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I nod.
“You sure?”
I stop ripping the tape and turn to her. “Look, I may not be the best at the banking stuff, but trust me. I know cars.”
Liz gives me a small smile, one that may be embarrassed though if for doubting me or for the bedroom incident I can’t tell. “Okay, Rhett,” she says. “When can we head out?”
“Give me ten minutes. How was the bathroom?”
She makes a face. “Uh, I think the nice word is ‘rustic’.”
All I can do is chuckle and rip off another piece. “It’ll have to do.”
* * *
“That’s not healthy.”
We’re sitting in the parking lot of a McDonald’s. We’ve both changed into our business clothes and now I’m watching Liz concoct the most troubling mixture of liquids I’ve seen since my high school buddy insisted mixing paint thinner and Everclear could get you drunk and high at the same time. (Spoiler: it does not.)
Liz rips another sugar packet open like she’s pulling the pin on a grenade. “It’s just a red eye, basically.”
“There’s three shots of espresso in there.”
“And almond milk!”
“The health benefits of which you’re completely offsetting with a pile of sugar that would send Tony Montana into a coma.”
“…like if he snorted the sugar?”
I scoff and take a drink of my own dark roast. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I?” When I cast a look her way, she’s trying not to smile. And still dumping sugar into the “coffee”. “This isn’t even my real usual. When I make this at home, I double process the coffee.”
“Double what now?”
“Make coffee, put it in the water filter along with new grounds, and then process it again.”
I have no words. Thankfully I don’t need them as Liz finishes up the rest of the packets and puts the lid on a dangerously full, boiling potion of adrenaline and insanity. “There,” she says. “Not quite an Elizabest, but close enough.”
“An Elizabest?”
She cocks an eyebrow, takes a sip, and smacks her lips in exaggeration. “My signature cocktail.”
“How are you not dead?”
Liz flips her hair and then buckles her seatbelt. “Must have someone watching over me.”
I snort, starting the car and pulling out of the parking spot. “If so, they’ve apparently decided to take a breather this weekend.”
Liz doesn’t answer. She sips her coffee again but suddenly her eyes are far away, looking out the front window at nothing in particular. Was that the wrong thing to say? Liz has seemed pretty damn confident in her ability to get this account, but now that Chicago is mere hours away maybe the doubts are creeping in.
And why do you care? I don’t. Definitely not. Because despite Mother’s posturing, nothing is going to happen when we inevitably don’t come back with the account. She does this every so often: slap down impossibly high expectations after years of asking for nothing just so she can raise an unholy storm of disapproval and spittle. In the beginning I took it seriously, even had the naivete to be appropriately ashamed. But over the years I’ve learned to batten the hatches and pop an umbrella until she’s gotten it out of her system.
Of course, complete disownment is new. Suppose she actually is serious. If (when) we fail and Mother comes down on me, will I be able to convince her that I’m worth keeping around?
I can only entertain the thought for a moment; Mother’s too smart for that. She knows just as well as I do that I’m useless around there. I could try a different tactic, maybe take her to Club 21, where we go every year for her birthday and drink too many martinis. Can I fall back on familial affection to keep me afloat?
Yeah, right. If I’m relying on those odds, I should just go all in on Liz pulling Marie Alencar’s account. It’s just as likely as Mother remembering that we’re supposed to love each other.
