Page 6 of Fake Shot

Rosie was the first person I mentored, back at the beginning of our program, which we’re now trying to turn into a full-fledged nonprofit so we can help even more people.

“She might be more open to it now than she was when I first asked her,” I say.

“Maybe you can try. Because if we can show that kind of first-hand testimonial, those success stories, I think it’ll be even more clear how this work has the potential to change lives.”

I start to respond, but a man I recognize as the third donor we were hoping to talk to strides up and takes a seat at the high-top table we’re sitting at. “You’re looking for a large-scale donation, is that right?”

“We like to think of it as an investment in women, and an opportunity to improve their job options,” Audrey says.

“So then ...” His voice has the hard edge of someone used to talking about money, but his face is full of interest. He’s handsome in that way older men often are—when they’ve grown comfortable with who they’ve become and are confident in their own skin—but our age difference doesn’tintimidate me. The fact that I’ve accomplished so much by my mid-twenties makes me that much more sure of myself. “ ... tell me more about how this enriches lives.”

“Trade jobs offer steady and dependable work, and yet there’s a shortage of qualified people in almost every construction-related skilled trade. Women make up less than 10% of people in these industries. Our goal is to help bridge that gap—to make sure that there are enough skilled tradespeople by helping to get more women into these professions.”

His eyes slide down my body and then back up to my face. He’s most likely sizing me up, rather than checking me out, but either way, it gives off a slimy vibe that makes me question if he’s the type of person I want to work with.

“I’m intrigued. I want to know more about the success rate of people you’ve mentored and what my role would be as a donor. I have a few hundred grand I’d be interested in donating to the right nonprofit as long as my input is considered in how the money is used. I’d like to talk more about this.” He glances at his watch, which I’m fairly certain costs more than my brand-new truck. “But I’m supposed to be on a flight to Ireland in like forty minutes.”

“Shouldn’t you already be at the airport, then?” Audrey asks, and he coughs out a laugh.

“I just have to get to the helipad a few blocks away, and it’ll take me straight to the jet. Don’t worry about me,” he says. I’m so focused on not cringing at his condescending tone that I almost don’t notice when he turns his attention back to me. “I’ll be back at the end of the week. Maybe we can meet for lunch on Saturday to discuss this further?”

“We already have plans during the day,” I say pleasantly asI gesture between Audrey and me, trying to remind him that she’s part of the conversation. The way he keeps his eyes trained on me makes me think he’s missing my cues.

“Dinner it is, then.”

“I don’t—” I start, ready to tell him dinner won’t work for us because I know Audrey’s going to be busy that night, but it’s a surprise I can’t ruin for her.

“Dinner is perfect.” She smiles brightly as she hands him our business card. “Feel free to email or text the details. We appreciate your time.”

Once he’s gone, I turn toward Audrey. “What the hell? We don’t want him involved in this.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. “Because he said the magic words: a few hundred grand.”

“He’s too pompous for my taste.”

“He’s got three hundred grand he’s willing to sign away, and you’re surprised he’s pompous? Who cares, as long as he’s also interested in giving us money to further a mission we care about deeply? Let’s hear what he has to say, and then we can decide.”

“Fine,” I say, having accepted long ago that I’m incapable of saying no to my siblings. Since I’m the only person who knows the surprise Drew has up his sleeve, I know full-well there is nowewhen it comes to this dinner meeting—I’ll go alone.

The event wraps up quickly after that, and when Audrey and I part on the sidewalk, we say the same thing we always say: “Text me when you’re home.”

She heads toward the Back Bay condo she now shares with Drew and their son, Graham, and I head toward our family brownstone in the South End that, until recently, Ishared with both my siblings and my nephew. But Jameson moved in with his fiancée, Lauren, and her two kids a year ago, and Audrey and Graham moved in with Drew five months ago.

As if he knew I was just thinking about him, my phone rings and Jameson’s name pops up on the screen. “Hey,” I say as I make my way into Copley Square, headed toward the bridge over the Mass Pike that will take me into the South End.

“Hey, I thought you’d be home.”

“Audrey and I just gave a pitch to some potential donors?—”

“For the nonprofit?” Jameson’s question cuts me off. He’s technically a silent owner of Our House, and even though he remains 100% uninvolved in the day-to-day, he does like to know what’s going on.

“Yes, for the nonprofit, not the business.”

“Remind me why I can’t be your investor in that?” he says. He’s been an agent for several of the NHL’s best players for many years. Given how many players he represents, he makes more than the highest paid players in the league. And he’s nothing if not generous, but Audrey and I want this program to stand on its own merit, not because our brother invested in it.

“We don’t need to have this conversation again. Anyway, I’m on my way home now,” I say, coming to a stop at one of the crosswalks in Copley Square. “Are you there?”

“Yeah. See you in a few minutes.”

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