Page 27 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“Something that should have happened a long time ago. I quit the family business.”
Adam whistles.
“Can I crash on your couch tonight?”
“Of course.”
There’s a tap on my door. “I gotta go.”
“Yeah. Go. Door’s unlocked. We’ll get sushi when you show up. There’s this amazing place I found last week. Small plates. You’ll love it.”
I hang up as Adam is trailing on about his latest hole-in-the-wall gem. Mom is standing in my door.
“I thought you were golfing.”
“Forgot my gloves.” Mom waves a canary yellow and white leather pair in the air. “I left your father at the driving range and came back to get them.”
She looks me up and down, a hand on the back of her hip. Dad swears the first femaleStarship Cruisercaptain was based on her. Thirty years ago, they were at lunch in Santa Monica at some exclusive café, and Mom negotiated her way to a table despite her lack of a reservation. That table just happened to be next to some producer, and I’d like to pretend that there is zero credibility to this story, but whenever I watch oldStarship Cruiser Pathfinderepisodes, I wonder.
Of course, anyone who sees Molly McKinney negotiate would peg her for aStarship Cruisercaptain. And that’s why I have to move the heck out. Even being a cactus in this family comes with too many expectations to live up to.
“I’m willing to cut a deal.”
I straighten. A little stiffly. Yoga on the beach is a top priority. Yoga on the beach and other forms of self-care that I’ve been eschewing.
“Do I have your attention?”
“Mom, your deals never favor anyone but you.”
“I’m flattered you noticed.” Mom adjusts a cactus on my bookshelf, turning it so the single bloom faces outward. “I will take care of your exit plan at the firm, ensuring that you leave gracefully and all the bridges that you worked hard to build remain intact.”
I cram all the sports bras I can find into the side pocket of my bag. “In exchange for?”
“You agree to call this a sabbatical. You keep all your licensees active, pay your California State Bar fees and the ones to all those databases. You expand your TBR pile to include a healthy portion of law articles”—Mom adds the stack of law books on my desk and my legal pads to my bag—“so that in a year when you’veworked whatever this is out of your system, you can save face by publishing some sort of scholarly article and slide back into your career.”
I’m about to throw the books out of my duffel, but Mom keeps her hand on the stack. “Additionally, we meet as regularly as I deem fit to discuss what you’ve been researching.”
“You’re not an academic or a lawyer, Mom.”
“But I’m more than capable of monitoring your progress and making sure you are not selling drugs on the corner of Grand and Balboa.”
Seriously? “Like anyone would hustle on street corners in the digital age.”
Mom isn’t smiling.
“That was a joke.”
“We can call my check-ins a lunch date to save face. Do we have a deal?”
As if! I groan, but ghosting an employer, even if he is your father, isn’t good business. Still, two weeks’ notice sounds unbearable. All the memos I’d have to write and clients I’d have to pawn off on other associates. Mom is offering to make it all go away. And she is better at navigating all the messy, interpersonal nonsense than I’ve ever been.
“I’m waiting.” Mom inspects her golf gloves.
“The frequency of our ‘check-ins’ cannot exceed the limit of one lunch-hour meeting per quarter.”
“One lunch-hour meeting per month, and you have a deal.” Mom straightens the duvet on my bed. “It should be no problem since you’ll have all that flexibility that comes with hustle culture.”
“Vibing.”
