by Piper Lawson
"When was the last time you heard from Blake?"
My thoughts come to a screeching halt. The B-word has my hand gripping the phone. "Months ago."
This year he didn’t even send Rory a Christmas gift. Maybe he felt guilty about being behind on the child support he owes according to the divorce settlement we reached two years after Rory and I moved to the city.
"It helps to have a masculine influence in Rory's life. It’s natural, Kendall."
I bite my cheek. Probably to avoid saying something like, “Rory’s father isn’t a man. He’s an overgrown child with no sense or responsibility or integrity.”
That’d end a conversation fast.
The one time I mentioned Blake was behind in his child support, she only said, “I’m sure he’ll catch up soon. Besides, isn’t money the reason you moved to the city?”
Which isn’t true. Not at all.
But the reality is she still thinks the sun rises and sets out of Blake’s ass. Both my parents do.
"Kendall, someone's at the door. You know how Saturdays are. I need to run. We love you."
I swallow the knot in my throat. "Of course. We love you too, Mom.”
I return to the kitchen and pull up next to my son, who’s moved on from chopping with the small knife with the safety guard the salesperson assured me was both capable and appropriate for kids.
He’s not organized. But about cooking, he’s disciplined. That’s partly why I can’t say no when he wants to throw all of himself into the kitchen, even if I sometimes try to get him to diversify his interests.
It’s why I let him do things—with supervision—that I’m sure Nadine would throw a fit if her kid did.
You can’t protect kids from the world. You can only equip them as best you can to go out and face it.
“What can I do to help?” I ask.
“Pasta,” he says, nodding toward the fresh noodles hanging to dry in the corner. The ones he set to making from scratch when we got home from the park. “No overlap.”
My lips curve at his borderline-bossy tone as he reminds me of my technique. “Got it.”
His gaze lifts from his work to meet mine, searching my face. A small hand brushes my cheek. “Okay, Mom?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. For a boy who claims not to understand people, he has a boatload of empathy. “I’m good. Let’s do this.”
I take my time laying fresh noodles carefully in the bottom of the baking dish.
Growing up, my actions were held to a high standard. I dealt with it until high school, when suddenly there were things more interesting than God.
I hid my burgeoning sexuality behind demure smiles. With the kind of subtle flirting that couldn't be mistaken as anything too forward. When my friends were groping in cars, I watched boys from a distance.
It worked brilliantly.
Until it didn't.
Rory's father was the perfect boy. Blake's family was involved in church. His father led youth group. Blake was chaste and good. His smile was full of grace.
The year I turned seventeen, he was also the sexiest Matthew in the history of Bible camp's end-of-summer play.
After the one and only performance, I was deflowered on a blanket by the river.
I got pregnant. We got married.
A year later, he decided our lifestyle wasn't "God's plan" for him. Apparently, it was God's plan for me because I had a kid and no education and no income.
While my parents didn't approve of us getting together, they seemed to vastly prefer it to the alternative of me raising Rory alone. But everything went south.
And though I don’t like rehashing the details, when the dust settled, I was raising a kid on my own in New York.
Rory's my everything. I love him more than I thought it was possible to love anyone. I understand kids grow up in all kinds of situations, and I never want him to feel shortchanged of love or opportunities on account of the choices I made.
"Bloody hell!”
My head jerks up as visions of my kid missing appendages flood my panicked mom brain.
"Rory!" I say sternly when I see the only red substance in the kitchen is the sauce we made.
He holds out a glass bottle I brought home from the store yesterday as if he’s holding up baby Simba at the start of The Lion King. “This olive oil is not cold pressed!"
I roll my eyes as my heartrate slows. "Okay, but just because Gordon Ramsay says the H-word, that doesn't mean you have to. There are better words in the English language to express your frustration."
He’s shaking his head before I finish. "Impossible."
"How do you figure?"
"Gordon Ramsay's English. Don't you think he'd know?"
After dinner and putting my kid to bed, I get to work.
First there's a follow-up email from Nadine to the committee saying she’s put together a short list of themes for the talent show.
Themes? Isn’t the theme talent?
I scan the list, each theme more ludicrous than the last. Her recommended option? "Leaders of Tomorrow." That's a lot of pressure for kids graduating from Velcro shoes.
But half a dozen other committee members have already agreed with her, so I shake my head and hit Reply All.
Sounds great, I say. Pick your battles.
My concession is a glass from a bottle of ten-dollar merlot.
I make the jump to Closer work, deciding to scope out the competition for what I’ve started thinking of as Hunter's Rocket.
I don’t know much about the industry, but I’m quickly sucked into its fascinating history. With the exception of a few women who helped advance the industry, most adult product companies are run by men. Which means…
Big penis, bigger penis, biggest penis.
Okay. Single women know what gets them off. And though I’ve never tried, I’m guessing shoving a tree trunk up your wahoo does not do the trick. I snort and drink more wine.
