by Inda Herwood
“We all know it,” I furthered. “And anyway, I’m not doing it. Keep your precious money, Dad. I don’t want it.”
With a firm steadiness to his eyes, lips in a deadly line, he simply said, “It’s time to grow up, Cyvil. Your foolish dreams have been entertained long enough. These are the conditions, and it is your choice about which life you choose.”
I had stared at my father like I didn’t even know him. And at the realization that I really didn’t anymore, I stood up and ran out. End of story.
“Do you think they have someone in mind already?” Atillia asks me, nearly forgetting she was there while I strolled down memory crap lane.
Startled back to the present, I say, “I’m sure they do. And I imagine the dowry must be pretty steep for him to agree to marry Ms. Frankenstein.” Or maybe they would do the opposite. I roll my eyes, imagining them keeping that little fact from the sucker who agreed to their terms, only for him to be horrified when we actually met. It’s totally their style.
“Now don’t you dare talk about yourself like that. You are a beautiful, bright girl with everything to offer someone. You need to wake up and realize that,” she says seriously, protectively. My big sis doesn’t let anyone bad mouth me, including myself.
“Oh, my dear sister,” I sigh. “How easy for you to say this when you stepped out of a modeling catalogue.” We have just about nothing in common when it comes to our looks. Unlike me, my sister was gifted with shiny blonde hair, curtesy of our father. And where I’m tall, she’s short. Her eyes are a deep blue like the ocean after a hurricane, mine are a light amber under the sun. Her skin is flawless and glowing, mine is always matte and dull. I have stick straight hair, while hers is wavy and beautiful. And there’s always the matter of the scars. Always with the scars.
“Yeah, right. At the moment I look more like one of the Oompa Loompas than a Victoria’s Secret model. But thanks for the confidence booster and the reminder that I’m fat. Actually, so fat that I’m eating chips covered in mint chip ice cream right now.”
I laugh to myself, picturing her sitting on the counter, a tub of Ben and Jerry’s sitting next to her while a bag full of potato chips rests protectively in her lap. I’ve seen the sight before. “Okay, so at the moment we’re both not looking too hot, but we’re getting off topic.”
“You’re right. Back to the marriage thing.” Her voice echoes a silent how could we forget? “Are you sure you’re not going to do it? Becoming a doctor has always been so important to you.”
At hearing her remind me, I feel like stuffing my mouth with a pint of ice cream myself. “Yes, but so has being independent. If I do this, sis, I’m giving up my life to someone else, letting Mom and Dad win, again. I would always be stuck with some guy that took a check to be with me, always reminded that it was fake, and for what? The mere chance to be something more, to have a career?” I close my eyes, hard enough to see white spots. Anything to block out the image of me in a wedding dress, a stupid bouquet resting in my hands. “It’s too much. I can’t do it.” I feel a tear rush down my cheek, the evidence of my day materializing itself. It pisses me off.
“Cyvil, this is all your choice. If you decide to go against it, then you know you always have a place to stay with me and Quincy. But if you do go through with it, then you have my support there as well. You’re an adult now. You can make your own decisions.”
I snort at this major falsity. “If that were really true, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”
She pauses, then admits, “Touché. I didn’t think of that.”
Frustration building to an incalculable level, I slump my head into my bent knees, wishing this would all go away. And that I could pretend I had a normal life for once. But I don’t, and it looks like I never will.
“What do I do?” I whine into the phone, growing colder as night falls.
She sighs, and I can hear her regret when she whispers, “I don’t know. I really don’t. I’m sorry.”
We hang up, and I remain still, looking out at the horizon and the setting sun, thinking about how free it is. There’s no one to hold it back, to tell it not to shine. It indulges its desire to rise and fall every day, making everyone else follow its demands. In a way, the sun reminds me of my father. Minus the warmth.
Staring at the glowing star, I ask it quietly, “Why can’t I ever rise with you?”
-2-
Required
“What kind of a shot was that?” Moon yells over his shoulder at me, huddled over his own golf ball one pad ahead of mine. He takes a swing, the ball flying over the green field in a perfectly straight arc, two stories above the ground.
“Sorry, unlike some of us, my father wasn’t a professional golfer that taught me everything he knows about swing technique, Jackass.” I take another shot, the white ball shanking to the right.
Moon snickers.
“Speaking of fathers, what do you think yours wants with you today?” Rosy asks, his swing even worse than mine. It’s been Moon’s mission this year to whip our butts into golfing shape so that he can take us to an actual course and not have us break something. It’s a failing plan.
“No idea,” I say, deciding to switch out clubs.
For whatever reason, my father texted me last night and asked me to meet him this afternoon at his office downtown. I’m not sure if it’s going to be about the arrest made against me the other night for my racing habit, or the fact that I still haven’t applied for a position at Wells Investments and Co. yet. Either way, it can’t be good if he wants to see me in person.
I practice pulling the club back, a small amount of fear making my arms stiffen, the club feeling like a weighted hammer in my hands. I’ll never admit this to my boys, but I’m a little anxious for what’s about to happen this afternoon, somehow knowing it’s going to be…altering.
