André

by Jayce Ellis

  I shuffled in my seat and turned to Fiona. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to think about it. All I been doing is thinking about it,” I said, finally responding to her question.

  “So, not thinking about it is not working for you, is what you’re telling me. Y’all are grown. Have a conversation.”

  “It’s not that easy—”

  Fiona held a hand up. “It is that easy. You’re scared. And after all the shit you said about your ex, I get it. But. You’ve told me for weeks how important this deal is to you. How this could be the thing that gets you over the hump. I’m pretty sure that didn’t include making this your only client and forsaking everyone else. Assuming I’m correct about that, and we both know I am, you need to handle all your other business as well.”

  “I’m not neglecting my work, Fi.”

  “Mr. Walker has called three times in the past two days.”

  Yeah, I knew that. I didn’t have the energy to deal with him unless it was an emergency. His appointment wasn’t for another two weeks and he refused to leave a message.

  “Can you call him for me tomorrow and schedule a time?”

  Fiona arched a brow. “Now that, I’m charging you for.”

  “Done.”

  “But it’s not just Walker and you know it.” She reached across the table and snagged the phone slips she’d left for me. “Have you returned these?”

  She knew that I hadn’t, because I tossed the slips after I processed them. “Look, it’s been two days. I’m still getting my bearings.”

  “Why don’t you have Marcus help?”

  I shook my head. I’d thought about that, remembering Harold’s words that I wasn’t limited to giving him Pennington assignments. But... “He has no interest in what I do, or these clients. I don’t want to have to double-and triple-check his work because he’s not invested.”

  And that, I realized with a sudden, sharp clarity, was the problem. It’d be one thing if we’d run into each other on the streets again. But we were working together, and I guess I wanted it to mean more. Not some grand love affair, but more than dick for dick’s sake. Which was fanciful thinking on my part. Apparently, I was a hopelessly romantic mess.

  Fiona grunted. “So, not to be that bitch or whatever, but it sounds to me like he’s creating more work for you if you can’t give him any other responsibility than this one assignment.”

  Now I shook my head faster. “He’s taken on the bulk of the project and I’m the one who’s been slacking.” Not neglecting, but I could admit I hadn’t been as efficient. I’d tried to maintain my policy of leaving at a decent hour. Looked like that was coming to an end.

  Fiona crossed to my chair and squeezed my shoulder. “I’m not saying you have to talk to him. I am saying you need to call these clients, and you need to keep your eyes on the prize. And if sitting here wondering about this is keeping you from your priority, it’s your own damn fault.”

  “Thank you, Fiona. I so appreciate the support.”

  She laughed again. She knew I hated when she called me on my shit. “As well you should.” She pointed to my desk, and the phone messages she’d handed me for the past few days. “Call your clients, André. Remember what you’re here for.”

  More than I’d ever expected, that was easier said than done.

  Marcus

  “Damn, something smells good up in here.”

  I straightened at the sound of Fiona’s voice. The spiced beef curry and rice I’d made for dinner last night did smell divine, she was right about that. She turned into the kitchen area, where I stood leaning against the counter as my lunch heated up, saw it was me, and crinkled her nose.

  She didn’t like me, and she made no bones about that. Whether it was because I’d been a tool that first day, or the way I’d gone off on André, it didn’t matter. She’d been coolly professional to me since. They said the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. I wonder if that worked for everyone else.

  The microwave chimed and I grabbed a few paper towels so I could handle the container. “Want some?” I asked.

  She startled, then finished filling up the water bottle I’d noticed she carried with her everywhere. “Thanks, but no. I’m good.”

  “Come on,” I said, hoping my voice sounded teasing the way I wanted and not creepy. “I love showing off my cooking.”

  She leaned against the counter. “You made that?”

  “Damn sure not my roommate. He turned on the burner for some tea and forgot to add water to the kettle. Had to toss the whole thing.”

  Fiona laughed, and the tension in my neck loosened. I snagged a plastic fork from the cabinet and held it out to her. “Here.”

  She raised a brow, then took a bite and moaned. “Okay, but seriously, what is in that? That is delicious.”

  I started to answer, but she tapped her ear to the Bluetooth I’d missed before, grabbed her phone and answered. “Good afternoon, Young and Associates, how may I help you?” How she knew what company she was answering for was beyond me. How she kept them all straight boggled my mind. Fiona raised her bottle, pink to match her pantsuit, and headed back up front.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed a coffee cup and filled it with some of my lunch, and walked it to her desk. She looked at it, then me, and mouthed you all right. That was as close to victory as I’d get with her.

  I spied André on the way back to my office, focused intently on the two monitors. That man was a machine. I could split some of my food with him too, but I spied a sandwich bag next to him and left it alone.

  Lunch was supposed to be me time, so I probably shouldn’t have had the Pennington proposal front and center. André wanted to go in for a moderate, bordering on conservative, investment strategy, but that was wholly at odds with both the current portfolio and the family questionnaires. I needed to figure out why.

