Page 58 of Hate You Later
Her look of molten hatred makes me regret saying it the moment it comes out. It’s kind of a low blow. But then again, there’s no reason she needs to make me her personal punching bag, is there?
I’m reminded of another cliché, one that didn’t show up in the conversation with Cookie last night.
No good deed goes unpunished.
Making my excuses, I slide out of the booth. I can still feel the imprint of Georgia’s thigh and the smoldering, green heat of her glare when I get in my car.
Could there be any truth to her accusations? I dread the task that lies ahead of me.
* * *
Oliver watches me pacing, head turning back and forth like a spectator at a sporting event. I take a long pull of my beer, stopping by the floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s getting dark out. Twinkling lights reflect off the river. Normally, I love the nighttime view. It’s like watching fireflies. But tonight, I’m too unsettled to enjoy it.
My laptop is already set up on a work table next to the chaise. I sigh and speak to the cat. “May as well get this over with, right, buddy?”
Oliver rises, stretches, and comes to sit beside me, purring his approval. I type in the URL.
The Farm & Holm Pet Supplies site loads quickly. There’s our familiar logo, front and center. A pop up chatbot dog named “Max the Retriever” offers me his assistance. There’s also a flashing banner advertising “New for Boo!” that links directly to Farm & Holm’s brand-new pet clothing collection. Bryce’s collection.
Already, I can spy some duplicate themes. I have a bad feeling about this.
I open up a second browser window and pull up the Celestial Pets website, clicking into the album of Georgia’s designs, past and present. I recognize the doctor scrubs and a few of the other costumes that I purchased last week in the store. Her collection is larger and more bespoke. Many of her costumes are one-offs. I hold my breath, hoping that my initial impression was wrong.
But when I rearrange my screen and view the two sites side by side, I do see it. I really do.
The similarities are undeniable. Every single one of the twelve designs on the Farm & Holm site corresponds to a nearly identical version of one of Georgia’s costumes.
A clammy wave of shame rolls over me, leaving me feeling nauseated. But it doesn’t last too long. It’s replaced by a white-hot bolt of anger. None of this is my doing.
I screen-shoot the two pages, side by side, and open the images in markup, using different colors to circle and link the matching outfits. It’s like I’m doing some kind of children’s worksheet where you match the frogs. Except this isn’t a game.
Our lawyers are going to make a meal of this. I can already see the bills rolling in. And if this gets out to the press? To our investors?
I save the image I’m working on with all the circled matches and attach it to an email addressed to Bryce, cc’d to Walker.
Subject line: What the actual fuck?
As soon as I hear the whoosh, indicating the mail’s been sent, I open my laptop and call the boat.
Walker picks up almost immediately. I can see he’s a little sunburned. He’s lounging in bed, reading a book. Stone-cold sober. So much for the bachelor party. This looks oddly like a normal vacation.
“Two calls from my firstborn son in one week!” Walker greets me. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“We’ve got a problem,” I say. “Where’s Bryce?”
“No clue,” says Walker. “Fiji maybe? He messaged yesterday that he was meeting up with some friends.”
“I thought the whole point of getting Bryce out of Ephron was to keep him out of trouble. Shouldn’t you be keeping an eye on him?”
“I’m not a babysitter,” Walker scoffs, “and Bryce is a grown man.”
I get to the point. “Right. Well, here’s the deal. We’ve been accused of knocking off products. Take a look at the email I just sent you.”
I wait patiently while my father pulls up the email, puts on a pair of reading glasses, and reviews the image I’ve sent.
“Dammit. This doesn’t look good,” he agrees. “You’re going to have to alert legal.”
“I know.”