This is why Daisy started Closer—to bring a female perspective to relationship and intimacy products. That’s what attracted me to it in the first place. Women’s views are underrepresented, in business and the world in general, and I love the idea of helping the world become more inclusive and understanding.
Closer deals with everything from dating apps to emotional support animals to lingerie. Still, I don’t have personal experience with the product. But I’ll take Daisy’s advice and treat it like any other product.
Though it might take two glasses of wine to properly research this one.
My fingers dance over the keyboard as I type in phrases that come to me. Some obvious, some not.
I learn sex toys have been around for thousands of years. I’d figured there would've been more of a liberation lately. But in fact, in the 1800s and 1900s, people were less inhibited. You can see sex toys advertised in the New York Times, for goodness’ sake.
Okay, they're marketed as health products or marital aids.
Maybe they would’ve saved my marriage. I stifle a snort. Not likely.
Within an hour, the wine is almost gone. But my ideas are flowing, and not only do I have ten open tabs on my computer, but I've nearly filled the page with doodles and words and lines and questions.
Selling a product is different than selling an idea or an app. It's predicated on one important thing—the Rocket II. I can put together the best campaign, but if the product doesn't help sell itself, we're shouting into a void.
A text comes in from Rena as I write down “HOW GOOD IS THE VIBE???”
Rena: I know you’re probably working right now.
I start to type a protest but delete it, realizing she’s right.
Rena: Here’s some candy to help.
I click the Instagram link, which takes me to the business account for Hunter’s Cross. It’s not clear what I’m looking at as I scan the grid of bright images full of young, attractive people and beer until I realize…
In half the photos is a grinning Logan Hunter.
Logan Hunter. Hunter’s Cross.
It can’t be coincidence. Even I’ve heard of the company. They’re a growing microbrewery with smart marketing and, apparently, great products.
It’s his family’s company?
Not that it matters.
I shake my head, typing back.
Kendall: I prefer wine.
Rena: Too bad. Beer's looking fine.
To prove her wrong, I click through a few more pictures. Then hop over to his personal feed.
Whoa.
First thing I notice is there are women. Beautiful, glamorous women. And lots of them.
In jaw-dropping locations.
Crystal-blue waters kissed by the sun. Sand and white buildings. Skyscrapers like the ones in New York but bearing signs with characters I can’t read.
His bio says he graduated from an Ivy League school and runs the marketing department for Hunter’s Cross after previous work in advertising, though it doesn’t describe what.
He totally downplayed his status in the car. Calling himself, what—reckless and the life of the party?
Which begs the question, why?
Hunter doesn’t seem the kind to mask his accomplishments. If anything, he seems like he’d shout them from the rooftops of those same skyscrapers.
The fact that he’s legitimately accomplished adds to the grudging admiration I feel for the fact that he’s Daisy’s friend and seems completely at ease with everything.
Curiosity drives me to type his name into a search bar. It’s part of my research.
The results say he’s part of a wealthy New York family with a history of corporate success and entrepreneurship. There are smiling images of him at Hunter’s Cross functions and fundraisers. The captions laud him as a philanthropist—another thing he didn’t mention.
Scrolling down, I find other images.
Ones with a distinctly more editorial flavor.
And less clothing.
Holy…
There’s one of him shirtless, his jeans riding low, looking into the camera as if he wants to do something wicked to it.
A flush crawls up my chest to my cheeks. It’s as if he can see me looking at him. As if he knows I’m staring at his half-naked and all-masculine body.
I slam the lid of my notebook shut and take a second to breathe.
I’ve stopped crediting every twist and turn to God’s personal machinations, but I do believe that we’re given curveballs through some cosmic idea of fairness that makes things hard on purpose.
This is a test. Of character.
I will use this assignment to show I can handle the pressure, the situation, and Logan Hunter himself with grace and professionalism. I will come out the other side stronger and with more conviction.
I pick up my spiral notebook and take out the folded sheet of paper with "My Adventures" at the top.
It's a long list on purpose, because life is meant to be experienced through diverse lenses.
Glass blowing.
Ukulele playing.
Even taxidermy.
There's nothing on that list about sexy clients with smug grins and too-low denim.
And there won't be.
A sip of wine cements my conviction before I write “NO fantasizing about hot strangers” at the bottom.
I underline it twice.
5
"Hunter’s Cross. Tradition without the bullshit." I flash an earnest-but-knowing grin at the camera.
The director calls, "Cut!"
My smile fades, and I survey the commercial set. "This isn't working.”
The music stops, and the cameraman pulls back. I'm surrounded by a dozen attractive professionals playing at being my friends, drinking Hunter’s Cross brew in front of this upscale backdrop.
The actors around me stop their chattering, and the director bites back a sigh. "What's wrong, Hunter? Is it the lighting?"
His impatience rolls off me. I know what we’re trying to create, and it doesn’t boil down to notes on lighting. It’s a feeling.
Feelings sell beer.
Feelings sell everything. Cars. Underwear. Even investments.
