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And even if they’re not thrilled, it’ll be okay. Because my best friend knows about my new boyfriend and girlfriend—crap, am I allowed to call them that?—and Cas doesn’t mind. He doesn’t care that I’m bisexual. The longer I think about it, the more grateful I am; it could have seriously screwed things up between us if he’d had a problem.
I like to think I’d be supportive and open and just as happy for him if he’d been the one coming out. Which reminds me of that awkward turn in the conversation right before he’d ordered pizza and turned on the TV. Cas never did answer me, if he meant curious or curious. And given some of his past behavior, I’m left wondering.
But if my own experience has taught me anything, it’s that people don’t figure their messes out until they’re ready. So I leave Cas alone and just enjoy myself.
Mostly.
West still only answers every third or fourth text. Callie’s better, but she’s busy as hell with Hale House, and something about her business license. Apparently she’d got a big meeting at City Hall in a couple of weeks, which is kind of a big deal for her. I don’t think she’s done the public-professional thing in a long time.
But we’re still us. Cas and me, and Callie and West and me. If I’ve learned anything this last year, it’s that I’m not giving up on them yet.
20
West
“Get me Perkins.” My sister Elizabeth nods curtly and ducks out of the room. I look down the table, unimpressed with the number of suits and the pricks that fill them.
“You can’t just come in here and—”
“Is there a problem, George?” I ask the suit about halfway down the table on my left, who’d leaned forward like he was going to get out of his chair and come at me. I keep my voice mild, but there’s no mistaking who’s running this meeting. “Because I was brought in here to correct problems.”
The threat is unmistakable, and George Wallace III isn’t prepared for it, much as I can tell he’d like to argue.
“Anybody else have grievances to share?” The suits pucker up even tighter, and nobody breathes a word.
It’s been one long week of meetings exactly like this. The resentment was that my father and grandmother brought in more family, on top of the usual resistance to change you’d see in any organization. The more of these meetings I conducted, the clearer it became.
Thorpe Industries was in big trouble.
It could have been worse. At least at this juncture we’ll be able to steer away from the otherwise inevitable bankruptcy. But that means taking some pretty drastic action, and the men at the table before me are not in favor of that idea.
Ask me if I care.
The phone in my pocket vibrates, and I dismiss the staff. It’s Friday afternoon, and I’ve had all I can take of being the new department head of Thorpe Industries, Retail Division.
I haven’t seen or spoken to Raleigh or Callie in five long days, plus a few extra hours in Raleigh’s case. We’ve exchanged texts, but between practically sleeping in my new office and back to back “Let’s get you reacquainted” meetings that appear on my schedule—I had no doubts who orchestrated that unsubtle manipulation—I hadn’t eaten a full meal in days except at my desk.
I leave while the suits are still packing up, giving off my best “don’t interrupt me right now” vibe so I can check the text in the relative quiet of my office.
Only to find my father barking orders into his phone when I get there.
So much for privacy, I think. He nods when I come in, holding up one finger. I sit at my desk, calculating exactly how many minutes of patience I have left for Thorpe Industries before I cut out. The number is dwindling fast.
Dad ends the call and drops his phone on the leather couch, taking a seat beside it.
“So much for keeping things under wraps,” he says. “The Fuller Group got wind of the reorganization.”
He says the name of our top regional competitor like he’s spitting out venom.
“It was bound to get out,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “Especially once the layoffs start.”
God, I hated that part. But I’d hate the company going bankrupt worse.
That’s what I tell myself. Sometimes I even believe it.
“Assholes,” he says. I don’t know if he’s talking about the competition or the gossiping employees and I don’t have the energy to deal with the conversation, so I ignore it altogether.
“Did you need something from me?” I ask, glancing pointedly at my monitor to indicate that we don’t have a meeting scheduled. It’s approaching late afternoon and I’m not above cutting out early on a Friday, especially after already logging my sixty-five hours this week.