“I’m so glad my daddy wasn’t some richie rich mogul that called the whistle and I had to come running every time.” Rosy smirks behind me, staring down at the ball, his hands twisting over the grip of the six iron he has ahold of.
“Yeah, instead, it’s your mom,” Moon teases, letting loose another perfect shot.
I chuckle, feeling a bit of tension leave me. The idiots ahead and behind me are my two closest buds, having known Rosy, whose real name is Ambrosio, since I was thirteen, and Moon, short for Sangmoon, since I was fourteen. I met Moon in private school and Rosy through the charity my father runs, his fashion designing mother one of our biggest donors. They understand the strings that come with being wealthy, the constant spotlight, the judgement from the tabloids. Whatever we do is public, the world fascinated with the children of the rich and famous.
Thanks a lot Kardashians.
“Maybe he’s going to announce that you have a new mommy,” Rosy says with a grin in his voice, hearing his club connect with the ball, and then him cursing a second later.
“Not funny,” I mutter, throwing the club back and shooting the ball into the field. Since my mom died, my dad has been…lost. He tries to find comfort in all these different women that never last more than a week, most of them around my age. I never say anything about it, and he doesn’t complain when he has to clean up some of my messes. We’re consistent that way.
Moon says something in Korean, mumbling under his breath.
“What’s that?” I ask, wishing I knew his language. He does this a lot, usually when Rosy or I is being stupid, which is often.
“Nothing,” he says, bending over to pick up his empty basket. “I’m going to go get another. You two need any more?” He looks between the two of us, his eyes daring us to contradict his silent command that we continue to practice. I wonder if he’ll ever just give up and call us a lost cause. Probably not.
Rosy and I nod.
He disappears.
“Maybe we should fake injury,” my Spanish friend suggests, grabbing balls out of the basket and starting to throw them over the edge of the balcony.
“What the hell
are you doing?” I stare at him, and then each ball that descends over the side.
“Making it look like I practiced,” he says, as though I should have already figured it out.
My friends are weird, with the occasional moment of genius thrown in.
***
I always thought there would be a day when I knelt down to a woman and asked her the biggest question there is to ask another person. I figured I would know her every detail, every want; be able to tell when she was upset and how to comfort her. I would know her favorite musicians and she would know my pet peeves. I’d know the perfect joke to make her laugh and be the one she looked for every time she entered a room. What I never imagined, though, was that my father would be doing the proposing for me, and that I wouldn’t even know what the girl looked like, let alone loved.
“Son, I know this is all a little unorthodox, but I think it’s a good partnership,” Dad says to me as he works at his desk, hands flitting from one side to the other, always in motion. That’s how I would describe my father. He’s like a hummingbird, never still. He lives his life getting from one point to the other as quick as possible. It’s how he’s grown such a grand business, and how he makes deals. Even for his son’s own marriage.
“No,” I say simply, watching as his head pops up from his work, a rare occurrence.
“No what?”
“No, I’m not going to marry a complete stranger just because you want to organize my life into a neat little box.” I can’t even be surprised at his proposition, only relieved that it wasn’t something more serious, like him cutting me out of the family for my latest transgressions. This on the other hand – well, this is a complete Edward Wells kind of move.
He sighs, probably having expected this from me. And yet he continues to try. “Jagger, we’ve talked about this.”
“Really? I think I would have remembered a conversation where you mail ordered a bride for me.”
Picking up a pen and spinning it between his fingers, he complains, “Always with the sarcasm. It’s one of the reasons you’ve never found anyone.”
I quirk a brow at him. “One reason? What are the others?”
He smiles at the invitation to inform me about my flaws. Settling his elbows on the desk, he lists them happily. “Well, how about your terrible attitude, or your lack of desire to do anything productive?” He snaps his fingers, a eureka moment that has me rolling my eyes. And he wonders where the sarcasm comes from. “Oh, I know. The way you always contradict your father when you know he’s right.”
I guffaw at that. There are many things my father is, but right is not one of them. Not on this.
Standing up, I straighten my leather jacket, drawing attention to it just to see the contempt in his eyes. He hates my style, the life I live. I never wanted to be a part of corporate America, so I do my best to look its opposite. That was his dream, not mine.
“I love you, Dad. And you know I would do anything for you. But not this.” With a wrap of my knuckles on the desk, I turn around, heading for the door. What a waste of a visit. But at least it will be a fun story to tell the guys. I’m sure they’ll get a kick out of it.
When my hand hits the knob, barely having twisted it, I hear his unusually quiet voice say behind me, “It’s this, or we go under.”
I pause, my grip tightening on the metal in my hands. I couldn’t have heard him right. “What did you say?”
He clears his throat, and I hear the shuffling of papers on his desk. “I said that we are going out of business, son. That is unless you agree to marry this girl.”
I let go of the knob, but I still can’t convince myself to turn around, to face my father. The proudest man I know. “I don’t understand.”
Another sigh. “Please, come sit. I’ll tell you…everything.”
For once, I do what my father says.
