But I didn’t see her on my way out of headquarters.
I didn’t see her the next day because I was at the job site.
After that, the idea of having “dinner sometime” with Mason worked on me in a way it hadn’t before. I started to wonder if I’d moved up on the short list.
I went home that night and started kicking around the Internet, looking for budget calculators. I filled a few out, being conservative, and realized I could be out of debt in under a year if the salary was half what I thought it might be.
After that, I wouldn’t know what to do with all that money. I could move out of this shithole. I could build Bridget a sound booth so she could record at home. I could replace my Tacoma. I love that truck, but it’s not just transportation. It’s the place I lost my virginity. I was fifteen then, and I’m twenty-seven now. The math, even on a tough truck bought used, isn’t good.
That night, last night, I had another dream of Riley. And again, I woke up hollow. But this time, the feeling went away quickly, and because it’s Saturday, I could take a little walk. Strolling around here, especially if you detour through the park, might get you knifed. But I suddenly feel invincible.
And now, bantering with Bridget? It’s all good. Things are going according to plan. I’m almost through the roughest spot, and everything is going fine. It looks like I might get that job after all, and then … well, then everything changes.
My phone rings. I see Abigail’s name on the screen and figure she’s calling to bitch me out for trying to make Bridget talk when I know damn well she can’t, and shouldn’t. I paid for this operation. Don’t I want it to work?
But when I pick up the phone, I realize I must have read the screen wrong. Because it’s Abigail all right, but it’s not Abigail Powell, Bridget’s friend. It’s Abigail Skye, Mason James’s personal assistant.
She apologizes for the late notice but wants to know if I’m free for dinner with Mr. James. Tonight.
I can’t agree fast enough.
Only after I hang up do I make sense of what she told me about bringing someone with me, and the way she said, “They will meet you at seven.”
Not he.
“They.”
And based on what I’ve heard about Mason’s sparse personal life, there’s only one person I can imagine him bringing to a social dinner.
CHAPTER 14
Riley
In one ear, Dad is telling me to dig out one of my nice outfits for dinner at some fancy-pants restaurant, and in the other ear, Phoebe is saying lewd things about dicks.
“Sorry, Dad?” I say, covering the phone’s mic with one finger. I’m pretty sure this does nothing, but Mom and I used to watch a lot of old movies, and in them people always covered mouthpieces when speaking to someone in the room.
And still I hear Phoebe say, “I’ll bet it’s all big and throbbing.”
The sensory distraction is intense. If I say the wrong thing to the wrong person, I’m going to look like an idiot. And I haven’t been making wonderful decisions lately, so this feels possible. I don’t want to tell Phoebe what I’m in the middle of being invited/instructed to attend. And I really don’t want to talk to my father about Brandon Grant’s groin.
Dad practically rolls his eyes. I know this look. It’s the indulgent expression he used to give me when I lived at home, when I was ignoring my household chores to gossip with friends.
“I said, are you sure you really want to come? It’s just boring. All business.”
And Phoebe says, “I’d like to get me some of that.”
I look at my father and try to make my face serious. It isn’t easy because my posture doesn’t exactly say professional. Dad’s looking at me like I’m a kid chatting inanely with my friends on the phone, and I’m lying in bed, on my stomach, legs kicked up behind me. And Phoebe is talking about penises.
“Of course, Dad.” I want to know all about the business.”
He clearly doesn’t believe me. I’m still his little girl. I like pretty things, and I’ve never suffered a day in my life as far as he’s concerned, other than what we both went through with Mom. I’ve never thought about business like he does and never will, because I can’t. That’s what his eyes say. So I sit up and move to the bed’s edge. I can’t make my face too straight-arrow, or it’ll look like I’m trying for an affect. I go for neutral while I hear Phoebe’s tinny voice saying, “So are you going to go for it with him or not?”
I can’t answer because I’m busy trying to appear interested in Life of Riley operations. But I’m sure Dad heard her, based on the way his face kind of sighs into Of course and Girls will be girls.
I hang up. Almost immediately, Phoebe is calling me back. Dad looks at the phone as if to ask if I’d rather continue my inane chatter about boys, so I stab it into Do Not Disturb almost as if I’m angry at it.
“Sweetie, why don’t you just stay home? I keep telling you, it’ll bore you to tears.”
If he hadn’t said “Sweetie,” I might reconsider. But my father’s eyes are moving between my phone, my pajama pants, and my bedspread, which is one of the old ones with princesses on it. I’m okay being a princess girl until I’m eighty, but not if it’s going to make Dad unable to see that I’m not still twelve.
“You always come back from dinners with good ideas. I want to be in on one.” I attempt to pull my ace. “I should be, if my name is part of the company.”
“Riley … ”
“That’s the name,” I say.
There’s a moment where it looks like he might challenge me, but then it passes and he sort of sighs. We’ve had this discussion halfway about ten times in the past month, and most of them have happened since I got home. In my mind, my trajectory is clear. Some day, my father is going to retire. I doubt that’ll happen for a long time — maybe thirty years or more. But until then, I want a piece of this company. Not in terms of money, but in terms of legacy. Today, I’m a lowly intern. I’m okay with working my way up in order to learn the ins and outs — and, really, I’d prefer it to senseless nepotism. But I’m only okay with it if I see my upside trajectory. If he’ll let me try what I want to try, and learn what I want to learn.