  Before I could get into it, someone knocked on the door. I expected André since he was my boss and all, but Fiona walked in. “Got a few?” she asked.

  “Of course.” Because I wasn’t supposed to be working anyway.

  She sat opposite me, the cup I’d given her in hand. “So,” she started, “since you’re out here olive branching and everything, I figured I could do the same.”

  I laughed. Leave it to her to cut through the bullshit. “Glad you picked up on that.”

  We relaxed into a conversation, her teasing me about going to Wharton, which, apparently, was André’s alma mater, and how’d I missed that? It was a stark punch to the nose that I hadn’t done even the most basic research on the man I was working for.

  After I’d half gotten over my vast disappointment with this assignment, I said I was going to prove, to Supe and the other powers-that-be, that “grunt” need not ever again be associated with Marcus Thompson. I’d told myself I could bust ass on Pennington and, even if it wasn’t my gig long-term, be a team player for everything else. That had all flown out the window the moment I’d seen André. And he hadn’t pushed.

  As if on cue, a shadow darkened the pane of glass next to my door. Fiona and I both looked over to find André staring at us. Still as clean-cut as ever, but he didn’t look like he’d shaved this morning, and his eyes seemed tired. He nodded once, quirked the side of his mouth into a semblance of a grin, then turned down the hall.

  “That boy, what am I going to do with him?”

  Fiona’s words hit me in ways I wasn’t prepared to discuss. “What do you mean?”

  “I bet you’re only working the assignment that brought you here, right?” I inclined my head and she kept going. “Even though he could give you other shit to work on?” Another nod. “You ever stop and think why that is?”

  That was it. The little tendril of unease that had wormed its way to the base of my skull and stayed lodged there, refusing to be shaken. For all my bitching, Clarymore wouldn’t con
sider partnering with just anybody, and I knew it. André had to have an, if not thriving, then comfortable practice. He’d said as much that first day. The world didn’t stop because of this case, and no matter how hard I worked, André matched me hour for hour, on top of his full workload.

  “What does he need?” I asked.

  Fiona huffed. “Boy needs a keeper. Eats like shit, and I know he’s about to start pulling double duty again, if he hasn’t already.” She shrugged and took a bite of the rice, which had to be going cold by now.

  Why hadn’t André given me more of a caseload? I’d stayed late that first night to catch up, but since then I’d gone home by 5:30, at least thirty minutes earlier than I had with Clarymore. I always stopped by André’s office and asked if there was anything he needed. And he’d waved me off both times and told me to have a good evening. Why hadn’t he been honest?

  “Because he thinks you’re not interested and isn’t willing to risk it,” Fiona murmured with a shrug. I must’ve said the quiet part out loud.

  But why would he think—My brain rewound to the first day, to me telling him I was here for one thing and one thing only, and him apparently taking me at my word. So he was, what, going to martyr himself for the next three weeks? I had no clue how he’d deal if he got the partnership, since I’d be back in school, but while I was here, I could take some of that pressure off.

  Besides, I actually liked André. I didn’t want to see him burn out, not when I was right there and could help.

  I looked at Fiona and grinned. “A keeper, huh? I think I can handle that.”

  From the look on her face, I’d say I finally made it into her good graces.

  Chapter Ten

  André

  Fiona was going to cackle when she divvied up mail tomorrow. After years of telling me to get some sort of screen filter to protect my eyes, and me ignoring her because I didn’t stay late enough to care, I’d finally caved and bought two.

  I’d already spent not one, but two full hours on the phone with Mr. Walker. Who knew the man could talk so much, especially about the status of an inheritance his wife had come into that could catapult their comfortable retirement savings into lavish? He’d almost sounded excited, to the extent gruff, one-word men could. But that meant I was more behind, and if I was going to get ahead the way I needed to so I could take some downtime next weekend, I had to keep pushing.

  A quick trip to the kitchen for my Coke—I refrigerated a single can a day, more than that and they’d disappear—and a loop around the circular suite to appease my damn smart watch, and I was back at my desk.

  I set up a few more emails to send tomorrow morning while I waited for the caffeine to kick in, then pulled one of my new client files. Thanks to daylight savings—and don’t ask me if it had ended, begun, whatever—the sun had just barely set, even though it was pushing on eight. Two hours later it was undeniably dark and I needed to get home.

  So of course the phone rang. George again, and would he ever learn to call at a decent hour? One that we both agreed was decent?

  “Hey, baby bro,” I said when I answered.

  “See?” he said, laughing. “Told you it wasn’t too late to call.”

  Chuckles in the background piqued my interest. “Who’s there?”

  “Walls and Trace.” He clicked on the video chat and I was treated to my three baby brothers, ranging in age from thirty-two to twenty-seven, all waving while lounging on a sectional, drinking beers. Damn, that looked good.

  “Yo, you still at the office?” That was Wallace, and I couldn’t tell if he was smirking or sympathetic. He was a teacher and I knew he was about to start back, but he made it his personal mission to go out of the country for four weeks every summer. I’d yet to work out how he pulled it off.

