Page 11 of Fighting

“Boss man,” I say as I knock on his open doorframe.

He nods and waves me in, and I close the door behind me.

I drop into a chair and heave out a long breath. “I need a fucking break, Chip.”

“Matty, you close this pending deal with Reynolds, and you can take the rest of the year off for all I fucking care. Just get them to sign over the Park Ave luxury apartments, and I’ll sign off on your sabbatical.”

My gut twists. “It’s not going to happen. He’s dodged me all summer, and nothing we’ve put in front of him is good enough in his mind.” It kills me to do it, but I know when to fold.

“That’s not the can-do attitude we expect around here.” He straightens and laces his fingers on top of his desk. “This negativity isn’t good for team morale. Let’s review what you’ve done again.”

I shake my head. “We need to pivot. Maybe put someone else on this account and let me try my hand elsewhere. I’ve exhausted all my resources.”

“That isn’t your decision to make. I don’t understand why you are giving up.”

Blood simmering, I grit my teeth. “In the past, you’ve let other people take a rotation when the Reynoldses weren’t cracking. Why not me?”

“This isn’t about anyone else. It’s about you and only you.” His tone is now sharp.

“I’m just say?—”

“No. You’re not. If you can’t do this, then you’re done.” His acidic words land hard, the vein in his forehead protruding. “You have one hour to clean out your office and get out. You’ve been making excuses for months now. And this pathetic attempt to cast blame on others? It’s beyond unacceptable.”

His anger has cooled to ice.

“And don’t forget about the noncompete clause in your contract. If you so much as sneeze in the direction of my clients, I will bury you in legal fees. You’re done in this city. Now, get the fuck out of my office.”

Numb with shock, I stand. It’s an out-of-body experience. Like I’m hovering in the corner, watching the scene unfold. Finally, I find enough sense to say, “Please forward all the parting documents to my legal team. We’ll look them over and get back to you.”

With that, I stride from the room and pack up my things.

With a growl,I slam the bank box down on the marble island in the penthouse I’ve come to loathe for how cold and empty it feels and take inventory of my life.

I can easily live off the dividends of my investments, thank fuck. I can thank Susan Santos-Manolo for that. She would never let me spend recklessly. I have everything I need. Yet I have nothing I want.

Everything is going to be fine.

I repeat the phrase, willing myself to believe it. It’s no use. It’s overpowered by other voices. Voices that remind me that I’m nothing but a good-time person, not a serious person. It started in high school; I never got great grades, but I excelled in sports and with friends. This continued in college and then through my twenties in the city. Now, in my early thirties, it’s become frustrating.

I might have plenty now, but the blue-collar kid raised by immigrants in a small town is still in here. Maybe if I can find him again, those stuck feelings will go away.

Maybe some interaction with Nessa will help. Just being around her energizes me.

Fuck yeah. I know exactly how to pull this off.

Mateo:

Did you find an apartment yet?

Stef:

Not any good ones. There are a few maybes on the list.

Mateo:

How does a semester-long house-swap sound?

Stef:

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