“It’s just going to be numbers and deals. And it’s at the Montgomery Club. Wouldn’t you rather go to — ”
“To the Nosh Pit?” I interrupt. “Or maybe the malt shop, to snap my bubblegum and swing dance in my poodle skirt?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not even that old. How the hell do kids your age even know 1950s clichés?”
“Clichés about being brainless teenagers?”
He softens another degree, his lips pressing together. He looks like he might sit beside me on the bed and explain why I should be realistic and aim lower, so I shift to the middle so there’s no room. I’m not looking for a condescending lecture. I’m looking for my father’s willingness to give me a chance. He doesn’t even need to respect me yet. I just need to see that it might come down the road, after I’ve proved myself a bit.
“Yes,” I say, backtracking all the way to the start of this conversation to answer his original question, “I’m sure I want to go.”
“I guess it’s just as well. I told him to bring someone. Maybe it won’t be all dry and dull.”
I’m about to comment that I want dry and dull — I want to know about expansion potential, capital investment, and ten-year plans — when something stops me.
He said him. I’d assumed there’d be a few of us at this business dinner, but apparently there’s just one other person. One other person who seems to be bringing a playmate to keep me occupied while the men talk business.
“Who?” I ask.
“Brandon Grant. I told you that.”
Maybe he did. I honestly can’t recall. I horned in on this the second I caught wind of it, but I did that with a bunch of stuff at once. I get to sit in the corner at the next board meeting and poke around in the restricted portion of the company intranet, too.
“Wh
y are you having dinner with Brandon?”
And right then, my phone buzzes. I either didn’t put it in DND after all, or Phoebe can bust through Apple’s privacy settings.
Dad’s indulgent smile returns, and he glances at my phone as if to tell me I should take it because something juicy that only girls understand might be in the works. And just like that, my almost foothold is practically gone. He’s out the door … and the last thing he saw me do before leaving was react to Brandon’s name and to the siren song of my phone.
I answer, and Phoebe says, “Your phone accidentally hung up on me. So. Now. You were asking if I’d heard anything about what Brandon might be telling people about his job?”
No. I wasn’t asking that at all.
“I’ll bet he’s into you, too,” Phoebe says, not even answering her own question straight on.
“I don’t care what he’s into. I barely know him.”
But Phoebe is already distracted. Already off on something else. It’s like she has ADD with no recollection of the things she says from minute to minute.
But I’m not distracted.
My mind is laser-focused on tonight’s dinner.
And as much as I want to back out of dedicated time to embarrass myself in front of Brandon again — along with his date, if I’m reading Dad right — I sure can’t do it now.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t drool all over him.”
I shouldn’t have told her about our little side trip down to the creek. I shouldn’t have admitted to my little bout of missing my mother because of course Phoebe turned it into something about Brandon, who was just unfortunate enough to be there when I made a fool of myself.
I tell her that I have to go then hang up. And this time, I’m sure to hit Do Not Disturb.
I don’t know why I’ve been thinking about Brandon so much. He’s probably too old for me. We’re too different. He’s got a beard. And he’s the man Dad seems to be grooming as a high-ranking right hand. The kind of person, in the kind of highly visible prestige position, that my father would expect me to go all girly over.
I keep telling myself that it’s all me. It’s not him. I’m conflicted. I’m not into him. That’s just Phoebe being Phoebe. Nobody can blame me, for returning home after four years as a new person, or for having this tangled emotional conflict.
I’m not into Brandon.
He’s bringing a date to dinner, and my date will be my father.
I want to wear something professional, unsexy, chaste.
But when I walk into the other room, I see that Dad has already pulled something suitable from my packed boxes: maybe the only thing that fits the occasion at all and is miraculously unwrinkled.
It’s a bright-red dress. It’s going to make me feel sexy.
Shit.
It’s a damn good thing that whatever fucked-up emotional conflict I’m feeling is one sided because if Brandon gave any indication of not being a stand-offish asshole — if he raised a single eyebrow at me in a dress like this — it’d be hard not to think about him tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day, until Phoebe can hook me up with someone more acceptable … or, if I truly want to do the independent big girl thing, until I can get my head around the thought of not dating at all.
I sigh. I have time for a bath. Maybe the warm water will clear my head.
But I kind of doubt it.
CHAPTER 15
Brandon
I run through my recent list of available single-serving girlfriends, wondering whom I could possibly invite to a fancy dinner with a few hours’ notice. I’ve already waffled, wasting a few hours, increasing the threshold of how much my date to this thing would need to like me if I’m going to invite her without advance warning.
Eventually, I decide I’m being ridiculous. Mason’s assistant said I “might consider” bringing someone … or, because I’m not positive, it might have been “feel free” to bring someone. I don’t remember the exact wording because I’d been too busy rushing to agree without cheering, but it was an offer, not a command. An offer.
