The Next Big Thing

by Sadie Hayes

  “Do you have his number?”

  “No, but T.J. does.”

  “What?” Patty’s face wrinkled. Why did T.J. have a CS friend of Amelia’s number?

  Lisa was already pressing the phone against her ear to call her brother. “They’ve been playing some video game together like, all the time.” She lifted her eyebrow in agreement with Patty’s shock. “He’ll know.”

  * * *

  “Feel better?” Mrs. Hawkins asked as Patty entered the kitchen.

  “Yeah,” Patty said, opening the fridge and taking a long sip of coconut water. Apologizing to Lisa directly had been her mom’s idea. As usual, her mother had been right: It did make Patty feel better.

  “Hand me that spatula?” Her mother pointed to the utensil on the counter as she tended to the mixer. The counter was covered with flour and eggs and cake-baking paraphernalia.

  Patty handed her the spatula. “What are you making?”

  “An apple cake for Maria Simons. Poor thing just had knee surgery. She’s not going to be able to play tennis for eight weeks.”

  Patty thought about Mrs. Simons, a hard-body country club friend of her mother’s who worked out three hours a day and was notoriously obsessed with her zero-body-fat, wrinkle-free physique. “Is she not freaking out she’s going to get fat?”

  “Of course she is.”

  “So why are you making her a cake?”

  “She’s the only thing between me and the Atherton tennis championship title.” Mrs. Hawkins looked at her daughter and smiled. “I’m not above competitive tactics.”

  Patty rolled her eyes and laughed, imagining Maria’s fake gratitude and her mother’s fake well wishes when she delivered her completely irresistible and calorie-laden dessert.

  “So what’s next?” Mrs. Hawkins went on.

  “I don’t know. I don’t feel resolved about everything.” Mrs. Hawkins had been surprisingly unfazed by her daughter’s brush with the law. She wasn’t pleased, of course, but she calmly swung into action to ensure it didn’t seep into the community gossip mill. After the Shandi wedding fiasco, Mrs. Hawkins was a pro at gossip spin.

  Patty was flustered by the ordeal, but her mother helped her pick up the pieces. “I mean,” Patty went on, “I do feel relieved, like I’ve dug myself out of a hole, but I still want … I guess I want some good to come out of this”—she waved her hand in the air searching for the word—“this whole endeavor.”

  Mrs. Hawkins put down her spatula and turned toward her daughter. “Good will come out of this, Patty,” she said. “It might take a long time, but one day something will happen and you’ll understand that everything—even this—happens for a reason.”

  She turned back to the whirring mixer.

  Patty sighed. “I guess I just wish it would happen soon.”

  “Patience, my dear,” her mother said. “Just keep your eyes open for an opportunity so you don’t miss it.”

  50

  What Are You Driving At?

  “Nice swing,” Ted Bristol encouraged from next to Adam, whacking his own ball about two hundred yards past the one Adam had just hit.

  Ted had bought Adam a set of golf clubs as a congratulatory gift for the Doreye launch. He’d gotten beat by a woman, Ted had explained to Adam, and he needed to start having their mentor-mentee meetings on the driving range so Ted could improve his swing.

  Adam wanted to be good at the sport, which he associated with wealth and success, but he felt desperately uncomfortable here, where men lined up at their individual tees with buckets of golf balls, slicing them all out into the long field ahead. The driving range was to them, it seemed to Adam, totally natural, a familiar routine they’d developed over tens of thousands of swings. Whereas Adam constantly missed contact with his ball altogether, looking around sheepishly when he did.

  “So how are things going post-launch?” Ted asked, guiding a ball to the center of the tee box with his five iron.

  Adam kept his eyes on the ball below him, adjusting his stance as Ted had shown him, glad Ted couldn’t see his face. “Fine,” he said simply.

  Ted smirked, sending another ball soaring in a perfect arc. “That all I get?”

  “You know how it goes,” Adam responded.

  “You mean you need to find revenue now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you’ve got lots of options.”

