by Olivia Chase
“So, Mr. Brown—”
“Joe,” he says, sitting down. Martha has set a pot of coffee on the table and…a can of whipped cream? Everyone is seated, parents at the heads of the table and Sabrina and Dax across from Emily and me.
“Sorry, Joe—”
“Jackson?” Martha says, interrupting. “Before we get started would you like to say grace?”
I am momentarily stunned. Grace? Like, the prayer? My family attended church on the major holidays—Christmas and Easter—but that was strictly for appearances. During services, my mind always wandered to my homework or a project I was working on. I absorbed nothing because I knew it meant nothing. I’ve never said a prayer in my life, out loud or to myself.
“Mom,” Emily says. “He’s the guest.”
“That’s exactly why he should do it,” Martha says. “Please, Jackson. We’d be honored.”
Jesus, I’m not the pope here to bless their food.
“No, truly,” I say, going for modesty. “I’ll just end up mangling it. This is your home. You or Joe should say grace. I insist.”
There’s a beat of silence that tells me maybe that was the wrong thing to say. I could have made up some words, blessing the food and thanking God for this day. But I don’t think perfect strangers should assume I’m religious. It’s like they’ve put my faith—or lack thereof—to the test, and I failed. Little do they know that being tested and being set up are two things I really fucking hate.
Joe says the blessing and soon we’re passing the dishes of food around the table. I hope the awkwardness has passed and I can get back on my game. I’m so good with adults—I was around them more as a kid than people my own age—and to not do well today would be failure on so many levels.
“Martha, this all looks so amazing,” I say, doling out scrambled eggs onto my plate.
“Dad made it,” Dax informs me. “We don’t go along with the patriarchal ways around here. There’s no women’s work.”
“Jesus, Dax,” Emily says.
“Emily, watch your mouth,” her mother says. Sabrina stifles a laugh. Grown adults being reprimanded at the dinner table. Okay. This is different.
I stare across at this guy, only a couple of years younger than me. “I didn’t mean that at all. Whoever set this all up, it looks amazing. I’m thankful you all invited me.”
“Jackson, tell us about your work,” Martha says in a clear effort to smooth things over. “Emily hasn’t told us much about you but she did mention that you met through the Children’s Education Fund.”
“It’s such a great organization,” Joe says. “What made you decide to get involved?”
“Emily,” I say. “She stormed into my office one day, demanding money.”
“It didn’t happen like that,” she says. “We had an appointment and he tried to cancel—at the last minute and for the third time. I couldn’t believe it. I was so annoyed.”
“You’ve got a headstrong daughter here, Joe,” I say. “She wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“So what’d you donate?” Sabrina asks. “Time? Services?”
“Oh yeah,” Dax says. “CEF has that great mentorship program. Is that what you’re doing?”
“No,” I say. “I donated money.”
“Yeah, but what else?” Dax asks. I stare at him for a moment, not understanding the question. Finally he says, “I mean, you didn’t just write a check, did you?”
“It was a check for a hundred thousand dollars,” I clarify.
“Jackson was very generous,” Emily says.
“Yeah, but I mean,” Dax continues, “what are you doing now?”
I’m ready to strangle this guy’s neck when Joe steps in and says, “I think maybe what Dax is getting at is perhaps how you got involved with CEF. What drew you to them out of all the other worthy non-profits?”
“Just Emily, really,” I say. “Truly, she was very persuasive.”
“Being so wealthy you probably donate to lots of causes?” Joe asks.
“Just Emily’s.” I smile at her, hoping she’s feeling more relaxed. “And I’m not that wealthy.”
“Oh, come on,” Sabrina says. “Everyone knows you’re rich as hell.”
“God, Sabrina,” Emily says.
“Sabrina, please,” Martha says, looking a little mortified. “I’m sorry, Jackson. We shouldn’t talk about such things anyway. Although it must make life a little easier, not having to worry about money.”
“I still worry about money,” I say. “My company certainly has profit goals every quarter. If I don’t make them, I hear about it from the board.”
“Croft International is one of the wealthiest companies in the country,” Joe says. “How can you sit and worry about making even more money?”
“It’s my job,” I say simply. “We have shareholders who expect a certain amount of return on their investments. I don’t think it’s too outrageous to give them that.”
“But don’t you think, at some point, it’s enough? How much money do you have to make for you to say, Okay, I’ve made enough. Now I’m going to start giving it away?”
“There is no number. We live in a capitalistic society.”
It looks like old Joe is on the verge of a head explosion when Emily steps in. “Come on, guys. Stop being so hard on Jackson. Hello, we met because of his donation. A very generous donation that shouldn’t be overlooked. It’s the biggest in the fund’s history.”
Martha mutters something about how that’s not the issue as Joe refocuses on his eggs.
“What about the mentorship program?” Dax says.
I look across at Dax. “What about it?”
“Why don’t you get involved in it? Being the head of a company is the exact kind of person I’d think they would be looking for. Wouldn’t you want to mentor a young kid, expose them to the business world and help them see the heights they can climb?”
