Finding peace, p.14
Finding Peace, page 14
All the swear words. And then some creative combinations I’ve never thought to use before. “I’m not an errant child,” I say. “You can’t give me a stuffed teddy bear with a tracking chip in it and rationalize that it’s for my own good.”
“Calm down, Ethan. I did nothing of the sort. I got a call this morning, and I needed to reach you. It didn’t occur to me to use the car until you didn’t answer your phone, and you weren’t at home.”
Oh. “What’s wrong?”
“We’re being audited.”
Few words in the English language are as awful as the a-word: audit. “By whom, and for what?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“We just lost our first lawsuit on the OTC taxes.”
I blink. “How? They want us to pay taxes on the amount of money that’s held back for a booking by the third party booking agency? We don’t even ever take custody of that amount.”
“The IRS immediately set up an audit of our facilities to determine the exact amount that will be owed if our appeal doesn’t succeed.”
“How far back are they wanting to go?” I knew there was ongoing discussion, but no one thought the government might actually succeed in clawing back extra taxes from the hotels for the booking company’s fees. “We won the other suits, right?”
Dad looks as grim as I’ve ever seen. “They only need one to set up the audits.”
I understand why he tracked me down. “You want preliminary figures for my hotels.”
“Yes.” He glances back at Harrison’s gym.
“And you want me to drop this,” I say. “Clearly.” I turn to walk out to my car. I’ll head for the hotel right away and start to figure out what kind of records we’ve got on these online travel company reservations.
“Not at all.”
I freeze and turn back around slowly. “What?”
“There’s something else I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. Phillip’s—” He spins his hand around and around and then waves his arm through the air. “—release, or whatever you call it, that was a convenient excuse to bring you back home.”
“Oh?” I fold my arms. “What now? You’ve been manufacturing weapons on the side? The family home has burned to the ground? You’re secretly the Easter Bunny?”
Dad rolls his eyes. “Annelise has tired of waiting patiently for me to give her more attention. She’s insisting that if I don’t marry her and retire by year end, she’ll leave me.”
That I did not expect. “Did you try calling her bluff?”
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down when he swallows. “I did.”
My eyes widen. “And?”
“She left me.”
“Did you actually care?”
His lips twist. “Of course I cared. I found it intolerable not to have her in my life.”
Intolerable? Wow, Dad. Such an inspiration. “And what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m stepping down in my role as lead for Trainor Hotels International, effective January 1.”
He couldn’t have shocked me more if he told me he was the Easter bunny. “So why did you want me here in Atlanta?” Except that answer is obvious. He wants me to step in to replace him. He always has. I just figured it would be nine thousand years from now, when his cyborg brain replacement finally wore out and he could not possibly locate one more.
“The Board has always been concerned that you lack the . . . ruthlessness necessary to head a multinational corporation like THI.”
“They’re probably right. You’ve always been ruthless enough for the entire family.”
“But a high-profile corporate executive fighting in the UFC? At the age of thirty?”
“For all you know I’ll be decimated,” I say. “Is that what you want?”
“Please. The only reason you lost in college is that you got scared.”
I splutter. “How did you—you can’t have—what?”
“I may not have microchipped your teddy bear on purpose as an adult, but I’m not so stupid that I sent you to Atlanta as a teenager without keeping tabs on you.” He lifts one eyebrow. “What sort of father do you take me for?”
“You knew I was boxing all along?”
He shrugs. “You were being smart and as safe as possible, and you weren’t brawling in bars, other than that first one.”
“Wait—” It’s like the sky is spinning and the sun is flickering and the world is all wrong. “You knew about my bar fight?”
“You think that bar owner just happened to know the best trainer in Georgia?” Dad laughs. “I forget how naive you are in some ways.”
“You paid him to put me in touch with Harrison?”
“Your coach never knew,” Dad says. “Don’t flip out. I reached out to the bar owner and asked him to pass your name along, and offered a generous travel package if he’d do that in lieu of pressing charges.”
