Before, she was angry. Now she sounds ready to give me a hug and discuss my sanity.
“Like what?” I ask, just to hear her say it.
“Limit yourself like that,” she replies, stunned. “You’re better than that. Capable ofmorethan that.”
“I’m also capable of slowing down. Lowering my cortisol. Making life a little more enjoyable.” My car bumbles into Grayson’s driveway. “Besides, it’sDirectorof Marketing, Mom. I report directly to the CEO. It’s an incredible opportunity.”
“In a small town, in the middle of nowhere.”
My blood heats at how flippantly she disregards Gold’s. Grayson’s operation alone is more impressive than half the high-rise occupants in the city—never mind Anson’s growing business.
“Have you signed a contract?” she asks.
Shutting the car off, I answer, “It’s coming today.”
“So,no.”
I already know where she’s going with this. “It’s alreadyin writingthat I’m accepting this offer.”
“Doesn’t matter. You don’t have that job, Eliza. It could fall through.” There’s a point-zero-one percent chance of that happening. Anson isn’t the type to go back on his word. “And this interview could be the one. You’re going.”
I shake my head, chewing my lip. “No.”
“Your career and life aside, do youknowhow much we pay Suzanne and how hard she works to find opportunities as good as this?”
“I never asked you to hire Suzanne.”
“Eliza, we’ve invested so much in you,” she emphasizes, and for the first time in this conversation, her words get to me, planting a little seed of guilt. “And you just want to—to—throwit all away because you’re on a nice little vacation and you want it to last? I don’t want to see you make a mistake you’ll regret.”
You’re asking too much,I want to say. But that kernel of guilt is beginning to create fissures in my obstinance. My parentshaveinvested a lot in me—building bridges, finding opportunities, guiding me through achievements since I was a child. No matter how tough or stubborn they are, how selfish their motivations were, or how painfully misguided this phone call is, I can’t overlook the good they’ve done for me.
She must sense my weakening resolve, because she says, “The interview is virtual, five hours from now. There’s no reason you can’t make it. Just go. Give it a chance.”
My head tilts onto the backrest, and I stare at the gray ceiling of my car. She isn’t asking me to drop everything and drive to Boston. A virtual meeting will only eat thirty minutes of my day, and because I don’t actually want thisjob, I won’t have to spend any time preparing or stressing out.
If anything, going to this interview and then telling her it isn’t the right fitmightbring her a little closer to acceptance.
“Fine,” I say.
Then I chug the rest of the coffee milk and try to shake the feeling that I’ve just placed myself back on a trail in bear-infested woods.
35
GRAYSON
Summeron the water in New England is unpredictable. Some days, you’re baking in a water-logged desert. Others, it’s cloudy and damp, or ripping with fast-moving squalls that make you question your choice to work on small boats.
But sprinkled between the extremes are some Goldilocks days—sunny and perfectly warm, with a gentle sea breeze that dries the sweat from your forehead and feels like bliss.
Today’s one of those days, and I can’t think of a better welcome home.
Well, except for last night.
I started early this morning, antsy to get back into the rhythm of things and catch up on any paperwork Amanda wasn’t able to do. Had Eliza wanted to laze in bed and go for a repeat of last night, I would’ve been down in a heartbeat. But she was happy to get out for a morning swim—though part of me suspects her readiness to get up and go was for my benefit as much as hers.
Women I’ve dated, Mackenzie included, always wrestled with the farm for attention. They liked theideaofdating a farm owner, the fantasy of a man who works outdoors with his hands, until they realized they had to share me with the work schedule.
With Eliza, though, something tells me my challenge will be tellingherto slow down.
