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But sitting feels like conceding something. It feels like giving in.
“I’m not that kind of sick.” I mean, I am pretty close to the wheels coming off. My heart hurts, and my guts are swirling. My muscles feel tense, and my head feels like someone took a jackhammer to it. But apart from that, I’m hunky-fucking-dory. Which is probably why I lean back against the window and bounce the back of my head off the glass. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“You’re definitely some kind of ailing.”
Heartsick. Worried sick. Sick-to-my-stomach sick. What’s the difference?
“I saw her dad,” I say, which, in hindsight, sounds apropos of nothing. Nothing but the conversation rotating through my head.
“Who’s dad? Clara’s?”
“Yeah. About that.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“Maybe you’re the one who should sit down.”
He doesn’t but rather leans his ass against my desk, which would ordinarily piss me off. He folds his arms, mirroring my stance. “What is it you haven’t told me?”
“Clara and her dad don’t get along.”
“Why’s that?”
“Her old man is . . . well, he’s old, white, and entitled. He’s also mean and fucking vindictive.”
“But those faults aside, he’s an upstanding guy?”
“Put it this way: I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.”
“Sounds like he’s the poster boy for the patriarchy, as Hannah would say.”
“President of their social club. Did I mention vindictive?”
He flicks out a hand and begins to count using his fingers “Old banking family. Generational wealth. Privilege. Entitlement. Yada, yada, yada. Story kind of checks out.”
“The sooner assholes like him check out, the better for the world. Because.” I push out a gust of a breath. “Because the old fucker has been playing games with Clara’s life, and it seems he’s about to shift focus.”
Max says nothing as he stares at me.
“I know what you’re thinking. What the fuck was I thinking.”
He opens his mouth but then closes it again. He glances away. Then back. “You’d better explain the level of shit we’re in.”
“He may have threatened to pull strings with the SEC to fuck with us.”
“What the fuck!” He bounds upright. “Jesus, Troy, I knew this was a bad fucking idea—did I not say that to you? That marriage is a sacrament, not a fucking joke.”
“It was a business agreement,” I begin, not sure why I’m defending myself. “And not all of us have experienced your blessings.” I immediately regret my outburst and begin to say so. “Max, I’m sorry, man.” He might’ve been raised in a house full of rowdy siblings and love, but his own marriage didn’t exactly have a fairy-tale ending.
“Yeah, you should be sorry, because you’re right. You’re not as lucky as me. Apparently, you’re not as intelligent either.”
“I think you might be right.”
“And your emotional intelligence is in negative figures. Asshole,” he adds in a mutter.
I tip my head back against the glass again. “I thought I was doing the right thing. For the company. And Clara thought she was doing the only thing she could. She was frightened enough of him to have—”
“Married you?” he says with distaste.