We like to think we’re rational, but humans aren’t rational creatures. No matter how we dress ourselves up, no matter how many pro-and-con lists we make, at the end of the day, we’re impulsive as fuck.
Once you admit it, it’s a beautiful thing.
Monty and my family will never understand, but that’s why I love advertising. I can sell people what they need but don’t know they need through feeling.
Every beer drinker needs Hunter’s Cross in their life. It’s my job to help them realize the inevitable.
Which is why I’ll be here working on this new video spot for our social ads until we’ve got the feeling exactly right.
"This place." I look around the room we rented at Monty’s parents’ hotel. "It's too prissy."
"It's the grand ballroom. We're on the second from the top floor of the Charlotte." His voice implies we couldn’t do better than one of the most exclusive hotels in Midtown.
"Exactly. It's not different at all." The wheels turn in my head. "I have an idea." I look at the actors. "You guys keep doing what you're doing and follow me."
I start toward the door before turning back to the camera guy, who's whispering to the director. I stick two fingers in my mouth and whistle.
The shrill noise echoes in the room, and every head snaps toward me.
"You should be filming,” I tell them.
The main camera guy lifts the camera off the tripod and shoulders it.
I stalk out the door, and the stream of actors follows, talking and buzzing.
People are questioning what I’m doing. The professionals who do this all day, every day, are suddenly off guard.
It’s right where I want them.
I stride down to the end of the hall, over the fancy carpets, to the fire escape. Through the door. Behind me, it builds—the energy, the curiosity.
I hear the director's, "Are we insured for this?"
The mob goes up the stairs to the top door. I stalk out onto the roof.
Nellie's parents had thought about a rooftop patio, but they put the project on hold to do other restorations to the classic twenty-four-story building. The roof isn’t anything, just a big empty space with a few construction materials and some rebar on one side. The ornate edges of the building are only visible if you’re willing to look out over the ledge at the drop down to street level.
In other words, it’s perfect.
One of the girls at my back squeals. "Fuck, it's raining!"
When the first of the fat raindrops hits my face, I grin. Hell yeah.
I run out to the space, beer in hand, and wait for others to come up. Music recedes but the energy doesn’t wane, and the crowd of actors is laughing and shrieking under the rain with the stunning views beyond.
I turn to the camera, taking in the dismayed face of the camera guy as he struggles to cover his equipment from the rain.
I lift my chin to be seen over the crowd as I grin. "Hunter’s Cross!" I shout over the noise. "Tradition. Without the bullshit."
The noise fades, and the music cuts too.
The director shakes his head as he watches the playback over the cameraman's shoulder. "I think we have it.”
“Monty’ll love it. And you’re welcome.” I drop my warm beer—which I've been pretending to drink all morning—off with the prop people and start back to the ballroom to grab my belongings.
I spare a glance at the penthouse doors on my way down, a smile playing at my lips. Yeah. That's going to be mine when I win this crazy bet.
Wonder what I’ll do first. Throw a massive party.
Or an orgy.
Or a concert.
Benefit concert, the voice of my upbringing chimes in.
No. Benefit orgy.
Pleased, I retrieve my sweatshirt, using it to towel-dry my face and hair. Other actors are coming back to grab their things, talk
ing and laughing.
I glance at my phone and see a missed call from a number I know as well as my own. My T-shirt's spotted with rain, so I tug the hoodie overtop. I hit a button on my phone, and it rings twice as I adjust the hem. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, honey. I got your flowers for our anniversary at the office and was calling to say thank you.”
I grin. “You’re welcome.”
“It’s worse when you send my assistant flowers for her birthday. You’re making every other woman’s kids look bad.”
“I refuse to apologize for that.”
My mom’s amazing. She grew up in a blue-collar family, worked her ass off through the ranks of corporate finance to get where she is, and never once did it by stepping on other people. Even now, when she’s running a foundation and shaking down her former colleagues for charitable contributions, all of her maneuverings are clever but aboveboard. Each call she makes, even the hard ones, she does with her head held high.
And I’m the only son she has, so I need to treat her right.
Through the nearly thirty years of my life, she’s always had my back. Not only when I was little and it was her job, but when I went to college. When her other friends’ sons went into investment banking or real estate and I went into modeling, she never once made me feel as if I was letting her down.
“Your grandmother wanted me to ask if you can do brunch this weekend. I think she wants to talk about the shareholders meeting.”
I curse silently, remembering I still haven’t talked to Deacon. “Ah, sure. Saturday. I’ll get the table at Sarabeth’s she likes.”
“I’ll tell her. Bye, honey.”
We hang up, and as I make my way to the elevator, most of the cast and crew already dissipating, guilt seeps into my bones.
Deacon’s been causing trouble lately. Ignoring my requests for information. Trashing my product ideas. It’s probably the only subtle disobedience he has available given our unique situation and the fact that my family owns the company that pays his salary.
And pay him we do—well.
Initially, Deacon was a plan Monty and I put in place to help me transition. But the more he did, the more I realized it would be better if he kept doing it.