  Adam’s swing clipped the top of his ball and sent it rolling on the ground. Adam blushed looking at it sitting so close to the tee, a glaring marker of his amateurism.

  “None that fit the mission.”

  “What mission?”

  Adam hesitated. “Amelia’s mission.”

  “You’ve got investors, Adam. It’s their mission that matters now.”

  Adam didn’t say anything.

  Ted hit another ball before continuing, “And their mission is to make a return on their investment in you. Which means your mission is to make money. That’s it. It’s that simple.”

  “It’s not, though,” Adam said instinctively, turning to look over his shoulder for some semblance of empathy. “You know it’s not.”

  Ted kept his head down, but lifted his eyes to his mentee. “You need to take your emotions out of this. You’ll get nowhere—nowhere—in business if you can’t learn to keep your emotions out of your decisions.”

  Adam swallowed and turned back to his ball.

  “Leave Amelia out of it, Adam. Sell the data. It’s the right thing to do for the company and your employees and your shareholders and yourself.”

  Adam lifted his club behind him, forcing Amelia out of his brain and keeping his head down and his eye on the ball. He swung hard, knocking the ball to the left, but grateful that it at least traveled a respectable distance in the air.

  “Hold your follow-through,” Ted coached, his voice cracking with surprise force, “I’ve told you that.”

  Adam tensed at the reprimand. He already felt like he was on the rocks with Violet lately; he couldn’t afford to lose Ted, too. He took a deep breath as he walked to his bag and pulled out the large, heavy-ended driver. As he reached for another ball a thought hit him: How did Ted know about the option to sell the data? He turned around and looked at Ted, who was preparing for another perfect drive. Adam shrugged off the question. Of course Ted knew selling data was a hypothetical option. It had been a hypothetical option long before Violet’s offer. Hypothetical: That’s what Ted meant.

  “You have time for a Scotch after this?” Ted asked, trying to make up for his earlier snipe. “You seem like you could use one.”

  Adam smiled at the cordiality. Quit being so paranoid, he chided himself. He hadn’t had a drink in two weeks, and he wasn’t going to solve Doreye’s problems tonight anyway. “Yes, that sounds really great. Thank you.”

  51

  Scar Tissue

  T.J. looked at the three-sentence e-mail he’d spent the last forty-eight minutes drafting. The cursor blinked above the send button. He read it again:

  Riley—I’m sure you won’t even respond to this, but are you around this week? Can I buy you a drink? I need to talk to you about something.

  He shook his head and replaced the last line.

  Riley—I’m sure you won’t even respond to this, but are you around this week? Can I buy you a drink? I could really use your advice on something. I know you don’t owe me anything, but

  No, it all sounded too desperate. He tried again.

  Riley—Are you around this week? Can I buy you a drink? I could really use your advice on something. It would mean a lot to me. T.

  He read it one last time, held his breath and hit “Send.” He stared at his computer screen: Was that a huge mistake? Whatever. He wanted to see her. She was the only one he could talk to about this. A g-chat message popped up in the corner of the screen: Tonight?

  It was Riley. T.J. felt his heart drop. He could see she was still typing and held his breath.

  Riley: Red-eye to New York but can meet
before I go to airport. 7 at Wine Room?

  T.J.’s hands hovered above the keyboard. It was almost four o’clock. He wanted to see her, but was three hours enough time to prepare? He still needed to think about how to recover from their last terrible encounter at the Rosewood.

  Perfect, he watched himself type. Then, quickly, Thanks.

  Riley: See you soon x

  T.J. looked up. He was really having drinks with Riley tonight. In three hours. He had to go to the gym.

  * * *

  After an aggressive ninety-minute workout, shower, shave, and debate over whether his favorite button-down made it look like he was trying too hard (he decided it didn’t), T.J. arrived at the Wine Room. Riley was already seated at the bar, her leather jacket thrown over a small black suitcase on the floor next to her. She was wearing boots over tight jeans and her legs were crossed as she tapped away at her iPhone.

