Page 28 of Business Casual
7
CHARLIE
“Where are you?”
I glance around Stella’s office. There are haphazard stacks of paper on every flat surface, manilla envelopes in precariously leaning piles. Four days here and I still haven’t figured out what system this is all organized by. I’m starting to think it’s more of a toss it up and hope for the best situation.
That’s not what my dad is asking though. There’s one question on his mind, though he’d rather meander through pointless small talk than just ask it.
Why aren’t you in New York?
“I’m working remotely,” I tell him, shifting my laptop three inches to the left and almost sending a stack of pine-scented air fresheners to the ground. I wedge my phone between my shoulder and ear and collect them, opening the top drawer to shove them inside. Except there are about seven thousand more air fresheners in this drawer, and I couldn’t wedge in another if I tried. I drop them in my lap. “Where are you?”
He hates when I’m deliberately vague. He also hates when I’m conversational. I’m pretty sure he hates me on principle, but that doesn’t stop me from answering his phone calls, some stupidly hopeful piece of my head and heart wondering if this time might be different.
“I’m at the house,” he says, sounding distracted.
The house he shouldn’t have a key to because my mother kicked him out almost two years ago before starting her rediscovery journey. She’s been traveling all over the globe for the past year, some sort ofEat, Pray, Lovething happening.
I’m happy for her. I’m also…frustrated that I’m the one left dealing with this dumbass.
“Why are you at the house?”
“Relax. Your mother is in Cape Town. Or something.” I hear the clink of glass on the other end of the phone. I guess eleven in the morning is a fine time to start drinking.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re not supposed to be there, whether mom is there or not. She wouldn’t like it. I don’t like it. You have a house. Go there.”
He makes a huffing noise that more or less conveys the sentimentI don’t care what your mother does or does not like.He’s made that abundantly clear. He dragged his feet through the entirety of the divorce proceedings and fought my mother on every little detail.
And apparently, has not returned his house key.
I make a note to change the locks.
“I came to grab a few things from the office. Her lawyer is here, making sure everything is to her satisfaction.”
My shoulders relax. A chaperone makes me feel slightly better. Still changing those locks though.
“And you decided to make a stop at the liquor cart?”
He doesn’t answer me. “Where are you, and why are you not at the office?”
“I’m working remotely,” I say again. My dad and I have never had a good relationship. My entire life, I’ve been running to reach his insurmountable standards. I’ve always thought if I could just work a little harder, be a little smarter, he might notice. He might be proud. But every time I jump, he cuts me at the knees.
But I can’t stop myself from trying. For whatever reason.
“I heard you the first time you said it,” he grunts. “I’m asking why.”
I sigh and rub my palm over the back of my neck, reclining in Stella’s chair. It squeaks ominously, then jerks me to a completely prone position with a quick jolt. I blink up at the ceiling. “I’m helping Stella out for a few weeks.”
He’s silent for so long, I have to glance at my screen to make sure we’re still connected. I crank the desk chair back to a reasonable position.
“A few weeks?” he finally manages. “What could she possibly need help with for weeks? You need to be here, managing your clients. I heard from Wes Billings, you know. He isn’t happy with your performance.”
Wes Billings hasn’t been happy with anyone’s performance for the past six decades.
“Did you forget you have responsibilities here?” he continues. “A job?”
Because that’s always what’s been most important to my dad. Not family. Not relationships. But the job, the clients, and how much money he can rake in. His reputation and what the industry thinks of him.
