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“What is it, Donna?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s something, so out with it.”
“It’s just that you’re about to spend more than the entire GDP of Albania to buy a football team just to spite a man you haven’t spoken to in over twenty-five years.”
“Donna, did you do a Google search for countries with gross domestic products under five billion to try to get me to change my mind?”
“Yes,” she says, sounding sheepish. “Wouldn’t it … wouldn’t it be better to, I don’t know, let it go maybe, sir? You don’t even like sports.”
“True, but it’s a good investment with a side bonus of allowing me to devastate my father.”
“Okay then,” she tells me, her tone filled with the disappointment she normally saves for her husband.
I glance out at the Ripley’s Believe It or Not! Museum as we zip past it. (And no, I do not believe it, Ripley. Not even for a second.) “Look, I know you’re not a fan of what I’m doing and believe me, I understand. But it’s literally been my main driving force throughout my entire adult life. I’m not going to abandon it now. So just say whatever it is you want to now, then forever hold your peace.”
“Fine. It won’t make you feel better. I know you think it will, but it won’t. You won’t get back the love you and Michael should’ve had. It won’t bring your mom back. You’ll get your revenge, I guess, but you’ll also be out five billion dollars.”
“You guess? I will get my revenge. It’s going to kill my father. Hopefully literally. His one true love in this life is that team. He’s had the same seats for every game for the last twenty-eight years, and unlike my high school graduation, he’d never miss it. I’m going to ban him from the stadium permanently and have his seats donated to the Dallas Autism Society so they can either be used by members or auctioned off. He will hate the idea of someone like Michael sitting in his beloved seats, which makes it all the more delicious. He can never high five the other fans or hold out his hands in hopes of catching a t-shirt from one of those ridiculous t-shirt guns. He can never drool over the cheerleaders in person. And when he sees all the public photo ops with his own sons hanging out with the players, knowing that if he’d just been a decent human being, he’d be right in there with us? He’ll lose his will to live. It’s going to be glorious.”
“Okay, but Rohan said Dr. Napper is extremely disappointed that you’re pulling out of the foundation. Is it really worth upsetting your partner?”
“If Richard actually wanted me to be part of it, he wouldn’t have chosen the world’s most ridiculous non-profits to back. He would have gone with worthy causes, not the ghostbusters or those weirdos who walk around with tin foil on their heads hoping to meet little green men.”
“All right then,” she says, but I can tell by her tone she thinks this is anything but all right. “The contract should be printing on the jet already. I’ll have Josh put them on the table, then I’ll find out where Dr. Napper will be tomorrow. Is there anything else you need?”
“No, thanks. That’ll cover it for now.”
“Very good, Mr. Sterling. Have a safe and pleasant flight.” She hangs up before I can say goodbye, which is Donna’s version of flipping me the bird.
I toss my phone onto the seat next to me and sit back, closing my eyes for a few seconds. The truth is, she doesn’t get it, which is to be expected. Donna’s parents are still together. I think. I mean, if they’re still alive, they’re probably in their nineties. But I seem to recall her saying something about a happy childhood. Or a normal one. Something like that. Donna doesn’t know what it’s like to hurt the way we hurt. She didn’t see how awful my father was to Michael when he was a little kid—yelling in his face to ‘just act like a normal human!’ while my brother went stiff with fear. She wasn’t there when he packed his bag and left us on a random Tuesday night in November, never to even try contacting us (or providing financial support) again. Donna didn’t see how much my mom struggled to put food on the table while taking care of a little boy she couldn’t send to daycare on account of his behavior being ‘too unpredictable.’ Donna’s dead wrong. I will feel better—so much better knowing that Patrick Sterling is going to lose the only thing he's ever cared about.
Picking up my phone, I call Michael, knowing he’ll want an update as to my estimated time of arrival.
“Hello, Ty,” he says.
“Hi, Michael, how was it at the museum today?”
“Excellent. The IT technician, Tony, managed to get the interactive Jurassic game working again, so that’s a big relief for the staff and patrons alike.”
Michael works at the Museum of Natural History, Monday through Friday, from nine until two, through a work program that links neurodivergent people with jobs to which they’re well-suited. Michael helps out in the back with planning displays, tagging and organizing items, and other jobs that don’t require people skills.
“I’m glad to hear that,” I answer. “I know it’s really been bothering you.”
“Well, of course it was bothering me, Ty. It’s a vital part of our dinosaur display. Most people choose not to read the signs next to the dinosaur models, so without that game, they’re not learning anything,” he says. Michael is big on learning, and he wants everyone else in the world to be equally as passionate about expanding their knowledge, especially when it comes to dinosaurs.
“You know one of the many things I admire about you, Michael?”
I’m about to tell him when he interrupts. “Over the years, you’ve told me many things you admire about me, Ty. Are you asking me to name them? Because that will take quite a while.”
I smile to myself, knowing I walked into that one. “No need for you to list them. I was going to say your passion for learning.”
“Ah, yes, that is one of my best attributes, along with my keen ability to solve puzzles and my honesty.”
He’s right about that last one. Michael is incapable of lying, which, in my opinion, is one of the gifts of the way his brain works. Most people are capable of such deceit—saying what you want to hear, omitting pertinent details, flattering you when they would much rather punch you in the face. At least that’s how people are with me. They’re either a little scared or they’re desperate to get something from me, both emotions allowing them to justify lying to my face. With Michael, however, I know I’m getting the truth, even if I don’t want to hear it.
“And Ty, how was your day? Did you get what you went to Dallas for?” he asks.