  “Hi,” he said as he approached her chair. His heart was beating quickly, waiting for her to yell at him or …

  “Oh, hi, hi.” She jumped up cheerily. “Sorry, I’m just finishing this e-mail to my boss. Hold on a sec.” She finished tapping and hit “Send” before putting the phone in her purse and turning her shoulders to face T.J. She smiled warmly at him, as though their last encounter had never happened, then paused to study his face. “Everything okay?” she asked, her eyebrows pinching together in that way she always did when she went into empathic mode.

  “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Sorry I’m overdressed.” He was wishing he hadn’t worn the shirt after all. “I have a dinner up in the city after this,” he lied.

  “Oh, you do? Could you drop me at the airport on your way up?” she asked. “Cabs from here are so absurd.”

  “Yes, of course,” he agreed, cursing himself for the lie, but also flattered that she’d asked. She didn’t seem to hate him after all, and he felt himself starting to relax.

  “Great. Here”—she pulled out the seat next to her—“sit down.”

  They ordered two glasses of Merlot and after some more pleasantries about the weather and her Forbes assignment she looked at her watch and pushed her mouth to one side. “So what’s up?”

  T.J. cracked his knuckles and sighed, ready. “I needed someone to talk to. Someone who would be honest with me. And I know you will be.”

  Riley lifted her eyebrows and acknowledged the truth of his point, taking a sip of wine.

  “And I trust your opinion,” he continued, afraid he’d caused offense. “I mean, I don’t always agree with it or like it, but I … respect it.”

  “Thank you,” she accepted the compliment.

  “Though I guess I’m surprised you were so willing to meet. I figured after how I acted at the Rosewood you would try to avoid me at all costs.” T.J. couldn’t shake his bewilderment over the fact that she wasn’t angry.

  “I would have thought the same,” Riley retorted. She took a sip of her wine and went on when she realized he was waiting for her to say more. “I mean, what I said to you wasn’t easy to hear; I didn’t think you’d listen, much less ask for more.”

  “But weren’t you mad?”

  “I was annoyed, sure. You were a total jerk. But I was also … relieved.”

  “What?” He instinctively leaned in to her. He could smell her perfume.

  “Well, first I realized you did have some emotion left for me. And that was a relief, because what we had in college was incredibly special. I mean”—she laughed and her cheeks tinted in a nervous blush—“we were young and stupid, but we were really in love, and I guess I hoped we would always keep some special feelings for each other.” She turned and looked at him seriously. “To feel like someone is totally neutral toward you, even after having known you so well, that is just like a knife, you know?”

  T.J. did know. It’s how he felt about her. He felt a warmth spread from his chest down to his arms and had to stop his hand from lifting to brush her cheek.

  “And second, I was relieved because it reminded me why I broke up with you, and that I’m glad I did.” It was an icicle skewer that eviscerated the warmth. T.J. buried his nose in his wineglass to avoid having to look at her.

  “Sorry,” she said, “was that too harsh?”

  T.J. nodded honestly, keeping his focus on the mirror behind the bar instead of turning to face her. “Yes. I mean, Jesus,” he scoffed. “But no.” He finally turned to her, sighing. “I know. I guess that’s part of why I’m here. I really messed up, Riley.”

  Riley’s face got pale and he could sense she was nervous about what was coming next. Did she think he was referencing their relationship?

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her quickly, “I’m not asking you out.”

  She laughed nervously; he wasn’t sure whether it was nervous relief or nervous disappointment.

  He continued: “I messed up this company.”

  “What do you mean?” She sat up in her chair, shifting into advice mode.

  “I guess I always had this grand dream of entrepreneurship. Of starting my own thing and being super successful at it,” he admitted, knowing she knew this from the hours and hours of conversations they’d had about it in college.

  “Haven’t you done that?”

  “No.” He shook his head at his first vocal admission of his own failure. “I latched on to two kids. One had talent and the other was reckless enough to do anything I wanted.” He looked up and shrugged. “I feel like I took advantage of them … and I didn’t add any value myself, you know?”

