Page 54 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
“The universe,” Marc said with the controlled patience of a man talking himself off the ledge, “is not a reliable event coordinator.”
“And someone having a death grip on a spreadsheet isn’t either, because the second one thing goes sideways, they short-circuit.”
“I don’tshort-circuit.”
Glamma made a strangled sound like she’d turned her scoffing into a cough.
Marc shook his head. “At least I don’t rely on the whim of the universe to make things succeed.”
Asshole.“Having a healthy dose of positivity and putting our intentions out into the universe isn’t me not putting in the work that’s needed. It’s allowing for opportunities to land in your lap to make those dreams happen.”
Martha beamed like she was watching her favorite drama. “So one of you builds the spreadsheet,” she said, making a note, “and the other burns the sage to clear the negative energy of the room. It looks like you’re fully covered.”
“Why are you a planner, Marc?” Glamma asked, her voice carrying that gentle authority that made you answer because it was expected.
He went still for a moment. Just a half-beat. “So things don’t fall apart.” He said it simply, very matter-of-fact. “I can anticipate issues in advance and resolve them before they become problems. If I understand how people will likely react, I can address it before it escalates.”
I waited for the punchline. For the add-on about how other people couldn’t be relied on to manage themselves, which was the subtext I’d always assumed lived inside that particular quality of his.
It didn’t come.
He has to think hard about how people will react.
I turned that over in my head. Held it up to the light of the last twenty years and looked at it from a different angle.
“Marc’s always needed more structure than most,” Glamma said, her voice a cross between fondness and being matter-of-fact too. “His brain likes blueprints.”
Marc’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly. “Glamma.”
She waved him off. “It’s not a state secret, sweetheart.”
“I process things differently,” Marc responded, his tone clipped—not embarrassed, but like he was braced for incoming criticism. “It can sometimes make things challenging. I’ve gotten better over the years, with practice.”
Oh.
I thought about all the summers. All the arguments. The way he seemed to get more rigid the more chaotic a situation became. The way he double-checked details that most people would consider over-kill. The way he sometimes said the wrong thing with complete sincerity, like he’d calculated the correct response but the delivery had gotten lost.
How had I never questioned why? I’d just decided what it was—ego, control, condescension—and filed it away. I was embarrassed to admit it, even just to myself. But as much as I thought I understood Marc, my anger toward him ran so deep that when he got under my skin, it was easy to forget what I knew.
I was starting to think my filing system was broken.
Glamma’s arm brushed against mine.
I stared at the table. I couldn’t do anything else. NowIfelt like the asshole.
Then she hummed as though she could read my thoughts and approved of them.
Goldie picked up the next card. “What’s the one thing that makes you feel competent?”
“Having all the information and being able to act on it,” Marc answered.
Simple. Direct. To the point. No emotion.
Pens moved across clipboards. I thought about it. Information was security for him. Not ego or arrogance—it was armor. The same way my noise was armor. Different style. Same function.
I took a breath and let it out. “When someone trusts me to handle something without questioning my every choice.”
I hadn’t meant to say it with that particular nuance. I hadn’t meant to make it personal. But the room was apparently operating on an honesty-only policy, and I’d gotten caught in their well-thought-out trap.
