a bit rusty, but once I got my sea legs back... Yeah, I could handle it."
"Good. Frank and I keep a boat down in the Caribbean. It's dry-docked on St. Vincent. It's yours for as long as you want it."
"Betsy, I can't-"
"You can, and you will."
"I used up all of my vacation time in lawyers offices and selling the house."
"This isn't a vacation. It's a sabbatical—open-ended, for as long as you need."
"The company doesn't offer sabbaticals, Bets."
"It will by the time you get Steve up to speed so he can fill in for you. I want you on an eastbound plane by Friday."
"The Board's not going to like it."
"You let me worry about the Board."