Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“And women. Like Nora.”
Dad scoffs. “Women too. What I’m trying to say is, people want a leader they can look up to. Someone who knows what he wants—”
“She wants.”
“Can you stop that?”
I take a long sip of my beer. “What you’re trying to say is, I should stop being a slut and settle down so I can get promoted and run the bank one day. Maybe even keep it from going under.”
Dad smiles. “Something like that, yes.”
“You think that’s what I want?”
“I know you love your work. I know you’re proud of your work. And I know you can do so much more for the people you work with in a leadership role. It’s no secret the bank is . . . in a bit of a tough position. We need people like you to help right the ship.” He leans forward. Lowers his voice. “I know Lizzie would want you to find someone to share your life with.”
Another long sip, if only to keep my right hand busy. I don’t want to punch Dad tonight. Not in public.
He’s not wrong about my work. I do love it. I love the way my mind feels wrung out at the end of the day. I love my coworkers, even if they know me as the office grump. I love making money. Buying nice shit.
Most of all, I love how busy it keeps me. Busy is good.
Busy keeps me from thinking too much.
“I’m just curious.” I set my glass on the bar. “Who do you suggest for this life-sharing arrangement?”
“Not the muffin girl, that’s for damn sure.”
My eyes flick over Dad’s shoulder. Frat guy’s working fast: he’s got a hand on the small of Greer’s back now. They’re taking another shot. Only this time, I catch Greer discreetly pouring most of hers out onto the floor.
Good girl.
Seriously, what is going on with me? Why can’t I stop watching her? And why do I want to choke the guy touching her?
Now he’s swiping his thumb across the naked indent of her spine just above her jeans. She’s a strong kid—you have to be to start and run your own business—but still, she looks so delicate there.
Small. Soft.
Christ, I’m spiraling. I knock back what’s left of my beer. Maybe I’m just obsessing about Greer right now because the anniversary is coming up, and I’m thinking about my sister more than usual.
Thinking about all the things I’d do differently.
I’d protect Lizzie. Check in with her. Be a decent friend.
Maybe I’m trying to prove to myself I can get it right by being a decent friend to Greer.
Or maybe I just need to head off this weird, angsty jealous bullshit at the pass.
Mind over matter. I can stop looking her way.
I can put a damper on these feelings and fantasies before they get out of hand.
Which means I need to focus on what Dad is saying.
He’s right. As much as I, ahem, dislike him sometimes, he’s never led me astray when it comes to big decisions. He encouraged me to start crew. That got me into my dream college. My dream college got me my dream job.
Yes, Dad works at the same bank I do. But nepotism is not part of our family’s vocabulary. “No free rides here,” Dad always said. So I worked doubly hard to build the right résumé and nail the right interviews to prove I wasn’t hired just because I’m James Huntley’s son.
If I did all that, maybe I can find a dream girl too. The thought of opening up enough to let someone in that way still makes me panic. But that’s what therapy is for, right?
I’m so glad Mom encouraged me to talk to someone. I’ve been seeing Dr. Snider—I call her Frannie now—for close to six years. She and I agree that while Dad is intense, his intentions are good. He doesn’t have any ulterior motives.
At any rate, I can’t spend my nights at dive bars, staring at girls who are over a decade younger than I am. It’s weird. And sad.
I want to be done with sad.
“I’ll think about it.” I rise, my stool scraping against the floor. “Just be patient with me, okay?”
Dad puts a hand on my shoulder. His eyes meet mine and for a second I think he gets it. That he feels it too, the hurt and the grief.
But then he smiles and says, “I’ve got a couple girls in mind that your mother and I would like you to meet. You remember Bob and Vera’s daughter Margaux, right? Apparently she just moved back to Charlotte from New York. She’s looking to meet people. Maybe the two of y’all could grab a drink.”
I do remember Margaux. She and Lizzie played volleyball together back in high school.
“Fine,” I say, reaching back for my wallet. “Get her number and I’ll give her a call.”