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The typing bubbles appear, disappear, and then reappear. I wait… and wait, stopping in the hallway.
“Thanks, Pete,” Trisha says, handing me my handkerchief. “Sorry, I lost it back there.”
For the love of God, one corner is saturated. Who in their right mind would want that back?
“No, you keep it. I have plenty.”
Scoffing, she thrusts the fabric square closer to me. “Don’t be silly. It has your initials on it.”
And your snot, I don’t say. “Dime a dozen. Not a problem,” I insist, holding my hand up like a shield, trying not to gag.
Shaking her head, she chuckles and retracts her flag of germs from my personal bubble. “Alright, but I hope I don’t need it again today. Maybe Preston will take a long lunch, and I won’t have to deal with him.”
Nodding, I start down the hall with her. She stops near her office door and turns toward me. So help me, if she tries to return her snot rag again, I’m never doing anyone a kindness in the future.
“That Cameron seems like a sweetheart. I doubt he’ll say anything about my meltdown, but I appreciate you looking out. They have him doing data entry in HR. Don’t you think that’s odd? I mean, he’s a Fairway. That’s like the equivalent of putting royalty in the mailroom.”
The presence of heat at my side has me turning on instinct. Fucking Mark. Doesn’t he have work to do?
“They had to give him something that he can’t screw up,” he chimes in. “Haven’t you figured that out yet? They start these guys in some non-management position where there’s enough staff that they think no one will notice how inept they are. They have them skate by for about a year, and then poof! They’re head of a section. It’s the Fairway manager training program.”
It now makes sense why people come to me for positive reinforcement with people like Mark and his attitude roaming around. He and Trisha both look at me for confirmation or denial of his theory.
I don’t need this today. I need to wash my hands, help solve Mom and Dad’s tractor problem from afar, and review the marketing proposals for my subsidiaries’ holiday product lines.
“I think if everyone just focuses on their own work, the whys and hows of everyone else’s duties will be for those people to contend with, not us,” I say sagely.
Mark snorts. Trisha’s lower lip pouts, telling me she’s still going to carry Preston’s weight no matter that it’ll likely lead her to another crying fit. Christ, do I have to spell it out for them? People create their own problems and aren’t happy until you board their drama train.
“Cameron Fairway isn’t even a blip on my radar, and he shouldn’t be on anyone else’s,” I add with finality, making my departure. “I don’t care if they make him president of the damn company.”
CHAPTER 2
Cameron
“Would you mind running this up to the eighth floor for me?” Heather asks, handing me a file.
“For Preston?” I confirm, reading the label on the file tab.
“Yeah. They’re hard copies that I need an actual signature on, not a digital one.” Rubbing her baby bump, she grimaces as I take the file. “Sorry to ask. He’s kicking a lot today and hates elevators. Well, I hate elevators when I’m pregnant. It feels like his feet are in my throat when we descend.” She chuckles, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. “You guys are friends, right?”
“Preston and me? Well, I know him, but we’re not exactly friends. I just know of him from Randy. They went to college together. He used to come by the house sometimes when they were on break from school, but that was years ago.”
“Oh, well, I can do it if you’re not comfortable. I just thought maybe you could use a break. I know how exciting data entry is.”
“No, it’s fine. Happy to help. I don’t want you getting kicked in the throat,” I tease, practically springing out of my chair.
She’s right. Any chance to get out of my cubicle is a welcome occurrence. Our office doesn’t even have a window.
“Thanks, Cam.” She smiles, looking relieved. Tilting her head, her expression softens. “It’s really great having you here.”
The undertone of surprise in her compliment makes me both sad and laden with guilt. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to discern the majority opinion of my father’s empire. I used to think the way Dad and Randy talked at home about employees scurrying away in fear was just them stroking their egos. However, in the nine months I’ve been working at Fairway Foods, I’ve learned there’s a disturbing truth to their claims. Short of Heather, likely because she oversees my work, people here avoid me like the plague. So much for this job opening the doors to the social life I was hoping for. I really thought things were going to change. Now, I’m more under my family’s shadow than ever.
Making my way toward the elevators, it’s difficult to push the unwanted stigma from my mind when I notice how many people immediately scatter from their conversations at the sight of me. You’d think lack of eye contact wouldn’t bother me after a lifetime of it from my family, but for some reason, the fact that it’s strangers ignoring me stings more. They don’t know me, only that I’m a Fairway. Not being given a chance isn’t the silver lining I hoped for when Dad convinced me to take this job.
I made my peace with the fact that I’ll never live up to his, Randy, or Travis’ expectations. Dad and Randy live and breathe the business. Travis has been Dad’s right-hand man for all our family’s legal affairs since law school. I, however, have had nothing worthwhile to contribute to a family conversation since high school when our debate team was discussing business and Dad was pleased with how I showed up our opponents. If it hadn’t been in the paper where it mentioned that I was the son of John Fairway, I honestly don’t think he would have cared.
It’s fine, though. Really.
