Page 4 of On the Slopes of Tahoe
“Yeah, the place looked great when I went in earlier today. I picked up some basics at Safeway so they should be covered for the next few days. I think the bunk beds in the guest suite are going to be a big hit when Willow is a functioning kid again and registers them. She was zonked when we got there.”
Mom nods, looking bored, and changes the subject. “How’s your condo? Any issues we should know about?”
This is her way of ensuring I never forgetmycondo is reallytheircondo. That my home is something they provide, not something that’s truly mine. I hold back the immature desire to roll my eyes. Our parents don’t just own my and Breck’s condos, they own properties all around the lake. Their business is the one partnership that’s always worked between them. Even when their marriage fell apart, Stateline Properties never faltered.
“It’s fine. Nothing new to report.”
“You know, it’s been a while since we’ve come by to inspect it,” Mom says, addressing my dad as though I’m not right here. “Dean, maybe we should schedule that for this week?”
“Really, guys, it’s all good. If there was anything that needed work, I’d let you know.”
“Oh, we know, dear. I just want to ensure we’re keeping up with it.”
“How’s work been? Gone viral or whatever you kids call it these days?” Dad interjects, saving me from having to respond, but my jaw clenches at the condescension in his voice.
Working in content creation for our local ski resort, Empyreal Mountain, isn’t exactly what my parents had in mind when they paid my way through a journalism degree from the Universityof Nevada. They assumed I’d work for some sort of publication—front page dreams and all that. I wanted so badly to make it happen for them, but the reality is there aren’t all that many jobs here in traditional journalism. So, when this opportunity presented itself shortly after I graduated, I went for it. I wouldn’t say it’s what I had in mind for my career either, so I guess nobody’s happy.
Not that I don’t enjoy my job. It allows me to photograph the most beautiful place on earth, and it gives me unfettered, year-round access to my favorite mountain and all its amenities. Did I mention I get to snowboard as much as I want? So, yeah. It’s great. I just wish I could spend all my time on the photography aspect and let someone else do the rest. Unfortunately, the “rest” is the most time-consuming part of the job.
“Work is fine,” I say simply.
No matter how many times I explain what I do, they’ll never understand how “posting to a bunch of apps” is a real career. They do their best to keep their passive aggression low-key(ish) about it though, unlike when I told them I wanted to go into photography full-time at the beginning of my junior year of college. They were not low-key about that. Not in the slightest. To them, photography will always be something I do as a hobby, not a feasible career path.
“Did you see the article Jamie wrote last week? The one about his parents’ work with the whisky distillery down in the valley?” Mom lifts her wine to her lips. “I was really impressed. You know, you could write freelance articles like he does, Rory. You never know where it might lead.”
“Yeah, Jamie doesn’t write freelance. This was a special case because of his proximity to the subject. And he’s between books at the moment, so he had some extra time.”
“Well, if he has extra time on his hands, he won’t be too busy to have dinner with us next week, will he?”
Shit. I walked right into that.
Jameson Liam Murray has been my best friend since freshman year of high school, when his family moved here from Scotland, and my parents adore him. Of course they do; he’s amazing. The problem is, because they adore him, they want nothing more than for us to be a couple. Unfortunately for them, he’s never been my type—even if his Scottish and Irish roots blessed him with deep auburn hair, a beard to match, and startling green eyes. We’ve never felt anything for each other beyond friendship, which is just one more thing in my life for my parents to be disappointed about.
“I don’t know what his schedule looks like,” I say, trying to walk back what I said, even though Idoknow he doesn’t have anything major going on for the next few weeks. He always takes time off after he publishes, and his third book came out last month.
“Maybe ifIcall him, he’ll make time in his busy schedule to see us,” Mom says, the threat clear. She’s persistent, and Jamie’s too nice to say no.
“I’ll talk to him.” I sigh, defeat pressing down on my shoulders.
We’ve officially covered the two main reasons why they insist we get together on a weekly basis—to needle me about my job and to ask about my love life, or lack thereof—and we haven’t even ordered our meals yet. This is going to be a long night.
Walking into my condo what feels like hours later, I’m completely deflated. Sunday nights with my parents are a killjoy, and that’s saying a lot when I have very little joy in my life to begin with these days.
I slip my boots off and trudge up the stairs to my bedroom. Flopping onto the bed, I type out a message to Jamie.
Me
Soooo, don’t kill me, but you have to come to family dinner next week.
Jamie
What have you done?
Me
I might’ve implied you’re between projects. Mom latched right on to that and threatened to call you herself.
I’m sorry.
