Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

Fine. We can talk about that later. But since you’re doing the script, I have a suggestion for the Blake & Adam show.

With a little trepidation, I type back: What do you have in mind?

I stare at the screen as the words appear. Launch is in six weeks. We chose the date to coincide with that thing you have—that school thing right after midterm exams?

Funny, that dad knows almost nothing about college life. He did go—for one semester. He proudly flunked every single one of his classes and was given a stern round of warnings. He flipped them the bird on his way out. Since then, of course, Yale has done its best to kiss his ass, but it’s not like he cares.

You mean spring break, I tell him. It’s pretty iconic. Beaches, booze, babes. Not really my style though, if that’s what you’re thinking.

Yeah. That. I was thinking we could do a flip.

My heart gives an extra thud. I already have one trade going on in my life. Does he know? What do you mean, a flip?

If you’re going to be a college student, we play to the expectation. Everyone’s thinking you’ll jet off somewhere wild for spring break. Instead, after I do the financials, I hand off to Yu, grab a copter, and get somewhere that looks like it will work. Fuck, a painted background on a mock set will do. And then we use the vidcall feature to make the announcement. I’m going on spring break, and you’re taking over for the next six months.

I look at this, frowning at the laptop screen. My heart starts to beat a little faster. Yeah, and what do we tell them two days later when you’re still in charge? That it’s just a joke? The whole point of these little family interactions is that they’re supposed to be a slice of Reynolds family. True construct, asshole. We’ll ruin the whole thing if we throw out something objectively false.

He types one word in response. Well.

Just that single word, but it sends a chill down my spine. Nothing else comes for a few seconds that seem far longer than they should, and then the icon blinks, indicating that he’s typing once again.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be objectively false. We both know you’re going to take over eventually. Why not then?

Because I’m not ready to be my dad for the rest of my life. Because six weeks is not enough.

I have to take a pass on that one.

His reply comes swiftly. Fuck me, Blake. I’m not telling you to take over permanently. Just a few months. Something where people will know I’m waiting in the wings. Keeps investor confidence up, allows them to build faith in you as a person.

I try again. It’s the middle of the semester, Dad.

So what? You withdraw, or whatever the official term is. Or you don’t and you flunk all your classes. Who the fuck cares what happens? I didn’t spend the last twenty-nine years busting my ass building a legacy just to have you fuck it up because you’re afraid that some pansy-ass tweed-wearing bespectacled professor might wring his hands in your direction.

Now he’s making me legitimately angry. My hands shake as I type. That is such bullshit. A legacy is like a $50K trust fund. You’re talking about a company with a $413 billion market capitalization. And you want things to transition smoothly because you like beating the competition, not because you give a shit about me and my “legacy.” You want me at the reins so you can fake step down but still be in control, because you can’t bear to hand off to someone who doesn’t get your vision. God forbid anyone ruin your fucking stock price record. This is all about you.

So yes, I am avoiding you, and I will continue to do it until you stop this shit. You’re the competitive one. You’re the cutthroat one. You’re the one who smells opportunity and sweeps in like a shark on a wounded beluga. I’m not you. I’m never going to be you. So stop trying to shove me into your box. Stop. Now. While we’re still friends.

I’m shaking when I hit return.

For a long time, I don’t get a response.

And then, finally…

Blake. Please. Come home. I need you.

And that shakes me more than anything. My dad doesn’t beg. He doesn’t ask. If he wants something, he demands, and if you intend to say no, you have to shout “No, fucker, get out of the way.” I don’t know what to do with this.

Truth is, it brings to mind memories that are a little too inconvenient. It’s one thing to tell my dad that he’s trying to make me over into himself. But he’s also the man who would pause board meetings when I was three so that he could find the plastic dinosaur I lost. He’s the one who made his executive team attend my baseball games so he wouldn’t miss them.

I have never doubted that my father loved me. And now… I know, and he knows, even though he won’t say it, that his appeal is about more than me taking over the company.

I know, I say. I’m sorry. That was out of line.