by Hannah Ford
“God, you can’t help yourself,” Miles says. “Selfish and arrogant as always.”
“You still can’t see it, big brother,” Rex says. “You have no authority over us anymore. There was the idea that you would someday, but that day is over.”
I can see the glow of the morning sun behind him, three hours earlier in Los Angeles, and something about that whole dawning of a new day gets me. He’s right. It’s like my whole future is down to a foot race between my brothers and me.
Whoever makes it to the altar first, wins.
“I can’t even stand to look you bastards right now,” Rex says. “Is there anything else? Another thing Jackson screwed up or some more fortune cookie words of wisdom you want to share, Miles?”
“Do you have to be a dick every second of the day?” Miles shoots back.
Rex chuckles. “What can I say, you bring out the best in me.”
“That’s it,” I tell them, raising my voice. “Do I always have to be the grown up here? Stop acting like children.”
Now Miles leans towards the screen. “Send me those reports.”
“You don’t give the orders around here,” I warn him. My temper is flaring up and I feel my emotions starting to give way.
“Neither do you, anymore,” Miles reminds me. “So let’s just agree on one thing: we don’t talk to each other again unless absolutely necessary.”
“I’m good with that,” Rex says.
“That’s fine,” I say. I don’t need to see their faces again or hear their voices. Especially with this new boastful attitude they have. “We’ll stop these regular video conferences and communicate only when necessary and only through our assistants.”
“Great,” Miles says.
“Agreed,” Rex says.
“That’s it then,” I say, and with that, I push the button that ends the conference and erases their smug faces from the room.
I let out a deep breath, collapsing back against my chair. My brothers and I never get along and these calls are always continuous, but that was a real shit show. Not only did I drop the ball on the reports I was supposed to have sent out, but I lost my cool. A man can only be pushed so much and God knows my brothers know what buttons to push.
A text pings on my phone. My heart clenches when I see it’s from Emily.
Thanks again for last night. Totally amazing on all counts.
I stare at the words for a moment, Emily’s face floating through my mind. My instinct has been to get back to her as quickly as possible. Drop everything and have her by my side.
She has my mind spinning—spinning so much that even after just one night I’m already slipping on the job.
What would happen if I actually dated her seriously or, God forbid, married her? Even though I can see it, that stupid, childish institution of marriage with Emily Brown, I shake it from my head. If I do what Father’s will asks and marry to keep the company, I need someone who doesn’t make me screw up on the job. Emily wouldn’t help me with the company—she could only hurt me.
How ironic that the one woman I’ve found who stands out from the rest is the exact woman I know I can’t afford to get wrapped up with.
No distractions—not now, not ever.
But especially not now.
I look back at the text, sitting there on my phone. I picture Emily at the other end of that text, waiting for me to reply, probably excited and nervous, wondering what I’ll say and when we’ll see each other again.
No, I can’t have that. I can’t spend time with these flirting games, texting each other on the sly in meetings and planning fun outings. I
have a job to do, and now it’s two-fold: keep my end of the business running smoothly like I always have, and find a way to beat my brothers to the top of this company.
What I need is a woman who’s already used to my lifestyle—someone refined, elegant, someone who understands social etiquette and doesn’t get excited by little things like a private dining room.
Someone who dresses the part, speaks the part, a blue blood through and through.
I need someone like the girls I grew up with, the ones I met at the socials when we’d bus over to Dana Hall, the girls’ boarding school not far from my own. They were beautiful, well spoken, had hobbies like equestrian, and were basically being groomed for a life of social galas and luncheons. It’s a life we’d both understand.
There’s an empty tightening in my gut, imagining myself pursuing such a woman. They are all the same—they are all I’ve ever known—and they bore me.
But Emily is a risk.
I do not respond to Emily’s text. I know it’s better this way.
Emily doesn’t need someone like me—selfish and arrogant, just like my brothers said. She needs someone good and giving, someone more like her. How could we possibly work together as a couple, especially long term? She’s already more to me than the things we did last night—the good in her goes so deep, and I’d only ruin that in her.
Yes, this is for the best. I just have to keep telling myself that, and hope someday I actually start believing it.
Emily
“And don’t forget, the paper is due a week from today so if you need any help or have questions about it, make an appointment during my office hours,” Brent, the TA for my class says as he wraps up. “Professor Stanwick is a real stickler for anything late, or any excuses so make sure you’re on it and if not, well, that’s what I’m here for. Okay, that’s it for today.”
It’s been another long day that began with work at CEF, transitioned into classes at school, and will end with me working on this paper. Brent Fuller is a good and fair teaching assistant and his knowledge of School Law is ridiculously intense, especially for someone who is only in his late twenties. More than once I’ve holed in his office as he helped me understand the tricky legal aspects of school policy.
“Emily,” Brent calls before I head out the door. He nods me over to him. “How are you holding up?” he asks once I’ve made my way through the exiting students.
“Fine,” I say, curious. “Why?”
He shrugs. “You just seem a little distracted, that’s all. Or maybe my lecture was just boring you?”
“No, it’s not that,” I say quickly.
