by Anna Yen
“This could be a life changer for you, Sophia. But make sure you leave things on a good note with Scott and Jonathan.”
“They’re really the reason I wouldn’t take it,” I said. “The idea of changing companies is scary, but what makes me really sad is thinking about leaving the guys and the rest of the team. Regardless, thank you so much for thinking of me, Grant. You’ve always been good to me.”
“You deserve it. Congratulations, Sophia. Not many people can say that they got a job offer from Ion. Either way, you win.”
It felt great to be wanted and valued, and I didn’t have to make any decisions until Ion’s HR person called me the following week. I decided to let the whole thing sit for a few days. I wanted to bask in my glory, first.
Chapter 20
Ashley’s voice echoed from down the hall of Treehouse’s executive suite. Based on what I could overhear, she and Scott were arguing over the hotel arrangements.
“I thought you hated the Ritz,” Ashley said.
Scott shouted back, although not nearly as loudly as I was used to hearing, “Not the one at Laguna Niguel!”
“Laguna Niguel is way too far—it will take you over an hour to get to your Samba meeting in Burbank, and that’s the hour you need to be dialing in to your staff meeting. I don’t want to risk your call dropping during the drive because you’ll find some way to blame me for that, so . . .”
“So move the staff meeting to a different time. I want to stay at—”
“Laguna Niguel. Yes, I know. This is totally ridiculous.”
“DON’T CALL ME RIDICULOUS! I HATE THAT!”
I stopped walking toward my office, closed my eyes, and listened more intently as though it were music. The shouting coming from down the hall may have intimidated some, but it felt like a cozy blanket wrapped around me—oddly comforting and reminiscent of home. Seconds later, though, I unwrapped myself from the cacophony of discord and hurried to my office so I could call back one or two more investors before Scott and I departed for Burbank; Jonathan and our head of PR—a position Scott finally agreed to fill—were already there. It was time to renegotiate the Samba Studios agreement, and I knew my CEO and CFO were prepared to fight for significantly better terms. Truth be told, there was really no reason for me to attend the meeting at Samba, and I knew how lucky I was to be invited. Witnessing Scott and Samba’s CEO argue a new contract point-for-point would prove to be the lesson of a lifetime.
As soon as the seat belt light went off, Scott took off his shoes and pulled at his socks through his jeans. He then pored over the spreadsheets Jonathan had emailed him earlier that morning, just as he’d done during our drive to the airport and again while we waited to board our flight. I knew some of what he looked at were our financials up to the end of our last quarter, September, and the others were perhaps projections regarding The Amazings Thanksgiving release that was to take place in just over a month. To say Scott was prepared was to understate the situation by a mile; forty minutes into the flight he finally closed his eyes and took a deep breath, signaling that he was ready for our meeting.
The sound of the flight attendants bustling in the front galley signaled that we were about to descend. I sat in the aisle seat, staring at Scott’s hands resting on the armrests. They looked different—wrinkled, frail, and ashen, as though the life had drained from them. I wondered if he’d gone from being vegan to an even more restrictive diet.
“Do you want anything, Scott?” I asked, holding up the tote bag full of snacks.
“No, thanks.”
I reached into the snack bag anyway—he might not have wanted a treat, but I did. Inside the familiar bag were unfamiliar snacks—the custom trail mix and applesauce were not there. Instead I found individual packets of almond butter and fist-size parchment-paper sacks that were neatly tied at the top.
“What are these?” I asked as I held up one of the sacks and smelled it.
More important, where’s the tasty applesauce?
“It’s a coconut sweet-potato muffin,” he answered.
An alarm sounded in my head. Scott hated coconut, so I knew something was awry. I pondered the snacks, Scott’s weight loss, and his softer-than-usual voice, and was lost in my sleuthing when the flight attendant asked, “Is your seat belt fastened, miss?” Even though she was looking right at me, I didn’t realize that her question was directed at me. She leaned closer to me and said extremely slowly and loudly, “DO. YOU. SPEAK. ENGLISH?”
