AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She pauses for effect.
“That was bad?” I ask stupidly.
“Of course!” Marie all but shouts, waving the blue shirt. “This is half the costume for Regina! At least Samantha had the cheer uniform! No, he didn’t want to go. He was embarrassed to go. So he just doubled down on the lamest costumes he could think of and hoped I’d tell him to forget it. Well, he got his wish.”
She fingers the material and then tosses it back into the box. “I got the costume, was going to surprise him. But he flew to Europe for a golf trip without telling me. So I went to the Berlin Fashion Week. It was terrible.
“We made up, in the end. But we never talked about going to Comic Con again.” She looks up at me and there are tears in her eyes. “We were so happy before. I never thought I’d ever fall out of love with that boy.”
I don’t know what to say. My heart breaks for her even as my barely maintained panic over Rhett intensifies.
“I’m so sorry,” I finally settle on, just to say something. It sounds just as lame out loud as it did in my head.
“Well,” she replies, “it’s too late now. I lost the love of my life. And no amount of money is ever going to fix that.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
RHETT
I am forced to golf. I hate golf.
Ironically, I’m a decent golfer, having been compelled (by Mother) to partake in it all through prep school. So at least I don’t embarrass myself.
That’s about the only upside to a long, irritating morning on the green with Paul, Bill, the Waltons, and the idiot Dudley.
Paul leads the conversation and keeps it firmly fixed on topical financial issues. It seems to be a conscious decision to exclude me.
I’ll be honest. My vision of me leading the bank (which looked somewhat like Washington crossing the Delaware) takes a cannonball to the bow when I’m reminded of the fact that I really can’t bring myself to give a shit about economics.
The fantasy of infiltrating fancy events, Liz by my side, bending the law to convince billionaires to partner with us every other night is starting to seem rather unrealistic. If Mother were that interesting, maybe we wouldn’t be at odds so often.
No, the reality of leading the bank is pretty damn similar to what I’m enduring now: forcing stuffy conversation with old guys in suits about shit I don’t care about.
The horror, the horror.
The morning hits a particular low point when Paul, discussing the fluctuations of some financial institution that even goddamn Dudley has heard of, turns to me and asks, “How do you think the Westing Bank is going to handle that?”
“If history is any indication, better than Generations Bank,” I say before sending a neat putt into the hole.
He doesn’t let up, sensing weakness. “Surely you can be a little more specific than that,” he probes.
I collect my ball without responding, furious that I don’t have a better answer.
“Guess you don’t need to pay attention in class when you can count on legacy to buoy you through,” Paul says to the others.
The Waltons and Dudley find this quite funny, and even Bill gives a small chuckle. I get into the golf cart without another word.
I’m steaming mad for eleven more holes. Unfortunately, it affects my game as, rather than landing steady, strong shots, I’m picturing driving any particular club I’m handling at the moment directly up Paul’s asshole.
Paul doesn’t make another attempt to include me in the conversation. It should be a relief, but it’s an embarrassment more than anything.
I’ll show that fucker, I think heatedly. The minute I get home I’m learning all this shit. About spreadsheets and market values and index funds and… Honestly my brain gets bored the longer I think about it, fury unable to pique my interest for long.
It’s beyond frustrating to be treated like an imbecile just because I don’t share their interest in money. If they’d asked me how to reassemble a diesel engine I could have walked them through every step. Want me to drift this golf cart in figure eights? I’d terrify them while keeping them as safe as pigs in a blanket.
But the real me would never be appreciated by this crowd.
Just like Bill.