He grins. “I’m kidding. I mean, I hope the lecture wasn’t too boring…”
“No, really,” I say. “It’s not you, it’s me.” I stop and shake my head at the odd, cliché statement. “I just mean, yeah, I was a little zoned out today but it had nothing to do with your lecture. I’m just tired. That’s all.”
Lie, lie, lie. I am not tired. In fact, lately I can’t even sleep. Jackson Croft floats in my mind every night, every day, every freaking waking moment since that night at the restaurant—and especially since I haven’t heard a peep from him since.
“Okay,” Brent says, grinning. “I’d hate to think you weren’t utterly fascinated by recent developments in school law.”
I smile because he’s being nice. That’s what Brent is, a nice guy. A nice smart guy. A nice smart guy who tucks his T-shirts into his pants. He’s totally inoffensive, void of controversy. Plus, he’s a good T.A. Professor Stanwick is a bit dry and clinical in his lectures but at least Brent brings some enthusiasm—as much as you can bring to a class like this.
“I’ll have my head back in the game by next class. I promise.”
“And what a pretty head it is,” he says, and I’m a little shocked. He quickly realizes the flattering statement because he turns red and say, “Geez, I’m so sorry. It just came out. I didn’t mean for it to.”
“It’s okay,” I say. Poor guy is really squirming. “And, well, thank you.”
Brent takes a deep breath and says, “Anyway, if you need any help just come see me in my office. Doesn’t have to be during regular hours. I’m locked in there most of the time anyway, working on my thesis or grading work for Professor Stanwick. You have my number right? Because you can call me any time.”
“Yeah
, I have it. It was on the syllabus.”
“Here, let me give you my cell number too, just in case.” Before I can object—it’s really not necessary—he scribbles his number down and tears off the paper, handing me the scrap. “There you go. I look forward to seeing you—and your head—back in class next week.”
I laugh. “Thanks, Brent.”
He’s not wrong. My head has not been in the game. Ever since that dinner. I’m either totally focused and throwing myself into my work, or spacing out at odd moments, like during Brent’s lecture today which, on a normal day, I would have found interesting.
Last week I was in a meeting at CEF, my mind drifting back to the dinner as it too often does, and Jules asked me a question. My response? “Prime & Tender.”
“Um, what?” Jules had said. “I think that’s a little out of our price range.”
“Wait. What?” I’d asked, confused and embarrassed.
“I asked if you knew what menu Beatrice chose for the upcoming luncheon? I think the hotel caters it, right?”
“Yeah, sorry,” I’d said, then fumbled through my notes to fill Jules and the rest of the development staff in on what Beatrice, who was home with her sick daughter, had chosen for the menu.
Damn that Jackson Croft. I mean, really. When I first met him, I had him pegged. Arrogant prick, those were the only words that came to my mind and God, I was right. First impressions are usually the right impressions. But then I let him pull me in with a fancy dinner and some serious tongue action to get me…
Oh, God. I think of that tongue and I lose all other thought. I think of that tongue and what it did to me, and I just want to melt again. He was so beyond the realm of sexy, something completely foreign to my universe, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a complete jerk for dropping me like he did. He made a big deal about taking me out to dinner, that fancy, flashy, unnecessary dinner, and more, and then he drives me home and that’s it forever.
Transaction complete.
Which should be fine with me. I don’t want him, definitely don’t need him. I just feel like an idiot for sending him that text the next day. It was a brief moment of weakness. Not that I’ll ever see him again to tell him. I wrestled with the idea of sending it to him for a good twenty minutes.
If I’d talked it over with someone, like my little sister Sabrina, I would have had some sense talked into me. Sabrina may only be twenty-one but she’s had more guy experience than I have. Although, to be fair, most high school freshman have more dating experience than I do…
Which is all beside the point. The point is, I wish Jackson Croft would exit my brain immediately and never come back. Eviction notice posted.
Finally it’s the weekend and I’m in my studio apartment working on the paper for Professor Stanwick. Trying to work. It’s due on Monday and I have a good ways to go. I’ll be here all weekend working—not that I have other plans to worry about.
My parents have a standing Sunday brunch invitation for me, Sabrina, and our brother Dax but I won’t make it out to Lexington this weekend. Must stay chained to desk.
As I shuffle through my notes on my desk, a scrap of paper flutters to the floor. I pick it up and see that it’s Brent’s cell number. Next to his name, which is written in airy cursive, is a little smiley face. I can’t imagine a moment in which Jackson Croft would ever draw a smiley face, for any reason at all. He’d rather be—
I stop myself. Stop thinking about Jackson, I command myself. There is no more Jackson. There never was a Jackson. He was just a figment of my imagination—an amazing, gorgeous and mysterious figment that evaporated once night became day.
Brent is definitely more my speed. I can totally picture him at Sunday brunch with my family, fitting right in with Mom and Dad.
Sabrina might make fun of his tucked-in T-shirts, but she’d also give him props for his quick intelligence and Mom and Dad would love him for his vast knowledge of the workings of non-profits.
