by Elle Kennedy
“I know we haven’t had much communication over the years, Conor. I can take my fair share of the blame for that.” Not quite how I saw this beginning. “I want to start off by saying, while I certainly don’t approve of the actions you took, I can understand why you made the choice you did.”
What?
“I know how at that age emotions get the best of us, and sometimes when outside pressure is applied to just the right spot, we make decisions and act out in ways we might never otherwise. You made a mistake, a big one. You lied. To me, yes, but more importantly to your mother. I know from your first phone call how much that’s weighed on you. And what I find encouraging is that, while it took quite a bit longer than we’d have liked, you admitted your mistake. Now comes the hard part,” he says with a hesitant smile. “Taking responsibility.”
“Have to say, you’re taking this better than I expected,” I tell him. “I wouldn’t fault you for being more on the irate side of things.”
“I admit my initial reaction was surprise. Maybe a little irate came later. Then I thought back to what I was up to when I was nineteen.” The waitress comes back to refill our mugs and he takes a long sip of coffee, as I’m left to guess what sort of trouble Max might have found for himself at Briar in his day. “Point is, I wanted to say that we’re all entitled to a few fuckups.”
I crack a smile at hearing him curse. It’s like the first time you realize that Full House dad also did the raunchiest stand-up comedy.
“I’m glad you told us the truth, Conor, and as far as I’m concerned, we can all move on from the matter.”
“That’s it?” Seriously?
“Well, your mother can’t very well ground a twenty-one-year-old man from the other side of the country,” he says with a grin.
This feels like a trap. “I thought you guys would pull me out of school or at least stop paying tuition.”
“That would seem counterproductive, don’t you think? How does interrupting your college education serve as a constructive punishment?”
“I assumed there’d be some instinct to cut me off. Financially.” It’d be more than fair considering what I did to him. The fact is, my entire livelihood is wrapped up in Max’s bank account. He supports all of us. It’s not a stretch to think he might reconsider that arrangement.
“Conor, perhaps there’s some kind of wisdom in telling you to go find a job and work eighty hours a week to still not make enough to pay rent and finish school—if you were someone else. But nobody needs to tell you how tough it is out there or the value of a dollar. Least of all me.” He sets down his mug. “You and your mother have experienced enough hardship. It wouldn’t sit well inflicting any more, and the truth is, whatever cash value your mistake cost is an insignificant sum compared to the value I place on this family.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Max has never spoken to me like this before, either about family or the way Mom and I lived before he came along. I’m not sure we’ve said this many words the entire time we’ve known each other. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“Family is the most important thing in my life.” He stares into his mug and his demeanor changes, a solemnness descending over his face. “You know, my dad died when I was at Briar. It was difficult for me, but more so for my mother. After that it was only the two of us and all the empty places where Dad wasn’t. When someone dies, everything becomes a memory of them not being there. Holidays and special occasions, you know? Then Mom died while I was in graduate school and I got twice as many empty memories.”
Something tightens my chest. Regret, maybe. A sense of kinship. It never occurred to me the ways in which Max and I might be similar. I mean, there’s a big difference between a runaway father and a decent one who dies too early, but both of us know what it’s like to watch our mothers struggle and be helpless to fix anything.
“What I’m trying to say is, when I met your mother, I had the utmost respect for how much she’d accomplished in raising you on her own. And I sympathized with how difficult it must have been for you. When Naomi and I married, I promised my first job would always be to take care of both of you. To make sure, as best I could, this family was a happy one.” His voice softens slightly. “I know I haven’t always lived up to that promise where you and I are concerned.”
“To be fair,” I say, “I never gave you much of a chance.” From the start, I saw Max as some tool in suit. Someone I’d never relate to, so why bother trying. “I figured you came for my mom, and I was the unfortunate compromise. Because you were from such a different world than us, you just saw me as a loser kid who wasn’t worth the effort.”
“No, Conor, not at all.” He pushes his coffee mug aside and sets his elbows on the table.
He’s got a certain magnetism about him, I can’t deny that. I feel like when he sits across a boardroom from someone, they can’t help but believe whatever he’s selling them will make them rich.
“Listen, I came into this thing with zero idea how to do it well. I wasn’t sure if I should try to be a father to you or a friend, and I failed at accomplishing either. I was so afraid to assert myself too much in the middle of you and your mother, that maybe I didn’t make enough of an effort to build a relationship with you.”
“I didn’t make it easy for you,” I admit. “I figured if you couldn’t stand me then I could be just as good at hating you. I think maybe…” I swallow hard, averting my eyes. “I didn’t want to get rejected by another dad. So I rejected you first.”
“Why would you think that?” He sits back, appearing genuinely surprised.
“I mean, look at us. We’re nothing alike.” Well, that might be a little less true now that I know we have some things in common, but still, I can’t imagine he’d have much use for me if I were a stranger off the street. “I know you have this idea in your head that I should be more like you, take an interest in business and finance, work at your company and follow your path, but honestly, that bores the hell out of me. It drains the joy from my entire being to even think about it. So I’m left with this feeling that I’m never going to be good enough. I avoided your calls this week because I was embarrassed and I didn’t need confirmation that everything I’d feared about myself was true.”