“Believe me, if I could find a way to add more hours to the day, I would. I hardly have the time to do much of anything, besides work. My days are filled from top to bottom, keeping the company running and earning money. It’s an eighty hour a week job, and that’s when things are slow.”
“You make time for exercise, right?” Dax says, eyeing me carefully. “It’s the same concept. You just do. You make the time.”
What this kid is not getting is that I don’t want to make the time for shit like that. I’d rather write the damn check. But of course I don’t say that.
“Can we ease up on the third degree?” Emily says. “Jeez, guys. He’s not on trial. He’s here so we can all get to know each other.”
“Emily is right,” Martha says. “I’m sorry, Jackson. We’re just so focused on charity in this family. We’ve all chosen to donate our lives to service so we’re a bit passionate about it.”
“Well, I’m happy to help fund that passion,” I say. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret it. Fuck, what a mistake. Condescending asshole, that’s me. “What I meant was—”
“No, it’s fine,” Martha says. “There are those who do, and those who write the checks. It all makes the world go around. When you do have a moment to relax, what do you like to do?”
She’s good—moving on quickly after her dig at my money. What is it about this family and money? I thought it before about Emily and now I see where it comes from. They really hate money. I’ve never known such a way of thinking could exist.
“Honestly, in the past few years I haven’t even had time to even take a vacation. Pathetic, I know. Work is just so demanding that it takes up almost all my time.”
“Is it fulfilling?” Martha asks. “Working so much?”
“Fulfilling?” I repeat, as if I don’t know the meaning of the word—and maybe in this context, I don’t. I work because it’s what I do. I work because it’s expected of me. I work because it’s been drilled down deep in me, into my core, that I have to work harder and longer and better than anyone else—including my brothers. “Yes, I
suppose I like what I do. It is rewarding.”
“That’s wonderful,” Martha says. “And not to harp on the issue but I bet you’d feel even more rewarded if you found the time to do a little volunteer work. It doesn’t take much to make a difference in a life.” She smiles like she’s not harping on the issue.
“Well, you’ve certainly all made me think,” I say—or rather, I lie.
We finish the rest of the meal with the sort of pleasantries this afternoon should have been filled with. Sabrina talks about her professors and some guy she’s seeing and Dax talks to his father about ways to increase volunteer services at the non-profit he works at. He makes sure to shoot a few side-eyes in my direction. I want to ask, What the fuck did I do? For such a sweet family, these people seem like a bunch of assholes. Sabrina gets a pass, I suppose. She didn’t say much, but at least she didn’t insult me or take shots at me.
One thing is for sure: this brunch did not go as planned. Now I have to go back and figure out where it all went wrong. But first order of business is getting the hell out of here and back to the sanity of the city.
Emily
We’re all about to move into the living room for more conversation. I see this as a fresh start to get things back on track after the contentious brunch. But it seems that Jackson has had enough.
“Emily?” he says. “We should head back into the city.”
“You think?” I glance at my watch. It’s not even noon.
“You don’t have to get back to work now, do you, Jackson?” Dad says. “On a Sunday?”
“I’ll probably stop in for a little bit,” Jackson says. “Get a little jumpstart on the week.”
I stare at Jackson for moment thinking, Really? You’re going into work today?
Dad turns to me and says quietly, “Sweetie, will you be okay?”
“I’m fine, Dad,” I say as he kisses my cheek.
“You’ve raised a very independent young woman,” Jackson says. “Emily is great at taking care of herself.”
We all walk to the front door, Sabrina and Dax calling out how nice it was to meet Jackson even though I know they don’t like him. None of my family likes him. This has all gone terribly wrong and I’m not sure why or how.
“Nice car you got there,” Dad says, stepping out onto the front steps. Dad has never cared about cars. I can’t tell if he’s being nice or condescending.
Mom stops me before I can follow Jackson out.
“Emily,” she says. “What are you doing with this man?”
“Mom,” I say. “Don’t.”
“He’s nothing like us. He’s nothing like you.”
“If you’d given him a chance you’d have seen how kind he really is. And he treats me really well, by the way,” I say, hating that I’m defending him. “You guys were all way too hard on him. You were rude.”
“We were not hard on him. And maybe he does treat you well—with gifts and fancy dinners?”
“No, Mom, that’s not what I meant…”
“Actions speak louder than words, Emily,” she says. “The action I see is that he’s going into the office on a Sunday. He can’t even spend one whole day with you? What kind of partner is that? You deserve better.”
“You only got a snapshot of him today,” I say. “He’s more than his job.”
“Sure doesn’t seem like it. Honestly I don’t know a single other thing about that man aside from his job. And that I could have learned that from Google.”
“I’m going,” I say, shaking my head. This isn’t going to get any better. Mom pulls me in for a hug before I can get away.
“We just love you, honey,” Mom says. “We want the best for you, and you deserve a person who understands all the amazing qualities that make you who you are.”
As we drive away, I feel like I’ve ingested a rock.
“Well, that didn’t go as planned,” I say. I give a little laugh, like it wasn’t so bad but it’s at least fixable. Jackson keeps his eyes on the road. “You don’t really have to go to the office, do you?”
