Page 8 of This or That
Anyway, enough of that trip down memory lane. Today is a good day, and I refuse to let this sour my mood.
No matter how hard I try, with each passing hour, I grow more restless. I can’t make sense of why this upcoming event is affecting me this way. Wolfing down my dinner at record speed doesn’t help my stomach, which is already in knots.
Once I’m behind my station setting up the first mix, I’m finally able to relax. My shoulders aren’t so stiff. My chest isn’t so tight. My legs aren’t so wobbly. I’ve got this.
Let’s get this show on the road.
ASAP.
Chapter 6
Fortunate Son
Mike
“Did you hear a word I said?” Pacing the room, an exasperated sigh escapes my mouth. There’s a grumble at the other end of the line. “What was I thinking? Of course, you didn’thear…” My annoyance grows. “Because first, you’d have tolisten, and you never do.”
“Watch your tone, son.” His proverbial bitterness makes a comeback.
Can’t blame it on the early hour on your side of the ocean, since you’re already at work with your minions!
Criminal law will do that to you, he claims. I’ve lost interest in finding out for myself. I’ve lost interest in trying to please the despot. I’ve lost interest in contorting to his vision of the perfect son. To this day, I have no clue what my mother saw in him. Granted, they were young and set up by their parents for the sole purpose of producing an heir for a privileged Bostonian lineage. A marriage that fell apart within a couple of years. A baby that arrived too late to save it. An accident that labeled me as weak and hasted my disgrace in my father’s rigid view.
Fuck my life!
Thank God, my mom’s his polar opposite. Chatty. Colorful. Fun. I know you’re not supposed to be friends with a parent, but we’re a mere twenty years apart and have an unbelievably tight bond; husband number two was good to her but didn’t accept me, and we were a package deal. So now, we’re both single.
I shut my eyes to collect my thoughts, debating between hanging up, arguing, and dropping the issue. Without registering what I’m doing, I increase my pace and bump into the giant bed.
“Dammit!”
“Let’s just pretend I didn’thearthat, Michael.” He emphasizes the same word I did previously. Infuriated, I explain that my cursing wasn’t directed at him. Nobody talks back to Edward Clayton III. “When will you be back in New York?”His casual tone doesn’t fool me. For some egotistical reason, he wants me to practice law at his firm, although my specialty is corporate law. He continues to try to bully me into the prodigal son that he basically abandoned while I was confined to a hospital bed. It took me over a decade to show him my worth, and even then, I wasn’t enough. I’m still not enough. I won’t ever be enough. But apparently, I can’t let go.
Clearing my throat, I struggle to control my voice, but it shakes. “It’s not part of the plan for now.” I stop in my tracks, my eyes on the espresso machine. He coughs in response, obviously unhappy with my reply. I rein in my temper to suppress an impending sigh.As a diversion, I put the phone on speaker and whip up a coffee. “First, I have to get to Rio. Second, I plan to travel the continent for a couple of months. Third, I will use my open-ended ticket to go back to New York. Not sure when.” I don’t confess that I’m subletting my luxurious Greenwich Village brownstone or he’ll go ballistic.
“I figured it’d take a few more months.” His even tone grates my nerves, and I have the hardest time working on my breathing like the yoga instructor that my mom hired after my hospital stay taught me two decades ago. “I made an appointment for you with our HR department, so you’re all set upon your return.”
What’s the point in arguing? Fuming at his dictatorial manners, I rub the back of my neck. My bare feet firmly rooted in the plush carpet, I stare at the screen, then, of course, scald my tongue with the coffee.
Fuck! I inwardly scold myself, grumble, and graze my tongue along my front teeth to soothe the ache. Over the years, I’ve become a master at brushing aside pain, whether physical or emotional. I guess my accident numbed my senses, and I prefer to ignore it altogether, along with his lack of parental skills and my impatience.
Nah, strike that, I don’t overlook pain. I don’t allow it to affect me anymore. Physical therapy was a bitch, and I faced it head-on. The only thing I still can’t deal with is needles. Too soon. Too many. Too late.
Once I was discharged from the hospital, I chose the path of least resistance and shaped a new persona in the ridiculous hope that it’d please the fucker and the likes of him. No wonder Ella called mePoker Face Mikeby the time she carelessly cut me out of her life. Like my mom did to my dad. Like my dad did to me.
Fuck my life!
Getting back on the horse took some serious initiative and endless talks with my mom. The first step had been my new career. That’s why I moved to Paris; with the help of one of my father’s connections, the transition was almost seamless. That's how I became the oldest intern in the fashion industry; I may not even be kidding since I’m twenty-seven. That’s how I met my new international friends who accompanied me to the club the night a cowboy hat turned my life upside down. But that’s not how I met Matteo. My best friend and I go way back. We bonded over common wounds that I’d rather not dwell on. What matters is that, in turn, he introduced me to his closest friends from his Swiss boarding school: British aristocrats Simon and James, and Alex, the Scandinavian GQ look-alike. We instantly became friends, and I’ll be his best man next month.
“It’d do you some good to give up on this ridiculous whim. Get your life back together. Make your mother and me proud.” His statement is delivered so casually that it takes me a second to wrap my head around it. A bead of sweat trickles down my forehead as I process his comment. Time and time again, I’ve explained that I decided to follow Grandma Lizzie’s passion; no matter how wealthy my grandma was, she favored designing and sewing my mom’s clothes for a unique wardrobe and perfect fit.
Save your breath, Clayton.
A witty comeback is useless, and we’re miles apart anyway. I groan nonetheless, pissed that he brought up my mom, although they aren’t on speaking terms. She’s the one person who’s stood by my side every step of the way. It doesn’t make a difference that we haven’t connected lately—stupid time zones!—sheisproud of me.
“Okay, Dad,” I agree, knowing full well that he disapproves of the word he considers a term of endearment. I mutely count to three, assuming he’ll cut me off. When he doesn’t, I continue, “I’ll text you to confirm the appointment when I’m ready to board the plane.” With my half-lie, he wishes me a good trip, which is probably one of the nicest things he’s said in months.
Fuck my life!