Stunned, I didn’t say a word. Scott looked at me, then looked back at the flight attendant and responded, “Yes. She speaks English. And yes, her belt is fastened, thank you.” The flight attendant, perhaps a little embarrassed, nodded her head and continued down the aisle. When she was out of earshot, Scott turned to me and asked, “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with you? You’ve lost so much weight.”
I never was one for beating around the bush and decided we’d have to laugh about the flight attendant another time.
“It’s just stress,” Scott replied before changing the subject. “I forgot to ask how your appointment with the UCSF oncologist went. What’s his name? Are you going to stick with him or go back to Pacific Medical?”
I found his question strange. That appointment was in August. Why was he asking me about it now?
“Dr. Madden. I like him better so I switched to UCSF, but for oncology only. Let’s assume I won’t need to go back, shall we?”
Scott agreed, but then peppered me with more cancer-related questions: had I spoken to any Stanford doctors, did I need chemo, did they expect it to come back, how long did they think I’d actually had it before they found it.
“Why are you asking all this?” I queried.
Scott tugged at the hem of his jeans before slipping his shoes back on. “I’m interested,” he said.
But there was something in the way he acted that made me suspicious—he was muted and more pensive than usual, and his jean tugging had gotten worse while I was on sick leave.
“Scott, what’s going on? Are you okay? Something is bothering you. I told you Quince was going to be too much work.”
I wondered whether he knew about Ion, whose offer I still hadn’t formally accepted.
“No. That’s not it,” he snapped, but when he saw my concerned look, he softened. “I haven’t been feeling well.”
“What’s wrong? Is that why you’ve lost all that weight?”
“That has something to do with it. I’m just not very hungry.”
“So have you been to the doctor? How much weight have you lost?”
“I have been to the doctor.”
“What did they say?”
Scott stared out the airplane’s small oval window and remained silent for a few long moments, leaving me waiting for an answer. Then he turned toward me with hard, laser-focused eyes.
“You need to fail, Sophia. You need to fail to succeed.”
“What? I’m not in the mood for a ‘Scott’s Philosophy’ session.”
“You’ve never failed in your life. Not really,” he continued, as though he hadn’t heard what I’d just said.
I told myself to give Scott space, fully understanding the desire for privacy. But my natural instinct to help and take care of him was too strong, and I pushed him further.
“We’re not talking about me, Scott. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Listen!” he said loudly as the people across the aisle turned and stared. Scott lowered his voice and took a deep breath. “You had an asshole of a boss at the investment bank, but you were too young and stupid to know better. And Sterling, Rich, they just had you doing grunt work.”
“Well, I don’t know about—”
“I’ve taught you as much as I could at Treehouse, and Jonathan has done a great job with you as well. You’ve honed your negotiating skills, have developed a true understanding of how to deal with Wall Street, and you’re showing us signs that you’re going to be the leader we have a
lways hoped you would be. We’re both extremely proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
Now I know something is really wrong.
“You’re welcome,” Scott said, looking satisfied before he took another deep breath. “But it’s time for you to go out on your own. To begin your own journey separate from Treehouse.”
I should have relished in Scott’s compliments. But he didn’t offer compliments. Hardly ever, and he didn’t sound like himself at all. I should have been relieved that he wanted me to leave Treehouse—it cleared the way for me to accept the job at Ion. Instead I worried that perhaps Scott knew about Ion and was trying to push me out. But if that were the case, he would have been angry about my disloyalty, so I erased that thought from my mind almost immediately. The only other reason that I could think of was that he was ill, but then how could the vegan, meditating, chemical-avoiding Scott could be ill? How could someone who loomed so large be affected by an ailment? Wasn’t he untouchable? When I didn’t respond, Scott repeated himself, which kicked in my natural instinct to argue.