I shake my head. Even for my dad, this is a new low. “And now you want me to fight so that . . . what does this have to do with the lawsuit again?”
Dad smiles. “So much in life is about perception. You’ve been the hapless surfer for so long that you’ve allowed the world to believe it’s who you really are. It’s time for them to see the iron core of Ethan that has always existed beneath that ‘hang ten’ façade.”
“You want me to impress the board by getting my brains knocked out on television?” It still doesn’t compute.
Dad steps closer. “You have always intimidated people, you know.”
At six foot three, I’ve got a few inches on almost anyone in almost every room. With the kind of lean bulk I developed as a boxer and maintained as a surfer, I’ve always been one of the biggest guys in any group too. I suppose I never thought how that might transfer to the way they treat me. Have I been projecting a laid-back surfer persona so that people don’t fear me?
The way I always feared Phillip?
The way I never want anyone to fear me . . . because it would make me like him?
“You lost that Golden Gloves fight because you didn’t want to be an alpha,” Dad says. “But it’s time for you to accept that you can be the scariest person in the room without doing horrible things. You aren’t like Phillip.”
My teeth grind audibly. “With this audit, do you really want my focus split?”
He laughs. “This audit is much bigger than you or I. I’ve got the best team of lawyers on this—far better than the government’s team of reject suits. But with this cloud hanging over us, I won’t give the board any reason not to vote for you as my replacement.”
“Can’t you basically vote me in?” I lift one eyebrow.
“You know I love you,” my dad says.
“Of course I do.” He sucks at showing it, but he does.
“But when I say I won’t give the board a reason, what I really mean is that I’d like you to prove it to me.”
Great. He’s not worried about the board—he’s saying that he can’t support me until he believes that I’m tough enough to do what it takes. “And if I win some ultimate fighting championship match, then you’ll believe that I can do whatever THI needs?”
“It’s a start,” he says.
I always figured I’d eventually take over, but it never occurred to me that he’d make me perform for the position like a circus dog doing tricks. I’d like to throw the keys to the stupid car he bought me in his face and walk away.
But, surprisingly, I actually want to run THI. “Fine,” I say. “But I’m the only one who can approve any monikers.”
“I was thinking ‘The Shark’.”
“You’ve got to be kidding right now.”
“Like the shark tank—you know, a predator, but also a businessman. Think about it.”
Fish out of water, limp gills, big fish in a little pond—the horrible metaphors and jokes are limitless. I won’t turn into some kind of horrifyingly idiotic media stunt by choosing the worst name ever for myself. “Veto.”
I head back to the Riviera to start digging into this disastrous audit—but the second I’m stuck waiting around with nothing to do, I call the local Ford dealership. “Tell me about the new Broncos.” Because I’m not about to keep wearing the stupid dog collar Dad threw around my neck, now that I know it’s there.
I’m just starting to look into the spreadsheets on the OTC payments withheld when Anica texts me back. I’d almost forgotten how irritatingly clingy I was being earlier.
I FEEL PRETTY LOUSY. RAINCHECK?
Crap—she’s sick? Or . . . is she blowing me off? I think back on how we left things. I thought we were in a pretty good place. Then this morning she says she wants to write. She ignores my invite to dinner all day, and then texts to say she “feels lousy.” I better make sure there wasn’t some misunderstanding. I just had a metric ton of trash dumped on my plate, but if anything, it makes me want to see her more. PLEASE TELL ME I DIDN’T SAY SOMETHING STUPID.
Does that sound pathetic? I meant it to be funny, but it might be too heavy-handed. I’m too tired for this. I search “uh-oh” on the gifs tab and find one with an adorable puppy making sad eyes. Surely that will signal that I’m playfully asking, but also kind of serious.
NOT AT ALL, she texts back. JUST DON’T WANT TO GET YOU SICK IF I’M COMING DOWN WITH SOMETHING.