He’s cute, in an every-man kind of way. He’s the kind of guy who sunburns easily and has never played a contact sport in his life—not that those are bad things. Brent’s goal in life is to make positive change to the world, not line the pockets of investors or build yet another luxury fill-in-the-blank for the superrich like someone I know. Brent is what most people, including my dad, would call a good guy.
And what’s wrong with being a good guy?
As I look at his cell phone number, I think about calling him. Should I invite him out for a drink? Or maybe something low pressure, like a coffee? As I’m considering what I should do—if anything—my phone rings.
For the briefest of a millisecond, I think it might be Jackson and the feeling of my heartbeat speeding up and the butterflies in my stomach, hurts. Especially when I see that of course it’s not him. Will never be him.
“Hi Ems,” Natalie from my School Law class says. “What are you up to?”
“Working on a paper,” I say. I push Brent’s phone number across my desk.
“On a Saturday night? Wow, you’re really living it up.”
“Try not to be jealous,” I say. “What’s up?”
“If you’re too busy working, I understand,” Natalie says. “But I’m headed to a party in Cambridge and my roommate just bailed on me. I wouldn’t mind going alone but I don’t know anyone and this guy I really like is going to be there so…”
“So I’m your second choice?” I tease her. Natalie and I are more like campus friends. We’ve only hung out a couple of times outside of school, and even that has revolved around studying or school issues. But I like her. She doesn’t take things too seriously.
“You’re my first choice wingman. What do you say? Can you break away for a couple of hours?”
I look back to Brent’s phone number. It’s not Brent I want or need, just someone. I need a full body and mind rinse from you-know-who. So I agree to go. Because I’m due for a little breakaway.
The party is fine. It’s a graduate party, so there’s more wine than beer, more political talk than Hollywood gossip. The food is better too. And there’s a guy. His name is Nick or Mick, I’m not sure.
He tells me the party was a bore until I showed up and that I’m the prettiest one there.
I feel nothing as he compliments me. He asks me to put my number in his phone, and I do…although I may have accidentally-on-purpose typed in the number wrong. Maybe that was mean but he’s so eager—maybe it’s that eagerness that turns me off. It smells of desperation. Jackson would never do that.
He slips into my mind that quickly, without warning, and without any control. I tell Natalie I want to get another hour of work done tonight, and the disappointed look she gives me fills me with guilt.
By Monday, I’m determined to truly make a change. Be bolder in my social life.
Brent calls me to stay after class later that week.
“Hey,” I say at the front of the class. “What’s up? You got my paper, right?”
“Yeah, I got it,” he says. He runs his palms down the front of his jeans like he’s drying them off. Wait, is he sweating? Does he have sweaty palms? He watches nervously as the students leave the room, waiting until the last one has gone.
“Everything okay?” I ask, worried that I accidentally emailed the wrong document and Professor Stanwick got some random…I don’t know what. But Brent’s anxiety has me nervous.
“Yeah, it’s great,” he says. Finally the door to the classroom shuts and he looks back to me. “I know you’ve been working on the CEF luncheon later this week.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve done some mailings and phone calls. Basic stuff.”
“You know how the university has partnered with CEF for the mentoring program? Well, since I’m a T.A. I got two tickets. I guess they feel bad for paying me so little.” He laughs nervously. “How about if you go with me? You could give me the insider’s view of what CEF’s future programs look, especially in coordination with the graduate program.”
&nb
sp; I pause, surprised. I’m not sure if he’s asking me as his date or as a colleague. I suppose it doesn’t matter. This is what I need. I need to be social, and being social in a charitable way is right up my alley. It might be fun to have a good lunch with Brent, talk about our goals and the future of education. It might also help me finally dust off the last remnants of Jackson Croft.
“Yeah, that’d be great,” I say. “I’d love to.”
“Great,” he says, beaming. “Do you want me to pick you up, or…? I don’t have a car but I can get a cab—”
“Let’s just meet in the lobby and we can walk in together. Sound good?”
“Perfect,” he says. “Awesome, I’ll see you then. Can’t wait.”
As I head home, I feel lighter. Finally, I’m getting my head on straight again.
Jackson
“So you grew up here in Boston?”
“Yes, Louisburg Square,” she says. I think her name is…Gwyneth? Genevieve? Yes, Genevieve, that’s it. She is slim, blond, well spoken and well educated. She can taste the difference between the Malbec wine and the Carménère.
She dresses with sophisticated ease and, since we’re on a date, only the most tasteful amount of cleavage is showing. In short, she’s exactly the kind of woman I need for my future. She looks the part and won’t distract me from my job.
Unfortunately, I’m bored out of my mind. It’s no fault of Genevieve’s, sweet as she is. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought her to Prime & Tender.
“The home has been in our family for generations,” she continues. “It’ll be passed to me once my children are of school age.”
“But first you have to have those children,” I say.
“Of course,” Genevieve says, blushing. “And the husband. It all has to line up.”
“That’s something I can understand.” I’m trying so hard to make myself feel something. This woman is everything I need, and she’s practically telling me that I’m what she needs as well. An arrangement like this—both of us getting exactly what we require—is pretty common.