“Oh, come on, Scott. What happened to that bullshit you always used to say: ‘You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.’ What about that?”
“Don’t change the subject. Don’t deflect.”
“I’m not! But tell me what’s going on.”
“Are you sitting on your brain? I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”
Scott’s insult made me want to laugh. He could throw them my way all he wanted, so I kept pushing. “Scott, please. You can trust me. Let me—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Scott said, cutting me off just as he’d done a million other times when he wanted me to shut up. Then he continued, “I’m cutting back even more of my time at Treehouse. After this Samba agreement is done, I will still be involved when needed, but it’s time for me to focus on Quince and for you to leave.”
He’s pulling back from Treehouse? Now I know for sure that something is wrong.
“I don’t want to leave,” I replied in a panicked, high-pitched tone.
With a soft, almost tender voice, Scott said, “You, my dear, are destined for greatness. If you’d smile more instead of pretending to be so curmudgeonly all the time, I could almost guarantee it. I know that whatever you do, whatever it is, it will be truly inspiring. You’ve learned from the best. But there’s not another step up for you here. You’ve hit the top. So you need to go and find some way to be creative and innovative. Stop fearing failure so much.”
“Puh-leeease. I fear failure because if I mess something up, you’ll fire me!”
“You know that’s not true. You know I don’t just fire people for no reason. You still don’t have the confidence to know that you’ll recover from something that goes awry, which baffles me, because look what you’ve overcome with your health. It’s amazing! But your fear of failing is hard for me to watch, and it’s why you’re leaving Treehouse in a few weeks.”
“What?” I shrieked, leaning forward in my chair wondering if I’d heard him correctly. The shock and fear that something was really wrong caused tears to well in my eyes. “I can’t leave! I won’t! Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”
Scott put his hand on mine, leaned in close, and whispered, “I have cancer. There, you made me say it.”
I slumped, then straightened immediately, and my moment of weakness disappeared. Suddenly it all made sense—his absence before the Quince news was announced; his shriveling frame. The change in snacks. I wondered when he’d been diagnosed and whether that was the reason he was in South America that day he called me in the hospital. None of that mattered, though. What mattered was getting him healed. I jumped into rescue mode, figuring if I’d survived, he could, too. What are the tricks? How did I do it? He wasn’t the “fat, dumb, and happy” type, but I gave it a shot anyway.
“What? That’s not a big deal! You want real problems? I wore my favorite white jeans yesterday and got them dirty. But if I wash them, they’re going to shrink, and they fit me perfectly now,” I stupidly said, trying to make Scott laugh and downplay his illness.
“That’s what you get for wearing anything but black,” he said in a serious tone.
“So what are we dealing with here?” I asked, not wanting to say the C word.
“Leukemia. I’ve had it for a while—a few months before you were diagnosed.”
“Chemo?” I asked. “And I never thought I’d be pushing herbs, but I assume you’re taking an integrative approach to all this? Eastern and Western?”
“Yes, Florence Nightingale. I am. Although the chemo isn’t intravenous—it’s an oral medication that I take. It was working well, but there have been some changes lately so we’re making adjustments.”
Without knowing anything about his diagnosis—what kind of leukemia, in particular—I offered to donate my bone marrow. It would never have occurred to me not to do such a thing. In many ways I felt as though this man next to me had saved me; I’d walk through fire for him. I wanted to help him, to save him, just like I saved myself.
Scott looked at me differently now, as though he saw me as a real person and not someone who worked for him. “That is very generous of you. Too generous. I can’t imagine you’d be eligible to donate your bone marrow given you just went through a major surgery, and my doctors and I haven’t even discussed anything like that yet. Regardless, and don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not exactly sure I want your DNA shot into my body, Ms. Diabetic with Cancer.”
His comment was so offensive I started to laugh. “Filter, Scott.”
“Well, it’s the truth,” he answered dryly, signaling he was in no mood for fun.