Now I want to see her to make sure she’s okay—and to ensure I’m not being brushed off. Because, of course, if she is making this up, she would double down and insist she is just sick. DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME. IF YOU DECIDE YOU WANT COMPANY, I’M NOT AFRAID OF A COLD. Although, if I go over there, I’ll be up all night working on this. Worth it.
GOOD TO KNOW, BUT I’M STILL GOING TO STAY PUT TONIGHT.
And now I’ve been too pushy. I should be sitting at home, reading her book. Maybe I’d get some guidance or insight there. Instead I’m stuck here, my eyes crossing at row after row of stupid fees from online bookings. I need to leave things on a playful note. FAIR, BUT PROMISE ME ONE THING.
?
I imagine her sitting in bed, her hair piled up on the top of her head, tucked under fluffy covers. Maybe she’s even writing. What could I ask her to promise me? “Dream of me”? No, too cheesy. “Let me know when you feel better”? No, even worse, because I’m trying to keep tabs on her. “Save me a burger”? Sounds like I’m using her for food.
Ugh, why is this part so hard?
She’s a writer, that’s why. I’m on high alert all the time, worried I’ll use words in an idiotic way. I’m a smart guy, but she, of all people, would be sure to pay attention to the context of which words I use and when.
And also . . . ever since I struck out five minutes into our first date, I’ve been waiting for her to axe me.
Keep it light, Ethan. Don’t let your own insecurities ruin this. A joke we’ve already had—what about the book she’s working on? Who did she say looked like me? A doctor who went to third world countries. Right? Alright, how about DON’T GO KISSING ANY HOT DOCTORS, NO MATTER HOW MANY KIDS THEY’VE SAVED WITH EMERGENCY SURGERIES IN SERBIA. That’s not so bad. Playful, and it reminds her that she likes me. And makes her think about our kiss. I click send.
IT’S MONGOLIA, she corrects me. AND I’M NOT MAKING ANY PROMISES.
About not kissing the fictitious doctor version of me. I smile in spite of the lousy day I’ve had. YOU VIXEN.
Before I called Adriana this morning, I read three chapters of her first book. If I weren’t stuck here, I’d be reading the rest right now. I should let her know I’m reading it—bonus points can’t hurt if she’s thinking about blowing me off permanently. WELL, THEN DON’T FAULT ME FOR MAKING OUT WITH A REALLY HOT BARISTA WHO WANTS TO BE A BROADWAY DANCER. Since that’s the main character in that first book—connection drawn between doctor me, and first heroine, Katy, the barista—who is actually quite a lot like Anica.
Or I’m dramatically overthinking this and she now thinks I’m insane. I may not know until the next time I see her—or she successfully avoids me for days and days. I review numbers until my eyes cross, and then I finally head out.
When I reach home, I check the mail on my way inside and discover the title has arrived for my ridiculous Porsche. Perfect. I have an idea of what to do with it, now that I’ve got a new vehicle on the way. Dad’s going to hate it, and that just makes the idea look even better.
12
Anica
The next morning, I go ahead and sign the stupid one-project agency agreement so that Henri can send my proposal to Avon. I’m disappointed, sure, but after a good night’s sleep, I’m not depressed. I’m really no worse off than I was before.
Except I may get a decent chunk of money for something I’m enjoying writing.
It won’t be much compared to the advances on my last three books, but at least there’s no stress over whether it’ll sell through. If it doesn’t sell well, too bad. That’s on Avon. It’s sort of like writing ad copy, or like, the text that goes on a website. I just write it, and then they buy the words, and I’m done. No pass pages, no arguing with an editor, none of the miserable stuff. No royalty checks, but . . . even so.
Easy peasy.
Who cares if Patrick McCleve is flying high with his literary thrillers while I’m writing books that will be put out in someone else’s name? Not me.
I shower and get ready for work—lunch shift all week—and I can’t help wondering whether I’ll see Ethan. Maybe he’ll stop by for a burger. When I climb in my car, I decide to stop being coy. I’m the one who bailed on our plans yesterday, so I may as well be the one to reach out today.
