Page 6 of Backward Motion

“Usually, yeah,” Connor said, shrugging into the arms of his overalls. “But I can swing by later and give her a hand. She used to babysit me as a kid, so it’s only fair I atone for past torment.”

“I’ll let her know,” Sam said with a smile, scribbling a note to himself on his yellow legal pad. “And I’ve been looking at the priceguide you gave me for the quoting system. What’s the difference between a socket fit-out and a replacement?”

“I was thinking maybe it would help if you rode along with me next week,” Connor said. “See how things work in practice.”

The bell above the door jingled, and a man with salt-and-pepper hair pushed the door open with his walker. He didn’t look that old, but he shuddered when he walked, as if it took considerable effort. His face was curled into a scowl. “It’s almost ten; why are you still at the office?” he barked. “The work ain’t gonna do itself.”

The easy smile slipped from Connor’s face. “You checking on me, Dad? And if we’re asking questions, where’s your chair? You’re not supposed to be using the walker anymore.”

“Think I don’t get enough of that from your mother?” Mr. Finnegan tilted his head at Sam. “Who’s this?”

Sam stiffened under his disapproving gaze.

“This is Sam, Sheryl’s replacement,” Connor said.

The man’s eyebrows shot to his forehead as if his son had declared Sam a talking cat.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Finnegan,” Sam said, getting to his feet.

“Sam’s background is in marketing,” Connor continued, ignoring his father’s reaction. “He studied commerce at UNL.”

Mr. Finnegan snorted. “You don’t need a degree to answer phones.”

Connor slipped his hands into the pockets of his overalls. “How can I help, Dad? Or did you just come here to kick up trouble?”

“I was going through the books last night. You’ve got fifteen percent of accounts past ninety days. You should never let it get over ten.”

“Things are tough for folks right now,” Connor said. “I’ve got a few customers on installment plans.”

His father pointed a thick finger in Connor’s direction. “Well, there’s your problem right there. You keep saying you’ve got this, but from where I’m sitting, you haven’t got shit.”

Connor’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing in reply. Instead, he walked over to his father and steered him by the shoulder toward the door. “Let’s get you back to the car, Dad,” he said in a low voice. “Is Mom outside? Don’t tell me you drove here.”

When Connor returned, looking sheepish, Sam pretended to study something on his notepad.

“Well, that’s my old man,” Connor announced.

Sam looked at him for a moment, choosing his next words. “You’ve been doing this—quotes, invoicing, accounting—all on your own?”

Connor ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I take it home with me in the evenings. Life as a small business owner—what can you do?”

Sam could only imagine how much pressure he was under. “I can help when I get on top of everything else.”

“Let’s just start with the scheduling,” Connor said kindly, “and see where we go from there.”

“Okay.”

“I should probably get out of here.” Connor stepped over to pick up his tool bag and swung it over his shoulder. “The work ain’t gonna do itself,” he repeated grimly, heading for the door.

Chapter Five

Sam lay on his bed after work on Thursday, scrolling aimlessly through social media on his phone. He’d been given a lot of the same advice:Disconnect to reconnect. Life isn’t a post; it’s a journey. But it drew him in like a drug. He tapped on images of his contemporaries at product launches or sipping champagne on a client’s yacht and zoomed in on their wide smiles and designer bags. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already lived it—albeit riddled with imposter syndrome the entire time. Strange how the things he’d idealized had turned out to be so bad for him.

Flopping onto his stomach, he looked up at the boxes of sequins. His mother had organized them in darkening shades, stacking each incrementally lighter hue above the other. Maybe perfectionism ran in the family.

In his hand, his phone buzzed. It was an email from a coworker at his old job. The two of them had gotten on all right when he worked there. She was equally driven, and they’d stoked each other’s ambition. She’d been the one to bail him out when he failed to show up for his big presentation. She took his deck and ran with the idea, and he heard afterward she’d killed it. The client loved the pitch. Needless to say, Sam’s boss had decided he wasn’t ready for the account. Which didn’t matter in the end because a couple of weeks later, Sam no longer had a job.

He clicked on the icon to open the email.