“I do have a big meeting tomorrow.”
“You have big meetings every day,” I say. Jackson sighs. God, are we fighting? Or about to fight? I reach across and put my hand on his thigh. “Should we at least hang out at your place for a little bit?”
He takes my hand and kisses my fingers like he does. Like I love.
“How about this,” he says. “How about I take you out to dinner tomorrow night? Wherever you want to go. Pizza, lobster, steak; South End, Downtown, Back Bay. Your choice. Whatever you want. Sound good?”
“Yeah,” I say. A swelling is caught in my throat, so I clear it and try again. “Sure. Sounds good.”
When he drops me off at my apartment he gives me a kiss on the cheek before he speeds off down the street. Like he can’t get away from me fast enough.
Did I make a huge mistake by introducing him to my family? Did I scare him off?
I think back to what Mom said: He’s nothing like us. She’s right, and I’ve always known that about him. Maybe the differences are starting to divide us. I work hard at school and my job but I also understand the importance of spending time with family and friends (even if I’m not the most social person around). Is Mom right? Do I really know so little about him?
I do what Jackson is doing—I bury myself in work for the day. I have a lot of reading I can catch up on, and some research I can do at the library for one of my classes.
The library is fairly busy. Most seats are full, but it’s quiet aside from the turning of pages and light tapping of fingers on keyboards. I find a spot at a large table in the center and spread my books and notebooks out.
“Hey, Emily,” a voice says quietly. I look up—it’s a girl named Kera from my School Law class with Professor Stanwick…and Brent. She looks down at my books and sees I’m studying for our class. “What are you studying that for?” Before I can answer she says, “I heard you’re sucking dick for grades now.”
“What?”
“That’s what I heard. That after you bombed the last paper you offered Brent a blow job for guaranteed better grade.”
“Are you kidding me? Do people actually believe that? Do you believe that?”
She shrugs, indecisive. “I just thought you should know what’s being said.”
“It’s not true,” I say. “And you can tell that to anyone who believes that. It’s not true.”
After that, the day is a wash. I can’t concentrate.
I call Natalie on my walk home.
“What else is Brent Fuller saying about me?” I ask.
“Well…” she begins, and it’s clear she doesn’t want to say.
“Nat, tell me,” I press. “I need to know.”
“I didn’t hear him say it, but I heard from someone else that you’ve been spending a lot of time in his office. And that one time, when you were coming out, your skirt was on backward or inside out or something.”
“I haven’t been in his office in forever,” I say, fuming.
“Someone else said you’ve been going to his apartment.”
“I don’t even know where he lives!”
“I’m sorry, Em,” Natalie says. “I told those people the stories were bullshit. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“It’s fine,” I say, even though it’s not. What a petty little weasel Brent is.
“Are you going to tell Professor Stanwick?”
“Tell him what? That I heard his T.A. is spreading rumors about me? I have no proof.”
“Just keep your distance,” Natalie says. “Don’t give anyone any reason to think something is going on by staying after class or going to his office.”
“Do you actually think I’d go to his office after this?”
“No, I don’t,” Natalie says.
“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t mean to get snippy. I just don’t need this right now.” With things with Jackson feeling tangled up, I don’t need school in a knot either.
> I stick to my word and Monday after class, I shoot out the door. I do not want to be seen by anyone to be lingering around. Besides, I want to get home and get ready for dinner with Jackson.
We texted a couple of times. He wrote and asked, Any ideas for dinner? I guess he didn’t want to impress me with another fancy meal. Which is fine, honestly. I’m not complaining. My mind is going into crazy-girl territory, wondering if he’s losing interest in me. Maybe he doesn’t care about impressing me anymore.
But I took the initiative—always a good thing—and found an Italian place in the North End that gets great ratings for serving freshly made pasta. Jackson asks if I want him to pick me up or if I want to meet him at the restaurant. Ouch, I think. It’s really starting to feel less and less like a date and more like a casual meet up. My place in Allston is totally out of the way, so I tell him I’ll take the train and meet him there. He doesn’t argue.
When I see him walk down the crowded street, I can’t help but smile. He’s staring down at his phone, and I’m watching, worried that he’s going to walk right into the pole of a parking sign or something. He looks so slick and handsome in his suit, even though he ditched his tie. Hopefulness springs up in me—maybe we just hit a rough patch and tonight things will get back on course.
“Hey, you,” I say, stepping toward him. He glances up at me, lands a peck on my cheek, and continues working his phone. “Still busy with work?” He grunts a reply. I wait until he finishes what he’s doing—his brow is slightly furrowed so it can’t be anything good. I have to respect Jackson for the multitude of things he is responsible for. I respect him for it, I don’t fault him for it, like I worry my family does.
When he finishes, he slips his phone into his inside coat pocket. Once we’re seated and have ordered our food, I hope things will relax but there’s a weird tension between us.
“Something bad happen at work?” I ask.
“Something bad happens at work at least five times a day,” he says. “But I always handle it.”
