Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Confusion wars with the anger I’ve been stoking. I try to form a coherent thought, but what comes out of my mouth is, “What?”
Gentler, she repeats, “You’re a good guy, Carson. I keep telling you that. I don’t care about this whole image your dad thinks you’ve got that he doesn’t approve of. I mean, seriously . . . a motorcycle? Ooh . . .” She holds her hands out, wobbling them and her head to show how ridiculous she thinks that is. “I know dentists and priests who ride motorcycles, gambling on sports with discretional money while maintaining good credit. Unbelievable!” She throws her hand to her head, as if that’s catastrophic, and then rolls her eyes. “Hell, I wouldn’t care if you’d been fucking your friend on the deck of that boat. People have done worse.”
Before I can correct that one, she keeps ranting.
“You show up, do your best, are a good leader, have creative ideas, and listen to others, and as evidenced by the sand burns on my knees, you’re willing to take risks when warranted. I see all that and more in you. But you have to see it in yourself.”
I’ve never been put in my place quite so well, especially with praise.
“Is that how you see me?” I ask cautiously. There’s something beginning to bloom inside me that’s much more powerful than a desire to make my dad proud. A desire to make Jayme proud. And a pride in myself.
If asked a few weeks ago, I would’ve confessed to a bit of an ego. I’m more than satisfied with myself and my work, happy to brag about the good things my department has accomplished under my leadership, and smugly assume that I’m better than my dad, given that I’ve never had a relationship fail as spectacularly as he did.
But the truth is, maybe I’m not as confident as I’d like to portray. On some level, deep under a lot of layers, I’m still that teen who felt like he wasn’t enough, whose dad had to go out and get another family to be happy. And I’m holding a grudge, punishing him for it, but also, punishing myself.
Jayme scoots over to my side, taking my hand and holding it firmly between both of hers. “I see an amazing man who’s accomplished so much and is set to do even more. You are a success . . .”
I look up from our hands to her, finding her looking at me earnestly. She’s talking my language and she knows it.
“Of both your father’s making, and your own,” she finishes.
I take a big breath, her words settling into cracks I thought I’d long ago sealed over. “You’re kind of amazing yourself,” I admit. My feathers are still ruffled, but she’s steadily soothing them.
“And a bitch. I know,” she offers with a smile, bumping my shoulder with hers. “Therapy is a side gig of this job, an uncomfortable one since I’m not a trained shrink. Though maybe that’s what makes me so effective,” she humbly brags. She pauses for a second as if trying to decide whether she should say more. Tentatively, she adds, “I truly think you and your dad could be better if you’d talk a little. I think what you take as judgment from him is more than likely his way of tiptoeing around you. Or whatever this thing between you is. For years, he’s been putting one foot in front of the other, never knowing when he’s going to step on a landmine.”
“You think we’re salvageable?” I ask, feeling better despite things not being perfect with Dad.
Her laugh is a surprise, bright and infectious. “Hell, you’re not even on my top twenty of worst clients. You two just need a couple of beers and a manly ugly cry or two.” She throws her voice, mimicking a drunk frat boy, “I luv you, man!” She finishes with a fake hiccup and a smug grin.
“A manly ugly cry?” I repeat incredulously. “Do you realize that we don’t even have tear ducts?”
The tease is easy and good-natured, an olive branch after our argument. I lay my arm around her shoulders and she curls into me.
“Not even in your top twenty worst clients?” I question. “Guess we’ll have to up our game.”
“You’d be surprised at what happens behind the scenes,” she hints without offering any details. “But I am sorry I shared things you told me in confidence. Secrets shared are secrets risked. And telling your dad what you’d said was wrong, even though I did it with the best of intentions.”
On the surface, her apology feels genuine, but there’s an undercurrent I don’t understand. I know she has secrets of her own, like being best friends with Taya, but her job requires that. I can understand the need for an NDA with clients like hers.