It’s not my favorite way to do business.
Greg gives me an encouraging gesture. “Why don’t you introduce yourself to the team? They’re all curious about our new superstar. Tell us about you. And your vision.”
Jesus, Greg. My vision? A little warning would have been nice, but oh-fucking-kay. I stand up and put my hands in my pockets. “I’m Will Leblanc, CEO of Summit Equity. Happy to be here. My goal has always been to give worthwhile ideas a worthy platform. I’m not interested in flashy, insubstantial things. I want to make a real impact on the world. That’s what we’ve been doing at Summit. We’ll do even greater things together.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” says Greg, and this time the applause is warm. Genuine.
But Mitchell, the numbers guy, frowns a little bit. He glances at his iPad. If he’s anything like Emerson, then he’s the bellwether of this situation. His obsession with the business might not approach the way Emerson is obsessed with art, but that frown means something.
“This week, we’re going to take concrete steps to making that vision come to life. We’re going to maximize profits and impact, and of course that’ll take some restructuring.”
Greg looks at me. They’re all looking at me. What the fuck is he talking about? Restructuring wasn’t part of the deal. The coffee mug feels flimsy in my hand. “Of course.”
“I knew you’d be on board. Page two of our transition plan will have the broad strokes, and—”
He starts rattling off orders.
The words blur together but they all mean the same thing. They mean that he’s chopping Summit into tiny pieces and using it for scrap while they take me for the brain trust at Hughes.
My blood feels hot. My fists ache. I want to fight someone. Greg, probably. This is not what I signed up for. He’s taking my people, siphoning them off, and there’s no outlet for the rage that’s reached a rolling boil.
I don’t stand up and call the whole thing off, though it’s a near goddamn thing. Christa would tell me to count to a hundred. I count to two hundred. At the end of the meeting, I’m up to eight hundred and ready to box the entire conference room.
The secretary finishes up her notes. People file out, chatting to one another about carving up my company like a rusted-out car. I don’t punch anyone. I should get a Nobel Peace Prize for that.
In the hall, I catch Greg by the elbow before he can pick up speed to head back to his office. “What the hell was that?”
He blinks, forehead wrinkling in what looks like genuine confusion. “Something wrong, Will?”
Greg’s such a glad-handing corporate fuckboy that he doesn’t even understand why I’d be upset. He’d be happy for this to happen. “You’re dismantling my company and selling off our assets to random teams. I protected all this in the merger. It was in the contract.”
He takes a step toward the wall, pulling me with him. Greg gives someone a nod and a smile. Then he focuses back on me. “Listen. If I had known you were going to be upset, I would’ve sent more details about the agenda.” This quiet tone is meant to be soothing, but I’m not soothed. Plus, he’s lying. “But we followed the terms of the contract to a T. Your people will all keep the same salary, the same benefits package, and the same level of responsibility and prestige. The only thing that changes is their position within the company structure.”
This is like getting my first look at Mountain Man in the ring. It’s the sensation of being deeply, truly fucked.
Greg and his precious Hughes Industries are going to follow the letter of the contract, but not the spirit. And I already signed. We’re already in this building. I already left Bristol.
“Why would you want to split us up?” The coffee mug is about to shatter in my hand. “We were doing good work together. All the things that made you notice us.”
“It was small time.” It’s not unkind, the way he says it. Just matter-of-fact. “This is how football works when you’re in the NFL, and you play for us now. You’re our new quarterback.” Greg slaps me on the arm. “So suit up, Willie. It’s game time.”
3
BRISTOL
The thing about ten-year-olds is that they don’t sleep in very long.
Mia and Ben are the best siblings anybody could ask for, but they’re still kids. In a few years they’ll be teenagers and wanting to sleep in all the time, which is…farther ahead than I want to think. It seems surreal to imagine that my dad could still be missing when they hit thirteen, so I don’t imagine it.
I’m tired.
They woke up just before seven this morning.
Maybe it’s because they’re twins. What is it? Do they get lonely in their sleep and wake up to talk it out? They make an effort to be quiet, but the math just isn’t in our favor. A beautifully refurbished tiny apartment is still a tiny apartment.
“Seriously?” Mia sounds half-annoyed, half-amused. “You can’t do that.”
“Those are the rules.” There’s a rustling, as if Ben has opened a guidebook. “Look. Right here. Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to know all the rules?”
She groans. “The rules always go your way.”
“Not true.”
“So true.”
“Guys.” I throw my hand over my arm and nestle further into the couch. The board game they’re playing in the middle of the living room involves storytelling and math and battles, so both of them love it. I would love a nap. In the quiet pauses, I keep drifting off.
“Bristol wants to sleep,” Ben scolds.
“Go to sleep.” Mia’s voice is no louder than the breeze outside. “Take a nap. We’ll stop being so loud.”
“You guys are good kids.” They really are. I can’t imagine how stressful it would be if they gave me a hard time. If they didn’t trust me.
“Thank you,” Mia whispers. “Please stop making the fancy meatballs. They feel awful in my mouth.”
I don’t uncover my eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.” More whispering. “Go to sleep…”
The soft rustle of the guidebook and the clack-clack-clack of the dice fade slowly into the background. Building C is shitty. My heart is unreasonably broken over Will. But this isn’t so bad.
We’re okay.
For now.
I feel the dream coming on slowly, sound first. Waves rolling on the beach. Sun, warm on my face. No missing dad. No broken heart.
The doorbell rings.
Will.
My mind goes to him without hesitating. Will with his hands in his pockets and bruises on his face. Will with flowers and an apology. Will begging me to come back.
I hop up from the couch, pushing all those thoughts away. That’s living in a dream world. He’s not coming back. My heart helpfully ignores the truth and beats hard on the way to check the peephole. A quick lift on tiptoe, and—
It’s not Will.
It’s my brother.
“Sean!” I open the door and throw my arms around him. He’s wearing military fatigues and a black T-shirt, and he has a backpack slung over his shoulder. My older brother hugs me tight. He smells like sturdy cotton and a fall breeze. “Where’s your coat?”