  “Yessir, still here. Gotta buckle down so I can spend quality time with y’all.”

  “Whatever, Dré. You’d work this hard even without us.”

  I hated that Tracey was right, but this was a special circumstance. If not for Pennington, maybe I could do minor overtime and not the ball-busting hours of the past two nights.

  “Anyway,” I said, because George was bad enough, but all the Ellison boys on the phone together could take us into the witching hour, “to what do I owe this call?”

  The screen blurred as it passed hands until it was back with George. “We called the Sheraton today, and they won’t talk to us without your permission. We just tryna get things set up for the party and all.”

  Well, that was dumb. “I didn’t know. I’ll call them tomorrow and get it sorted.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What’re you thinking about for the party?” I could consider this procrastination, or I could acknowledge that I wasn’t getting shit else done tonight, talk to my brothers and head home.

  Wallace scooted in. “You know Pops is hella simple. We’re doing Motown-type things.”

  “I’m not dressing up.”

  “Ahh, why not?” George teased. “I thought gay men loved playing dress up.”

  I smiled, but I knew it was strained. Tracey snickered while George doubled himself in half over some shit that wasn’t that damn funny. Only Wallace looked uncomfortable, and I chalked that up to him being a teacher rather than caring about my feelings.

  After a few seconds, I sighed. “Y’all want to get it together over there?” Tracey sobered and waited for George to finally do the same. “So what all’s involved in the theme?”

  We spent the next thirty minutes yelling over each other, talking Afros, bell-bottoms, shirts open to the navel—another source of teasing—until George’s wife Aisha walked out, silk headscarf and all, and told him to shut it down. He went straight googly-eyed at the sight of her, and after eight years of marriage and twenty of playing tag and climbing trees as kids before that, it was still cute to see.

  The phone disconnected with nary a goodbye, and I sat back. It was nearly impossible to explain to any rational person my issues with my family. Joking, teasing, needling into oblivion? Part of the culture. And my sensitivity to it? Definition of the emasculation of the Black male.

  But dealing with them, listening to the jokes that ventured into taunts that ventured into insults in the wrong hands? Was like death by a thousand paper cuts. At some point, it wasn’t a game, and it wasn’t funny. And since expressing that got me absolutely nowhere, I’d learned to shut up and find excuses to stay away.

  My biggest concern about going home was never about being there itself. It was the impact it’d have on me when I got back. The last time I’d visited my family, back when me and Phil were still a thing, I’d been such a wreck when I returned that Phil had taken to sleeping in his own apartment, and I’d called out two more days to decompress. Phil didn’t get it. He wasn’t out, had no interest in coming out, and had made it clear to me that my anxiety was my own damn fault for doing it in a place where I knew acceptance came with conditions. In retrospect, I should’ve dropkicked his ass right then.

  What if it happened again? What if I couldn’t shake it off before the presentation, and I lost the partnership as a result? That was the absolute worst outcome I could conceive of, but it was a real possibility if I didn’t get my shit together. I fumbled in my top drawer for my handy-dandy roll and popped two antacids in my mouth.

  Which brought up the obvious next question: did I need to talk to Marcus about this and tell him what was going on? My initial thought was no, of course not, why the hell what I do that?

  But. Marcus would know something was wrong, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to give him a heads-up so he could be prepared if I came back and was totally out of sorts.

  No. As tempting as it was to release this burden, to share it with someone else, I couldn’t do that. Wouldn’t. Marcus was still young, still working out how to manage his own needs and priorities, without the drag of a guy with family iss
ues pulling him down. Hell, I’d dealt with it myself the last time, seeing as how Phil went MIA. I was better able to handle it now, and if it came down to it, I would.

  With that final thought in my head, I packed up my bag and headed home.

  Marcus

  Of course I’d sit in the broken chair with the wobbly wheel. Every time I so much as shifted the thing dropped, and my stomach along with it.

  I was in one of the tiny Clarymore conference rooms. Not the glass-front, first-page-of-the-website-with-a-suspiciously-high-amount-of-diversity ones. No, we were in a damn closet, with barely enough room to get to a seat, let alone maneuver around it. And I was in the fucked-up chair. Shit, André’s office was better than this.

  To be fair, Shelby was on the other end of the table, and I wasn’t in the mood to be petted again. I was still pretty sure she crooned “good boy” at me once, but when I stood up and asked her what she’d said, her eyes had gone wide, her lower lip started quivering, and every man in a ten-foot radius had shifted into high alert. I’d let it go then, but wasn’t getting any closer to her now.

  The door swung open and Brian walked in, managing to look bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and beat down all at once. There were circles under his eyes, and for a minute, I considered the utility of concealer. Then gave thanks that I was dark enough things like that didn’t show.

  “Marcus, my man!” Brian sounded genuinely happy to see me, and that was odd. But he pulled me up and man-hugged me, before squeezing around and giving Shelby a one-armed hug.