LUNCH SHIFT ALL WEEK FOR ME. YOU?
He doesn’t reply right away, which is a bummer, but I’m not going to be late for work because I sat around staring at my phone for too long. When I reach Golden Gloves and he still hasn’t replied, I’m annoyed. Sometimes I wonder whether texting embodies everything that’s wrong with the world. No one calls anymore. No one works out any details, and why? Because, no worries! I’ll text it all to you. Or, I won’t, and you’ll be left dangling indefinitely.
Gah.
I’m wiping off my last table in preparation to leave when my phone starts to buzz in my pocket. It’s Ethan.
“Hey,” I say.
“You at work?”
I scan the parking lot for an ostentatious blue Porsche, thankful for the wall of windows, but nothing. “I’m just finishing up.”
He groans. “I’m stuck here until late today. We’ve hit a bump.”
“Uh oh,” I say. “That sounds ominous.”
“Ominous? Remind me never to play Scrabble with you.”
“They never play that on Fridays unless a bunch of people are gone. There are too many people to play most nights.”
“You immediately think of game night, huh? Does that mean I’m invited again?” he asks.
I laugh. “I don’t even know whether I’m invited. I’m just staying in the house right now, so they feel obligated to make me welcome.”
“Well, if we slide in for a few more weeks, they’ll probably forget we weren’t ever officially invited.”
We. His casual use of the word ‘we’ sends a little thrill up my spine. “Not a bad plan. But have you considered that they might not be cool enough for us?”
“Uh, yeah, and that’s a fair point. Clearly they aren’t, but sometimes you have to do things for the little people. It’s called being charitably minded. I’m pretty sure you can deduct it on your taxes.”
“Oh man, if Mary could hear you right now, she’d be cringing.”
“You’re saying she doesn’t like tax humor?”
“Oh, she probably does, but I doubt she’d approve of you implying, even in a joke, that you can somehow deduct charitable actions.” I hold my phone between my shoulder and ear and untie my apron, then I wave at Barb. “Because how would you even do that? You can’t put a price on the value of my company.”
“Wait, Mary’s a tax person?” Ethan asks.
“Yeah—she’s between firms right now, but she’s kind of a prodigy.”
“I’m not sure you can be a prodigy if you’re in your thirties.”
“Do you really want to lock horns over semantics with a writer?” I huff. “A prodigy is often used to describe a young person, but it doesn’t have to be used for one.”
Ethan laughs. “I just like to watch you get all riled up.”
“You can’t see me,” I say.
“Fine,” he says. “Hear you get riled up. Is that better?”
I unlock my car. “Not really.” I hope he can’t hear my pout. “Seeing is far preferable.”
“I agree,” he says. “And a lot happened yesterday. What are you doing tonight, maybe on the late side?”
“Probably writing. Speaking of, I have some news too,” I confess. “I sort of have a book on submission with Avon.”
“What?” Ethan whoops, and then I hear someone in the background asking him something. “No, I’m fine, it was, just, never mind.”
“Thanks for the excitement, but I haven’t sold it yet.”
“But you’re out there with it, right?”
“I guess so.”
“I’m proud of you, and before you point it out, I know I have no right to be proud of you. I’m not your dad or your mom or your sibling or whatever, but I’m proud nonetheless.”
“Thanks.” At least when I’m sitting in my car he can’t see me blushing.
“I bet your cheeks are pink right now.”
“For the love,” I say. “I’m going to hang up on you.”
“No you aren’t,” he says, “but I do have to go. We’ve hit a tax snag at work.” He drops his voice to whisper. “We’re being audited. My dad is freaking out, although he’s officially acting calm. But if we lose our appeal, let’s just say we’re going to be in trouble.”
“You really ought to talk to Mary about it. She’s wicked smart and for some reason that stuff just makes sense in her brain. I bet she’d be helpful.”
“I’ll take it under consideration,” he says, “but that’s not the only big thing that shifted yesterday.”
“We really did have a big day yesterday, huh?”
