“Hey, pumpkin.” Dennis Hobbs was a businessman who had succeeded in a sector that tried, and often succeeded, at keeping men like him out. He could be cold, arrogant, and ruthless—he wouldn’t have survived otherwise. But his Dad tone was warm and loving, and almost lured Portia into lowering her defenses. Almost. “Your mother and I just wanted to check in and see how your little trip was going.”
Little trip. There it was.
“My apprenticeship is going great. Scotland is beautiful.” She hadn’t seen much of it outside of the armory, but she was sure it was. “I’ve already launched a few projects to increase revenue for the business, and I’m working closely with my boss to come up with an entirely new marketing program.”
Okay, so none of those projects had been approved yet, and “working closely” meant “working in the same general latitude/longitude point on a map since he’s avoiding me,” but whatever. She’d had way more intense internships, and a stubborn man wasn’t some newfangled invention. She’d get through to him eventually, or Jamie, who actually seemed interested in her plans, would.
Her dad made a familiar sound, something like a chuckle mixed with an indulgent sigh. “As long as you’re having fun. But you know, we have Regina’s investment analyst position here waiting for you. We have a temp doing it now, since your sister’s media empire is really taking off and she’s decided to do that full time.”
Little trip. Media empire. Portia and Reggie’s relationship with their parents could be summed up in four words, it seemed. Reggie had always been the twin that got things done. Portia hadn’t been able to unless she was interested in them, or after putting them off for a few days, or weeks, or months.
“We’re going to need someone serious to take on the position, and we think it should be you,” her father said.
Pleased surprise tentatively fluttered in her chest. She didn’t want the job, but the fact that her parents were going to trust her to handle it had to mean something, didn’t it? This was their business after all. Maybe Project: New Portia had already begun to pay dividends.
“I know you don’t have a serious bone in your body, but your mother and I think this could be good for you,” her father continued, carelessly crushing that happiness with the weight of his words. “Really get you into a routine, you know? We just want to see you settled down.”
She was well aware. They’d made it abundantly clear before she left.
“It’s only three months, I suppose, but really, when are you going to get serious about your life? When we were your age, we were already married, parents, and starting our second business.”
“Your mother’s right, Portia. We’ve indulged you for years but . . . you’re almost thirty. Enough with the grad school, and the internships, and the ‘experience.’ You need to make some decisions about what you’re going to do with your life. Just look at how well Regina’s doing, and you don’t even have her . . . issues.”
She closed her eyes for a second, the disappointment rearing up over her and making her feel small and silly in its shadow. They were right. What was she even doing in Scotland? Project: New Portia was about getting on track for her future, but what future could come from this? It wasn’t like Tavish thought her any more capable than her parents did.
A familiar, clawing shame raked its nails down her back and over her shoulders, leaving tension in its wake.
“Portia?” Her father sounded concerned. Of course he was. He’d been saddled with a ridiculous daughter who thought a swordmaking apprenticeship was a step in the right direction.
“Yeah. Of course. I’ll think about the position and let you know soon.”
“I suppose swords might be more lucrative than real estate.” Her father’s voice was jokey, but there was that edge of tension that reminded her how many times she’d told her parents she’d think about something in the past. For her, thinking about things often meant putting it off until she forgot what she’d even been asked to do.
“Dad, can you send some more info about the job? I’ll do some research. I . . . yeah, it sounds like something I could see myself doing.” She usually reserved her research for things that actually interested her, but she could do this for her parents.
“Of course, pumpkin.” The pleasure in his voice made her throat go rough. She didn’t want the job—she knew that—but would it be so bad? She could make her family happy. She’d get to see them more, and maybe they would actually be proud of her instead of feigning interest in whatever she was dabbling in at the moment.
That was nice in theory, but then she imagined the reality: going into the office every day and having her parents ask her to do important things while totally expecting her to screw them up. Walking on eggshells to make sure her ideas weren’t too outside the box, too silly, and throwing her own dreams, hazy as they were, out in order to please her parents. That hypothetical future—constantly being held up to what her parents thought she should be capable of, but also never being able to forget her own past mistakes—made her body tense and her stomach start to ache. Disappointing her family from a distance was bad enough. Did they really want her doing it on a daily basis?
“Great. I’ll keep an eye out for the email,” she said. “I have to go work, Dad. Love you!”
She disconnected the call, feeling suddenly exhausted even though she’d already acclimated to the New York City/Edinburgh time difference. Echoes of previous conversations with her parents bounced around in her head.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have let her have access to the trust until she was thirty,” her mother had said before she boarded her flight to Scotland. “Just look at everything Regina has done, and Portia is still flitting around like a butterfly.”
One of the downfalls of the whole “gestating in the same womb” thing, apart from the matching outfits throughout childhood, was that her parents had always seen Reggie as a handy measuring stick instead of a completely different human with different strengths. Reggie had always been the smart twin, the levelheaded twin, the one who could impress with her immense knowledge and humor and common sense. And then she’d gotten sick, and after that it had been even more pronounced. Portia’s B’s and C’s had been nice, but Reggie had maintained her A average despite. Portia’s latest internship was interesting, but had she seen that Reggie had made another thirty under thirty list, despite?
She knew the truth that lay beneath the despite, though no one had ever really said it aloud. She’d overheard her mother on the phone, voice gravelly with exhaustion as she sat in the hospital waiting room. “What if we lose her? Regina was the one with so much potential. No, that didn’t come out right . . .” Portia had thought the same thing. She’d thought it as Reggie lay in the pediatric ICU, hooked up to tube and machines, while Portia with her perfect health began to fuck up even more. She’d thought it when Reggie was graduating magna cum laude and she was a year behind after switching colleges twice. She’d been running from that thought for years, a trail of mistakes in her wake. She could hardly blame them for it.
Her phone vibrated. Reggie had messaged, as if summoned by Portia’s angst.
Reggie: Hey, I just read through the first post you sent. It’s great! People are going to love it! ?
Portia braced herself—her sister was kind, but not bubbly, and the exclamations/smiley face combo meant she was softening a blow. Had she hated the piece? She’d wanted to make Reggie proud . . .
Reggie: And
Reggie: I appreciate you trying to appeal to the geeks on the site
Reggie: Buuut
Portia: Oh no. What did I do wrong?
Reggie: What? You didn’t do anything WRONG. Geez.
Reggie: Just
Reggie: The character Banshee is Irish, not Scottish. I’m going to stick in a reference to Moira MacTaggert and mention that you felt like you were being banished to Muir island.
Portia: Have no idea where that is but sounds good.