I shouldn’t have worn this dress.
And if I’d known that Brandon would be here ahead of time, I don’t think I’d have come.
That asshole.
Who thinks it’s okay to have idle chats with his buddies while I’m right here. While he’s been sitting a foot away, not so much as glancing in my direction more than a time or two. Like he’s annoyed that I’m here because this was supposed to be man to man. Dad already said Brandon is the guy he wants for the VP job, so this is just the last test — the final effort to make sure that Brandon can play the role now that Dad’s decided.
I wish he’d just tell him already. Get this over with so I can stop wondering whether Brandon should be my boss or not, and at what level.
Dad shows up, to my left and Brandon’s right. But there’s no seat between us, and he was on my other side. He’s making no move to take his seat, or sit down.
He sets something on the table. It’s a credit card, cobalt, with a finish that’s not glossy, but matte like satin. And of course he’s put it in front of Brandon, not me. Not his daughter, whose name is literally on the card, in the company position.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I have to leave.”
Brandon looks disappointed. I suppose he was expecting final word on his promotion, and now he sees he’s not about to get it. Following the text debacle, this makes me spitefully happy. Let him keep waiting. God knows, I still am.
“What?” I ask. “Why?”
“It’s a business thing. Margo heard from one of our people who … well, don’t worry about it. I’ll tell you tomorrow.” His face tries softens, but I can tell this bugs him — not because he wanted dinner, but because he’s running out on me. And at least there’s that. Dad and Brandon have been ignoring me and Brandon’s sister to talk about stuff that orbits the company without actually being business, but when it comes down to it, it’s me he’s loath to disappoint, not Brandon.
I decide to ignore his “it’s a business thing” brush-off. As if I wouldn’t understand. At least he’s not explaining to Brandon.
“But please. Dinner is on its way. Enjoy.” He looks at me. “Bring me home a doggy bag or something.”
To my surprise, Brandon looks up at my father and says, “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Dad looks almost amused. “Of course it is. It’s our VC guy. His assistant left a message for Margo, saying he’s pulling out. And you know we have that big acquisition meeting in the morning.”
So much for Dad not telling Brandon.
“A message? Margo didn’t talk to her? Or to him? Margo didn’t confirm?”
“I told you earlier. Tom is at the Hunt Club. I can just pop over.”
“Or you could call.”
“It’s not a fifty-dollar investment, Brandon. This needs to be handled in person.”
“But if you don’t confirm … ”
“Why would I need to confirm?”
Brandon’s eyes flick toward me for some reason. “Anyone could have left that message.”
“What,” he says, “you think someone is messing with me for no reason?” He gives me a sideways grin then slaps Brandon on the back. “Remember the meeting. Tomorrow, 7 a.m., at the office. Don’t run off to Stonegate and forget, okay? I already told everyone my new … well, a strong Land Acquisition up-and-comer will be there.”
“Sure,” Brandon says, clearly looking for another way to object.
“Don’t forget. You won’t forget, will you?”
“No.”
“Good. Because if we bust this meeting, Tom really will walk.” Another grin, this one bigger. “And don’t worry. I’ll get him to the meeting. Then it’s your job to make our case.”
Brandon nods, but I can tell he’s uncomfortable. They talked through a lot of this earlier, and it’s clear that Brandon doesn’t feel confident that he can convince funding to stand behind our newest acquisition. But if he doesn’t want the big seat, he’d better back off now.
Dad leans toward me and gives me a little kiss on the cheek. Before Brandon knows what hit him, he’s already across the room.
Finally, torturously, Brandon turns halfway toward me. “I guess it’s just us then.”
For some reason, those six words give me a chill. Or is it a thrill?
“Us and your sister,” I clarify.
“Right,” Brandon says, his face unreadable.
“Where is she, anyway?” I have no idea how much time has passed because the clock ticks slowly when you’re at a table beside someone who both irritates and draws you while you’re each refusing to speak under the weight of the strangeness between you.
I’m considering letting Brandon off the hook — saying we should call off dinner and go home — when the food arrives.
Brandon picks up his glass of wine. I think he’s going to toast for some bizarre reason, but instead he drinks half of it.
“Dinner’s here,” he says, glancing at the two empty places. “How nice.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Riley
AN HOUR AND A HALF later, the dessert plates are cleared, and I’m disliking Brandon’s standoffish behavior a whole lot less.
Because I’m on my third glass of wine, and I’m a lightweight. And Brandon, after finishing his second glass, ordered scotch. He did it in a grand manner, announcing that when you were at a place like this, you had to drink scotch. Then he said there was a fancy way to order scotch but didn’t know it and never remembered which was better: single-malt or double. He asked the waiter for “all the malts you have” and the waiter turned away with a very French look on his face.
We’re not drunk. I might be teetering, but really I’m happy. Part of me wonders if it was wise to finish dinner, let alone order dessert — and that same part wonders if it was wise to stay beyond that, to order coffee and to get this third glass of wine. The two definitely don’t mix.
But I don’t really care.
None of that was wise. And when my father left, Brandon became more guarded, less pleasant. We ate in silence for a while as if fulfilling a prison sentence. Brandon wanted to mumble about Dad leaving — not because he’d been discourteous to go, but because whatever it was that had stolen him was, in Brandon’s mind, not just unnecessary but downright unimportant.
I thought that was presumptuous. So I kept my head down, too. I counted asparagus shoots, lining them up on my plate to keep them parallel. Brandon seemed to see me doing it and was about to say something when I realized that Bridget still hadn’t returned.
“Wait,” I said, looking around as if I’d heard a strange sound, “where is your sister?”
And Brandon, his head still down, said, “She had chili for lunch.”
I laughed hard enough that an old man shushed me from one table over. He put a finger to his lips and gave me the evil eye. His wife turned fully in her seat, putting her hand on the back to pivot far enough to stress her diamond-encrusted artificial hip. That thought made me laugh harder, and that’s when I remembered how long it had been since I’d had more than a single glass of wine, and the one in front of me had been generous.
“Seriously,” said Brandon.
The thought of running into the restroom to comfort poor diarrhetic Bridget got me giggling again and earned me a second look from the old couple.