***
Half an hour later, he’s confessed about all of the failed deals he’s made, the lost stocks, the bad real estate purchases. Even the fact that he’s had to sell nearly all of our vacation properties and any remaining assets just to cover the damage. The likes of which I’d had no clue about.
“We’re hanging on by a thread,” he admits, the color in his face having vanished during our conversation. “I didn’t want to tell you and have you worry. I thought by now I could flip our luck, but it would appear the economy isn’t as on board with my plan as I had hoped.”
I slump back in the leather chair, wondering if it’s next to be sold so that my father doesn’t have to live in a tiny apartment in Brooklyn. “You should have told me sooner,” is all I say, my voice rough.
His hands lift in the air, falling just as fast. “And what would you have done? You’ve never wanted to run the business, and I didn’t want to burden you.”
“Burden me? Dad, you just told me that we’re basically bankrupt. Burdening me is saying that I have to marry some stranger so that we’re not homeless.”
He shakes his head. The phone rings on his desk. He ignores it. “It isn’t as bad as that. All we need is a silent partner, and things should come back around. That’s where Cyvil Montae comes in.”
The name is familiar to me, as it is to most of the tech world. But still, it surprises me. “Montae…you mean the Montaes?” The family that basically has a hand in every major electronics company in the country, and then some.
He nods, hands steepled in front of him. “Yes. Cyvil is their youngest daughter. I talked to Lance about our situation and we…struck a deal.” His eyes look burdened, staring down at his hands. A look that’s completely alien on his face.
“I still don’t understand.”
Our eyes lock, the reflection from the thirty-story window showcasing the confusion on my face, the one that’s nearly a spitting image of my mother’s. I inherited very little from Dad in way of looks. I have my mother’s dark gray eyes, her black hair and dark, olive skin from her Grecian background. All I got from my father was his tall build and wide shoulders. Other than that, you would hardly think we were related.
“He has agreed to help me by coming onboard with a considerable loan to get us back up and running. But in return, he desires for his daughter to marry.”
“And you kindly offered me as tribute?” I can’t help the derision in my voice. The longer I listen to his psychotic plan, the more it comes out.
“Look, he has his reason for doing this and so do I. If there was anything else I could do to get you out of this, I would.”
“There has to be another way,” I insist, going through my head with possibilities. “You could ask Uncle Charlie for a loan, or liquidate some of the smaller assets we possess.”
Yes, I know I’m reaching here in desperation, but I can’t have him give up just yet. I can’t have my future possibly ruined without at least digging through every last option I can think of.
Or maybe I can just refuse.
I shake my head at myself the second I think it. I may be a selfish man who loves his freedom, but family always comes first, just like my mother taught me. I just never figured the day my sacrifice was needed it would be with so steep a price.
He slowly nods his head ‘no’, and my heart drops further. “I’ve contacted every investor in the city, and no one is willing to take the risk. Not with our poor spreadsheets and the knowledge of our lost investments. And in assets, we barely have any left. All there is to get rid of is the apartment in the city and the home in the Hamptons.”
“What about my bike, the cars, the boat? I could get a good deal on the Harley if I looked around.”
When he looks at me then, I can see the defeat there, the shame at what he’s putting me through. Watching his only son grovel for his future is putting more guilt on his shoulders than I think he’s probably ever felt before in his life. And in return, it forces me to give up the last of my hope. The tiny, atom-sized spark that it was.
Running a hand through my hair, wanting to rip it out just to feel something other than dre
ad, I admit to myself and him, “It still wouldn’t be enough, would it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Hearing those three words is like being witness to the hammer putting the final nails in my coffin. I am sufficiently screwed, and there is literally nothing I can do about it. Not unless I want to leave my father bankrupt and destroy the family business my great grandfather started over a hundred years ago.
This is the kind of situation where the term ‘a rock and a hard place’ originated.
Cyvil
“His name is Jagger Wells.” Mom’s voice floats to me from the doorway, her head barely poking in. All I see are dark red curls and sad, worrisome eyes, staring across the threshold of my door like she’s trying not to fall into a pit of toxic waste.
It’s been a week since I was told of my fate. I haven’t spoken a word to my father, scarcely even acknowledging my mother. I’ve been favoring my room with its dark blue walls and small windows, the sullenness of it in tune with my mood. Being around them and acting like everything is fine and dandy was not going to happen. I could tell my mother was shocked by the prospect when she picked up on the fact that I was ignoring them.
I push back the headphones I had been listening to, letting them rest on my shoulders, my eyes narrowing on her in confusion and surprise as she continues to stand there, unsure. She never comes in my room, always saying that it’s too depressing. This is weird.
“What?” I ask, not having completely heard her the first time.
She steps one foot into the room, testing it out before doing the same thing with the other. The click of her heels follows her across the expanse until she’s slowly lowering herself to sit at the end of my bed. My eyes bulge further at her courage.
“I said, the man your father has picked for you is named Jagger Wells.” What I didn’t notice before was the folder she had tucked behind her back, now being handed to me across the small span of my bed. I stare at it with a venomous gaze.
“Mom, I told you I wasn’t going to –”