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- Quinn -
When I set out to work for my dad, things were different. He had fewer clients on the books, and I grew up hearing stories of how his representation of young athletes had changed countless lives, even whole communities.
But his agency operated differently now. He had more clients, most of whom were insufferable divas. Not that you could call a male athlete that without having a punch pitched through your face. Fortunately for me, I was a big enough asshole that I didn’t need to resort to name calling to get my point across, which was more than I could say for the less creative assholes I worked with.
Not that I enjoyed being an asshole, but in a competitive office environment, only those who fit in get heard.
Sometimes I considered telling my dad that I hated what a bunch of assholes we’d become. I imagined he would either a) laugh in my face b) disown me or c) pretend I hadn’t said anything. Frankly, my money was on “pretend I hadn’t said anything” because the first two options involved far too much emoting.
He wasn’t always so unfeeling, though. At least not that I remember. Or maybe my mom just softened him...
The day after she died, he spent the whole day weeping in his home office. I sat outside on the floor, wishing he would invite me in to weep with him or just hold me while he cried. I thought if he shared his pain with me it would help me make sense of my own. But the invitation never came.
As far as talking about it, his advice consisted of little more than “Be a man, son. Make your mother proud.” So that’s what I did. I got good at manning up. I convinced myself my mother would turn in her grave if I cried, that she’d be disappointed if my grades slipped, even betrayed if I gushed to one of the guidance counselors at school. And I survived that way. By privately honoring her memory instead of publicly mourning it.
Now that I was a bit older, I understood why my dad encouraged me to be tough. I also, however, suspect we might’ve overcorrected. My mother never wanted me to become an unfeeling robot. It was too late, of course. The damage, which my dad would probably argue was my greatest strength, was done, and I couldn’t change now even if I wanted to.
Besides, if I let myself go soft, I’d never be able to put up with my father, who I considered both my greatest role model and a maniacal sociopath.
I was comparing the stats of two high school basketball players from the North Shore—neither of whom I was particularly excited about—when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but I was taking my lunch break soon, so I was in the mood to welcome interruptions. “Hello?” I said, skipping a more personal greeting in case it was a telemarketer or the Leukemia Trust calling to see if I would consider increasing my monthly donation.
“Quinn?”
My spine straightened at the familiar voice, though I feared it was just my mind playing tricks on me. “Speaking.”
“It’s Maddy. James’s little sister.”
I scooted to the front of my chair but hid the eagerness from my voice. “Hey Maddy.”
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
Anytime you catch me is a good time. “No. What’s up.”
“Remember when you said you’d love if I totally cramped your style by moving in for a while?”
My lips tugged towards a smile at her creative recall. “I do.”
“Well, it looks like I need to take you up on that kind offer after all.”
My pulse quickened. “When?” I asked, scribbling a reminder on the notepad in front of me to book the in-house maid service the second she hung up.
“The sooner the better?”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I mean, things are a bit awkward with my roommate right now, but I’m telling myself it’s good preparation for living with you and your harem.”
“The harem’s on a girls’ trip,” I joked, wondering who put these ideas in her head. “Bit of a sore subject with me, to be honest, but they insisted they needed a vacation.” I squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed them with my free hand. Why even say that?!
“Jesus,” she said, her voice dripping with disgust. “I can only imagine what they needed a vacation from.”
I fought the urge to come up with an appropriately crude response. “Can you wait till this weekend?” I asked, glancing at the clock. “I’m working late tonight, but I’m free all day Saturday.” Did I have to say “all day” like that? Now she’d think I was a loser with no plans. Or worse, that I was implying my Saturday night was wide open and hers for the taking. Maybe I should make some plans for that evening, so things wouldn’t be weird. Or maybe that was cruel. Maybe it would be better to order takeout and try to be a normal, welcoming roommate. Fuck. Who knows? As long as I didn’t touch her, right? That was the most important rule. “How much stuff do you have?”
“Not much,” she said. “I don’t need help moving it, anyway. I already feel like a big enough mooch without making my crap your problem.”
“You sure?”
