I couldn’t help my eye roll as I gathered my things to pack and leave. David, who many referred to as Dr. Phelps, couldn’t help his dig when closing out. At least I had a proposal. My plans may have been unpolished, but they were valid.
Since my first semester at Wharton, I’d been bitten by the entrepreneurial bug, so to speak. I wanted to spread my wings and start a business. Why not? I didn’t have a job and collecting a check from Stenton didn’t qualify as an occupation. Ironically, the substantial amount from his monthly “co-parenting” stipends—an income that I couldn’t justify, but wouldn’t reject because it made me feel connected to him, as weak a connection as it was—had been building. Stenton had been generous with me as well as what he provided for Jordan each month.
Now that I had the bug, my business plan had begun to assemble as well. I’d been in touch with Angela and even included her culinary pursuits in my plans. It seemed as though everything came together and in great timing that collided with my ambition. Getting the theoretical approval from my professor here wasn’t as fluid.
“Was that a backhanded compliment or genuine enthusiasm for your proposal, Barrett?” Stephan Henry, a sixth generation diamond mining descendant, tossed my way.
After shrugging I mumbled, “As if I could give a crap.”
Stephan’s thin lips twitched just before he chuckled audibly.
We’d just wrapped in my Venture Capital and the Finance of Innovation course. I was in my second semester at Wharton, and apparently standing out amongst my privileged colleagues. I admittedly came into this program with a chip on my shoulder. I had something to prove. My classmates were all cultured and already experienced in enterprise. Many came from a long line of inheritance from businesses that had been flourishing since before my parents were born. I came from Forrest Drive of Columbia, South Carolina. My father had owned his business for years, but it never yielded the lucrative turnover these students were born into. And on top of that, I was a minority with only one other African American male in my program.
I immediately acclimated to Wharton. Having Eligia around was my saving grace. Her schedule was flexible, allowing me time to attend class, study, and have a moment to myself to shop or paint. Jordan was my treasure and a job at the same time. So, when David invited the class for coffee and chat before class, every once in a while, I’d oblige. I grew comfortable with my professor, enough to engage with him on a first name basis because I’d taken a management course with him in the fall.
On my way out the door, I felt a grip on my arm, causing me to falter in step. I peered up and saw Jacques Moreau, a fairly good-looking man with an olive tone and jet black hair. His shoulders were broad in his cognac suede jacket, and chestnut leather gloves hung from his left hand.
“Jacques, is there something I can help you with?” My tone was terse, but voice was low.
Jacques had been strongly coming on to me since the first night we met after a class toward the end of the fall semester. He was a friend of David’s from France and sat in on a few classes. He was bold in introducing himself and throwing me unabashed salacious eyes. Initially, I thought it was weird that he didn’t have anything better to do until I learned the genius he added to the curriculum with success in enterprise. His flirtation was a bit much, but from my understanding was how French men operated, per Tynisha who I’d shared this encounter with. He asked me out a few times, to which I declined, but found myself entertaining his coquetry. He started by trying to allure me with communicating his banter with a mixture of his native tongue and mine until one night, after having a few too many glasses of wine while out with a group from class, I informed him that the act turned me off. He’d been tolerable since.
“I have something for you, Elizabeth,” he grinned mischievously, a common expression of his.
“Okaaay,” I hummed with narrowed brows.