I wanted him to know I was there for him, always. “Look at me, Scott! I am alive and kicking, ready to be a pain in your ass for a long, long time. We can fix this. I know we can. This is no big deal. You can’t kick me out! I’m staying to help hold down the fort, especially if you’re spending more time at Quince.”
“No. It’s time for you to fly, Sophia. It will be hardest on Jonathan, but believe me, he and Treehouse will be fine without you.”
His words hurt my feelings, as though I weren’t needed at all. But I knew he didn’t mean it that way and that he said those things because he cared about my future. Still, it felt as though I were being fired all over again; as if someone else wasn’t giving me any choice about my own life. It had happened too many times—men determining my fate! My father, Jack Wynn at Global Partners, Grant at Sterling, Rich. And the person I least expected was doing it, too. I didn’t want to argue with Scott, though. It didn’t seem to be the appropriate time to do it. So I half agreed and told myself I’d convince Jonathan to let me stay. Although I wanted the Ion job, I didn’t want to leave this way. It was supposed to be my decision, on my terms, and certainly not when Scott seemed to need me the most. I did my best to hide my concern for my mentor, my role model, the man who saw me as something greater than I could have ever imagined myself.
Please, please, please let him be okay.
“For the next few days we’re going to renegotiate our deal with Samba, and I expect it will be a huge milestone for Treehouse—something that will set up the company for the foreseeable future.”
I could tell by the determined look on his face that he had a vision for Treehouse—one he’d been formulating for a long time. This trip to Burbank was step one in his plan to make it a reality, and there would be no plan B. It was now or never. “Amen to that!” I said with a smile, but Scott didn’t seem to hear me.
“What did I tell you the first day of our roadshow? When you asked me why I was doing Treehouse?”
“I don’t remember,” I answered. But that wasn’t true. I remembered—I remembered everything.
Scott looked at me disappointedly.
My voice caught in my throat and my bottom lip began to quiver as I held back my tears. “You said that you wanted to leave behind a legacy—a legacy that would entertain families for generations. Or some b
ullshit like that.”
“Do you think I’ve done that yet?” Scott asked, his eyes pleading for me to say yes.
He looked like a child, waiting for my assurance. Suddenly a strength rose up in me that felt powerful and certain.
“Yes, Scott. Yes, of course you have. Treehouse is the household brand you wanted it to be—the brand you’ve fought so hard to build. And now you’re going to set Quince on the right course. You’ve done it, you’ve absolutely done it all,” I said.
Scott smiled and nodded. “Technology comes and goes; it’s the natural law of the technology life cycle, right? But just think. It’s possible that one hundred years from now, our movies will still be entertaining families just like Samba’s have been for generations and generations. That’s one thing that will never change. I take so much comfort in that.” I wanted to touch his hand and to tell him that it was okay, to tell him how much he meant to me and how much respect and awe I had for him. But he knew—he must have known. So I left him to his thoughts as he gazed out the window.
The plain conference room felt chilly, but the air conditioner continued to blast, and as I did my best to rub away the goose bumps that ran up and down my arms, I wished I had heeded one of Mom’s daily reminders: Always bring a warm sweater to a meeting. The room felt tense and unfriendly, exacerbated by the way Samba’s team of a dozen positioned themselves along one side of the longest table I’d ever seen. This was their attempt to underscore their status as the eight-hundred-pound gorilla, but little did they know that Scott and Jonathan couldn’t have cared less.
This is do or die.
Pages and pages of documents were littered all about, and I did my best to listen, to learn. But all I could focus on was Scott—his arms were crossed and his shoulders were up. He’s cold. I stood up and walked to the small table just behind me, picked up the insulated stainless steel beverage dispenser, and filled a plain white mug with steaming hot water. To the right was a wooden box full of various teas, and I selected the one I knew Scott liked, rooibos, then picked up a chocolate chip cookie for Jonathan. His favorite. I quietly approached the table and set down the tea and cookie before resettling in my seat next to our head of PR.