  “What do you mean?” She grimaced as though she didn’t buy it.

  T.J. insisted, “Exactly that: I didn’t add any value. I haven’t. I don’t have engineering talent. I got a C in CS 101, Riley,” he said seriously. “And I was trying really hard.”

  “Not everyone’s brain is built to program,” she consoled.

  “Still, that’s not the only issue,” he went on. “I also don’t have this blind, stop-at-nothing ambition. Adam might not be the smartest, but he’s got that. And now I’ve got this opportunity to have my name in lights, and all I can think is that I don’t want it because I’m afraid I’ll be uncovered as a fraud. As some rich kid who doesn’t have that extra … oomph.”

  Riley moved her eyes away and didn’t say anything. T.J. cringed at the validation of what he’d hoped was a dramatic overstatement.

  “Please say something.”

  Riley lifted her left shoulder and tilted her ear toward it. “I mean, that’s exactly what you used to say about your dad.”

  T.J. shook his head. “This isn’t about my dad; it’s about me.”

  She shifted her elbow onto the bar and leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand and looking at him gently. “No. It’s about you both. You’re still so angry with him, and with the part of you that’s like him, that you can’t move past it. You use up all your energy either fighting behavior like his or giving up and defaulting to it.”

  T.J. sat back and let this sink in. She was right: Sometimes when he was nice to people, it was because he was trying to be different from his father; but when he got tired and frustrated, he became arrogant and selfish and used people like it was okay.

  “But what if I’m really not talented,” he pushed back. “What if I just don’t have the entrepreneur thing in me?”

  “Then you’ll find something else to do,” Riley answered simply. “Everyone’s good at something. Most people just waste a lot of time working at things for the wrong reasons.”

  “Is that why you decided to be a photographer?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” Riley’s face took on a consternation that made T.J. realize she was struggling with something herself. For a moment she looked vulnerable, like she didn’t have the answer. It was the most beautiful she’d ever been. T.J. realized he hadn’t even bothered to ask why she was going to New York. “But”—she turned and looked at him and the doubt vanished—“I think once you get over your daddy issues you’ll f
ind that you do have a huge amount to offer.”

  T.J. rolled his eyes and turned back to his wine, the moment finished. “Daddy issues?”

  “Sorry,” she said playfully, “but it’s true.”

  “I know.” He paused and smiled at her candid feedback, then: “Do you think I can do it?”

  “You responded to my telling you the truth at Rosewood by asking for more: I’d say you already are.”

  He laughed and took another sip of wine. Maybe there was more to come in their story.

  “What’s in New York?” he tried.

  Riley laughed. “A guy.”

  T.J. felt his heart sink but stayed composed. “That’s great. You like him?”

  She nodded and smiled a childish smile. “I do.”

  T.J. stood up and picked up her suitcase. “We should get going,” he said before she could elaborate.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” she asked.

  “Nah. No time.”

  “I still think you should go out with Amelia, if she ever resurfaces,” Riley said casually as she climbed off her stool and went to the door.

  T.J. felt his face burn as he stood, dumbfounded by her comment.

  Riley turned around and laughed. “What? You know you two are perfect for each other.”

  52

  Dealmakers

  Violet sat at a dark, back table at Tamarind, an upscale Vietnamese fusion restaurant on University Avenue. As good as the Empire rice was, Tamarind was mostly the place people came when they didn’t want to be seen.

  She leaned on one elbow, balancing her chin on her left fingers while her right fingers rapped the table impatiently. She checked her phone for the third time and ordered a martini and spring rolls from the waiter, continuing to keep her irritated eye on the door.

  Finally, Ted Bristol appeared and came toward her un-urgently. She put her hand out to greet him but didn’t stand up.

  “I went ahead and ordered spring rolls,” she said as he sat down.

  “Good.” He looked at the waiter. “Scotch, please. Neat.”