It’s not like I need to bring anyone. I can go solo. It’s not a high school dance, for shit’s sake. I’m a grown man. If my boss (and potentially closer boss) wants to invite me to dinner, I can go on my own. Bringing someone was a kindness. It might have been lip service. If I bring someone, I’m increasing the bill. Maybe it’s better to take nobody and show I respect Mason’s finances.
Unless this really is more social than I’m allowing. What if I’m being groomed? I almost have to be. Maybe Mason is having dinner with all the candidates for the VP of Land Acquisition job, but I kind of doubt it. You interview applicants; you go to dinner with finalists. Maybe with the finalist.
Shit. Oh, shit. Oh, holy awesome shit. Maybe he’s going to offer me the job tonight.
I can’t let myself think about it. I need to be cool. Calm. Collected. I can’t seem too eager because eager equals needy. Needy is the opposite of confident, and I know for sure Mason likes confidence in his employees — and even more in those who are nearly partners.
This must be something right down the middle. Not straight business but not especially personal. Yes, the offer to bring someone was optional, but I’d really better bring someone. So the four of us can hang out. So I can show him what I’m like in casual situations. What I’m like with a woman, presumably, who isn’t his daughter.
The thought gives me a moment of guilt, but that’s even more ridiculous. I have nothing to hide. I didn’t have sex with Riley. I didn’t kiss her. We’ve barely shared more than a few awkward exchanges. Nobody knows what’s inside my head, not even her. Nobody can see my dreams. And even if they could, what would they prove?
Nothing. I’m being stupid.
I pick up the phone to invite the only person who’d go with me on zero notice. The only person I know who fits the bill and can look about how a VP’s date would look. Not that it’ll be a date. But this is good enough, given what I imagine I’ll be facing tonight.
Which, admittedly, I don’t know.
I don’t know why I assumed he’d take Riley. Why did my first thoughts leap to her? Just because Mason isn’t married and I’ve never heard of him dating, despite the man being somewhat of an open book around the company. Just because I was told I could bring someone, like a date, because whomever Mason brought would be more personal than business.
Like his daughter.
Well, if he can bring his daughter, I can bring my sister.
Bridget answers the phone then bangs it on the counter. The cracking sounds are enough to make me pull my head away from the speaker. Then she’s grunting like an angry caveman.
“Oh, right,” I say. “Sorry.”
I hang up. I’m about to text her the invite, but the absurdity slaps me full in the face. It’s one level of strange to take my sister to a dinner that’s at least half business, but it’s a 10X level of odd to take my mute sister. How is she supposed to communicate? Sign language? Mime? Maybe she could bring semaphore flags.
Her text comes in: What the shit is wrong with you?
Sorry. I keep forgetting you can’t talk.
What did you want?
I stare at the screen. I can’t do this. It’d be cruel. There’s also a chance it might make me look worse to Mason, not better. What kind of judgment does it show to take a girl who can’t talk to a social event?
I watch as my fingers type, Can you meet me for dinner?
I don’t know why I did that. Except that with every passing minute, I’m feeling increasingly certain that Mason will be bringing Riley. I know she wants to move up in the company, and if he was bringing one of the other VPs, he’d have said so. And while I could go on my own, three’s a crowd. And I’m really worried that, given the emotions that have buried me on waking the past two days, I’ll be transparent to them both.
And what if Mason goes to the bathroom and leaves us alone at the table?
I was alone with her all morning earlier
this week. Looking back, that feels like a near-miss. That kind of thing can’t happen again. I don’t know what it is with her, but she’s … unstable or something. I’m uncomfortable being around her alone. Like she might do something.
I’m not sure what she might do.
I’m also not sure what made me look her up on LiveLyfe. Probably just so I’d have some context for her odd behavior. And to get a feel for who she is. I should probably understand her on an intellectual level. You know — because I can make a good impression on Mason by being nice to his daughter.
Which I don’t want to have to do without a buffer.
Even if that buffer is my sister.
Especially if that buffer is my sister.
Yes, I’m sure this is the right move. Even if it’s a big pain in the ass.
Okay. Where? Bridget texts me.
And before I can respond, she types, Greasy Spoon.
And then before I can respond again, she types, Ragazzi. Carlo thinks he’s a gangster.
It’s only been a few days since Bridget had her nodules done, and already I’ve grown used to reading her sarcastic voice into letters on a screen. I’ve heard people say they like authors who write like people talk. That’s Bridget. She’s not an author, but she writes like she talks. Like a lovable bitch. Like the honest and adorable asshole she always is.
But she’s got the wrong idea. So I type back, The Montgomery Club. 7:00?
And she texts, Ha.
She thinks I’m kidding. Hell, maybe I think I’m kidding. Because the idea of us at the Montgomery Club is so stupid it’s funny. We’ve even swapped this exact joke. There are a handful of clichés we repeatedly use, and to us, “Montgomery Club” is right up there with “Rockefeller” and “The Ritz-Carlton.” If we were making the sarcastic trifecta, I’d suggest we meet Mr. Rockefeller at the Montgomery Club, then head to the Ritz for cocktails.
Seriously. With Mason James.
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