Page 91 of Betting on the Boy Next Door
I follow Roger out of the conference room. He pauses where we’ll still be in sight of the NewTekk board.
“Look at me like you’re considering what I have to say thoughtfully, not like I’m going to tear you a new one,” Roger says.
I rearrange my expression to my best active listening face.
“Keep it like that for the next few minutes because I’m absolutely going to tear you a new one.” And he does, for the next three minutes. He is a master, keeping his expression thoughtful, pausing a few times to say things like “do you understand me, you entitled little puke?” I nod and fight to keep my expression even each time. He’s right. I have no excuse. None.
“There’s only one way out of this,” he concludes, “and you better pray it works, because if it doesn’t, I may not be able to talk your father into firing you, but I will absolutely get you blocked from the partner track for the next two votes.Minimum. Got it?”
I want to say,It was a stupid autofill error.I want to say,It’s the first major mistake I’ve made since I started working here. I want to say,You’ve had it out for me since I started.
But I can’t say any of those things, because when it comes down to it, he’s right. There’s no excuse.
I nod. “Got it.”
“Good. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go in and acknowledge that this was a careless mistake on your part. We will inform them that you are being reassigned, and I will be handling their business from this point forward. We will also be waiving your billable hours for the next month as you transition everything over to a newseniorassociate. Understand? Smile and nod if you do.”
I smile and nod. It’s the only thing Icando.
When we walk into the boardroom, I stop to face the NewTekk board. “My apologies for the oversight on the email autofill. This is not the standard our firm holds itself to, and we will not be making that mistake again.”
Darvesh nods in acknowledgment, and I take my seat as Roger continues the reassurances. “I’ll be overseeing your account personally from this point on, bringing twenty years of experience with tech firms with me. As a sign of good faith, we will not be billing you for Josh’s hours during that transition.”
It’s a substantial savings—over ten thousand dollars.
I hold my breath, hoping they accept the terms, hoping that I haven’t just blown a massive hole in the bottom line of the firm’s profits.
Darvesh and Tony Workman—the board VP and the guy whoshouldhave gotten the email—turn and confer. They each look at the other three board members, and when no one raises more than an eyebrow, Darvesh nods. “We accept. We’ll stay with you so long as there are no more oversights.”
“Understood,” Roger says, and I know it’s galling him to be reprimanded like he’s a first-year associate.
The rest of the meeting continues with Brower and Moore as the NewTekk legal counsel, but this isn’t even close to over for me, and I try not to fixate on how my dad is going to take this. I force myself to stay focused by digging my nails into my palms every time my attention wanders, either to the coming reckoning with him or just due to tiredness.
It’s no surprise when within five minutes of returning from a lunch grabbed at the sandwich cart on the sidewalk, my secretary informs me my dad is on the line.
I take a deep breath and answer. “This is Josh.”
“My office. Now.”
“Youlooklikehell,”he says when I walk into his office three minutes later.
“I’m fine, Dad.” Or I will be as soon as we get this verbal whupping over with. I deserve it, but I’m not looking forward to it.
I take a seat and brace myself. When he used to read me the riot act during college and law school, he could go for an hour without a word from me, pulling up all past sins and warning me against future ones. The memory exhausts me, and a yawn escapes me before I can stop it, but I try, clenching my teeth together halfway through it and causing my jaw to lock and my face to temporarily contort.
“Am I boring you already?” His voice is acid.
“No, sorry. I tried to stop it.” I hope he sees that I’m already responding differently to him than I have in the past. I owe him humility; I’m not going to smart off.
He peers at me, leaning forward to study me. “You’ve got circles under your eyes. Why are you so tired?” He doesn’t ask it with concern; there’s a tone I don’t recognize in his voice.
“Insomnia,” I say.
“Is that the name of the concert you went to last night?”
That’s not at all what I expected him to say. “What are you talking about?”
“Reagan called this morning. She was worried. Said she was scrolling through Instagram or something and saw you tagged in a post. She said it’s a video of you and a bunch of friends at a concert. Those run pretty late, don’t they?”
