Page 313 of Manhattan Bossholes

“Look, son. It’s not our fault if you’ve screwed things up for yourself,” my father said. “That’s on you.”

“You’re right. And I’m done with it.”

“What do you mean ‘done with it’?” my mother said. “Did we not already go through this phase with you?”

“I’m done letting you two take up so much space in my head,” I clarified. “That’s been my biggest mistake all these years, and it’s now my biggest regret. I should have cut you off years ago. For my sake and for Jimmy’s.”

“What do you mean cut us off?” my mother snapped.

“You’re my parents, for better or worse—and just so you know, it’s mostly been worse. But that doesn’t mean I need to follow in your footsteps or let you influence the kind of person I am.”

“You’re not making any sense,” my father said.

“I’m making perfect sense,” I corrected him. “Maybe for the first time in my life. From now on, I’m leaving you two behind.”

My parents glanced at each other, sharing a real look for maybe the first time in five years.

I cleared my throat. I’d rehearsed this part a thousand times. I knew the kinds of needling leeches my parents were, and I needed to get this exactly right. “Let me be crystal clear. You should stop calling me, because I’m not ever going to answer. You should stop trying to interfere with the company, because I’m not going to allow that to happen. As far as I’m concerned, this relationship, whatever was left of it, is done.”

My mother spluttered on her wine.

“If you’re willing to listen to advice from me for a change, I’d suggest that you consider letting go of some of your own anger and bitterness. All it does is poison. I’ve seen it firsthand in my life and in Jimmy’s. And since you never bother to call him, I want you to know that Jimmy and I have talked some things out. After this semester is over, he’ll be taking a year off school to figure out what he really wants out of life. And whatever that is, I’ll support him.”

“‘Whatever that is,’” my mother sneered. “He’s dropping out of school? Of course he is. He’s spent far too much time under your influence.”

“If you two can’t be bothered to show him any kind of support,” I said, talking over her, “then so be it. Jimmy doesn’t need your money or anything else you think you have to offer. He has people he loves and trusts, and he’s done letting you dictate to him what he’s worth.”

“You can cut us off or whatever you think you’re doing here, but we built you,” my father sneered. “Nothing will change that.”

I scoffed. “No, I built myself. With the help of the family I’ve chosen. A family that’s been there for me and supported me all along. And I’m going to follow in their footsteps and try to be happy for a change. So, now I’m going to do something I should have done a long time ago and put boundaries in place.” I got to my feet. “Today I’m letting go of my anger, and I’m letting go of you. As far as we’re concerned, this is goodbye.”

I turned and left, feeling lighter than I had in years.

28

NATASHA

“Coming!” I called, hearing the knock on my door as I finished up in the bathroom. After an interview this morning at Cool Gourmet, a nearby café looking for temporary staff going into the holiday season, I’d left smelling of coffee and pastries. It had only depressed me, so I’d immediately jumped in the shower upon returning home. I may have fairly pathetic prospects right now, but I didn’t have to smell like burnt grounds.

The knock sounded again. “Be right there,” I called, hurrying down the hall, a towel still wrapped around my hair. I knew it wasn’t Stacy knocking because she usually texted before coming down. But there was also a less unhinged quality to the knocking and a distinct lack of her trademarked Natashaaaaaa! I swung the door open to find a bike messenger clad in a sleek, neon-orange windbreaker and cycling goggles standing on my stoop. “Hi,” I said.

He glanced down at the package in his gloved hands then back at me. “Are you Natasha Dryer?”

“Yes.”

“Then this is for you.” He handed over a thick brown envelope.

“Thanks. Careful on the stairs,” I said. “They’re slick.” We’d had a light dusting of snow this morning which had promptly turned to an icy rain just in time for me to make the trek to my interview. Sometimes I hated November. The weather just needed to commit one way or the other.

“Thanks,” he called, jogging off to grab his bike. “Have a good one!”

“You too.” I returned to the warmth of my apartment, closing the door behind me, wondering what was in the envelope. It was still way too early for Christmas cards, not that I ever had many turn up. And despite all the late-night scrolling I’d been doing to distract myself from the Trent-shaped hole in my life, I didn’t remember indulging in any retail therapy recently. I was trying to be frugal where I could, knowing that I’d have to stretch my savings until the job situation sorted itself out.

I slid my finger into the corner of the envelope, tearing it open. A small pad of bubble wrap fell out. Inside was a shiny silver key and a note with an address written on it. “What the hell?” I whispered under my breath. What kind of creepy stalker move was this?

I picked up my phone, calling Stacy. “Hey,” she answered. “I was just about to call you. I might have a lead on a really exciting costuming opportunity, and I’m trying not to freak out too much.”

“That’s awesome, Stace. With who?”