I slouch in the booth, hands in my lap, wanting to shrink into the space between the cushions and live with the dust. At least it’s out now. Whatever there is after this, it won’t be as humiliating as this moment. It can’t be.
Max is quiet a long time. I can’t read his reaction, and in each second that passes I take his silence as agreement. I don’t even blame him. It isn’t his fault he estimates success differently than I do. We’re just different people and trying to measure either against the other is pointless. I’d feel better if we agreed to stop trying.
“Conor,” he says finally. “I should have said this a long time ago—you have never not been good enough. I’ve never seen you as anything less than a funny, charming, intelligent kid who is becoming a remarkable young man. You’re right, there’s a paternal part of me who likes the idea of being a mentor to you, a role model. To bring you into the company and teach you to take over when I’m gone. If that’s not where your heart lies, I respect that. I probably should have taken the hint a little sooner, huh? But whatever you choose to do with your life and career, your mother and I will support you. As a team. As a family. Because we know you’ll make the right decisions for you. If I can help, I’m glad to. Otherwise,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh, “I’ll stay out of your way. In either case, I want you to know I’m exceedingly proud of you.”
I laugh weakly. “Come on now, let’s not get crazy here.”
“I’m proud of you,” he repeats, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone.
I watch suspiciously as he goes to a website that has a photo of him sitting at his desk. One of those corporate PR shots. Then he places the phone on the table between us and zooms in. Behind him, beside all the awards and plaques, is a framed p
hotograph of my mom and me.
My breath hitches slightly and I hope he doesn’t hear it. The picture is from their honeymoon, a couple days after the wedding. We all went to Hawaii, and on our last night there, Max took a photo of us watching the sunset. I’d never left California before that. Never been on a plane. I was in a shit mood the whole time because they were doing couple stuff and I had no one to hang out with, but that evening on the beach with my mom was my best memory from the trip.
“I’ve always been proud of you,” Max says gruffly, as my eyes begin to sting. “I’ll always be proud of you, Conor. I love you.”
“Well, shit,” I say, coughing to clear the rocks from my throat. “Guess I’m the asshole.”
He laughs while we both discreetly rub our eyes and make other manly guttural noises that are absolutely not crying.
“Not sure what to say now,” I admit. “Sorta feels like shit that we spent all this time being weird around each other.” I’m not about to be the guy’s best friend or start calling him Dad, but the last few years would’ve been a hell of a lot easier if we’d had this conversation sooner.
“Cheesy as it sounds, I’d appreciate it if we could start over,” he says. “Try to be friends?”
There are worse things. “Yeah, I could do that.”
I’m about to suggest we order some grub, but then I remember I’ve got a large child’s worth of flowers drying out in my front seat, and some more errands to run before I pick up Taylor for our date.
“How long are you staying in town?” I ask.
“Planning to head back tomorrow morning. Why, what’s up?”
“Well, it’s my girlfriend’s birthday tonight and we’ve got plans with her friends. But if you don’t mind sticking around a bit longer, maybe the three of us could have dinner tomorrow night? I was talking to Mom about my girl coming to visit me in California this summer.”
Max’s face breaks into a wide smile that he then tries to smother as he nods. “Not a problem. I can change my flight. You just let me know where and when. I’d love to meet her.”
I can’t help thinking Taylor would be proud of me right now.
37
Taylor
Conor is up to something. There’s a definite sense of mischief about him. Nothing he’s said, exactly, just more of a vibe I’m getting. He texted this morning to wish me a happy birthday and to tell me to get dressed up this evening. Which is unusual, since lately he’s been more concerned with getting me undressed. Then he dropped a hint that he wouldn’t be able to meet me after class because he had “special errands to attend to.”
Whatever he’s got planned for our date tonight, I have a feeling he’s gone completely overboard. And I can’t say I’d be mad at him. Truth is, I’ve never had a boyfriend on my birthday before, so I’m sort of looking forward to getting the full Hallmark movie treatment television promised me. More than anything, I’m excited about the prospect of Conor and me making memories.
Of course, getting dressed up requires a consultation with my beauty advisor. I text Sasha as I’m leaving class.
ME: Hot date tonight. Do my face?
She gives good face. One of her many shifting career aspirations over the last couple years has been to work as a makeup artist. At least as a way of supporting her music interests, and if that whole supervillain thing doesn’t work out.
By the time I reach my street on the walk home, she texts back.
HER: Why bother? Just going to ruin it sucking Conor’s dick.
HER: JK just got home, come on over.
ME: lol you said come.
HER: Mind out of the gutter, dirty girl.
ME: You started it.
I add a string of nonsensical but contextually explicit emojis, then pick up my dress from my apartment and take an Uber to Greek Row.
I do need to get better at balancing my time. Being totally absorbed in a couple cocoon has been fun, but I don’t want to neglect my friends. Sasha, especially. More than anyone else, she has supported me through the rough spots over the last few years. I probably would’ve had a total nervous breakdown and set my hair on fire more than once if it weren’t for her. But lately I feel like I have no idea what’s going on in her life, which is a sign that I’ve been taking more than I’ve given. Major friendship no-no on my part. I need to change that, asap.
The weather’s finally warming up, which means the typically quiet lawns of Greek Row on a weekday afternoon are more active. Porches are dotted with people studying. A few lounge chairs in the grass contain girls working on their tans for summer vacation. At the Sigma frat house, guys are playing beer pong in the driveway. I don’t pay much attention to their shouts and catcalls as I slide out of the Uber and plant my feet on the sidewalk.
The frat boys shower me with unimaginative variations on “show us your tits,” the typical garbage girls get from that house. Then something catches my attention.
“Hey superstar! Can we get a picture?”
“Can I have your autograph?”
“Where do I sign up for the live cam?”
That sounds…specific. Quite oddly so.
I keep my eyes straight ahead and don’t slow down as I hurry up the front path of the Kappa house. The best defense is not giving them the satisfaction of a response. Mulling it over, I chalk it up to a dumb joke. Abigail’s boyfriend likes to call me a “fat Marilyn Monroe,” so I assume that’s what the whole superstar gimme your autograph junk refers to.
Well, he and his douchey Sigma brothers can fuck right off. I happen to know that some men like curves, particularly men named Conor Edwards.
I can barely keep the smile off my face as I walk into the house. I can’t wait to see him tonight. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but I’m so gone for that guy. Just the thought of him makes me want to giggle like a preteen with her first crush.
Upstairs, Sasha has a beauty station set up for me at her desk when I enter her room. I toss my bag on her bed and hang my dress on the closet door. “You’re the best,” I inform her.
“Obviously. Go ahead and wash your face,” she says as she flips through eyeshadow palettes.
“Hey, I just want to make sure,” I call out, standing at the sink in the shared bathroom that connects with the bedroom next door. “There isn’t a surprise party scenario in play, right?”
“Not that I know of.”
I rinse and pat my face dry with a washcloth. When I return, Sasha has me sit at her desk then proceeds to smear me with moisturizer.
“I only ask because I think Conor feels like he has something to prove. So when I said we were just going to have a low-key hang at Malone’s, I wouldn’t be shocked if he spun that into some major event.”
“I don’t think so.” She hands me a tiny electric fan to dry my face.
Next comes the primer, which Sasha is always telling me to add to my makeup routine and I always tell her I would if I ever wore makeup except when she does it, which is why I don’t need to buy makeup products because I have her. It’s a perfect system. When we’re old she’ll live next door and I’ll roll over in my wheelchair to get ready for my hot dates down at the bingo hall.
“What about you?” I ask while she starts on my foundation. “How’d things go with Eric at the gala after I left?”
“Not bad.”
I wait for her to elaborate. When it becomes clear she has no intention of doing so, I know there’s more to the story.
“So you banged his brains out in the walk-in freezer, didn’t you?”
“That’s unsanitary,” she says.
“Let him eat you out under the silent auction table?”
“Those donations are for the children, you degenerate.”
Sasha is a tough nut. She considers the meddling in the private dramas of others an Olympic sport, but she’s fiercely private about her own life. It’s one of the qualities I most respect about her. She’s good at setting boundaries and standing up for herself, something I aim to get bet
ter at. However, those boundaries don’t apply to me, as far as I’m concerned.
“You’re in love with him and you’ve already eloped and gotten married in Reno,” I guess.
“Actually, in my bag there’s a pair of bloody stilettos. If you could dump those over a bridge the next time you head into the city, that’d be super.”
“Come on. I’m not asking for the gory details. Just an update.” I mock pout. “I’ve been feeling left out and I need a Sasha recap.”
She rolls her eyes, smirking as she tells me to close my eyes while she applies shadow.
“The gala went well. We’ve had a few dates since then.”
“Okay…” This is good. He seems like a nice guy. Attractive, charming. Sasha is famously picky and gets the ick the way some people catch colds. I can’t remember the last time she went on more than two dates with anyone.
“I like him,” she continues.
“Yeah…”
“I think I like his sister more.”
“Damn.” This is, I hate to say, not the first time that’s happened. And it never ends well.
“Yep.” The dilemma is evident in her voice, a sort of resignation to the injustice of her life. “I really need to start making all potential partners run through a slideshow. If they’ve got attractive siblings, that shit is a non-starter. I’m only fucking with the acorns falling from the ugly trees.”
“Is she into girls?”
“Don’t know,” Sasha says. “Like a sixty-forty yes. But they live together, so…”
“Damn.”
“Yep.”
“So what are you going to— ”
Before I can finish, Sasha’s bedroom door flies open and bangs off the wall. We both jump, startled.
“Yo, what the fuck?” Sasha shouts.
“What did you do?” Rebecca is standing in the doorway, her face red and puffy, as tears stream down her face. She’s shaking, teeth clenched, visibly enraged. “What the hell did you do?”
