He frowns. “Obviously? She seemed fine to me. What’s wrong with her?”
“Are you serious? She looked like death warmed over, not to mention she could barely walk.”
“She did?”
“Good Lord, Jack. This is why you don’t date. You don’t notice things you should.”
“Spoken as a woman with the wild and eventful dating life?” he challenges.
“If a guy doesn’t notice the obvious,” I shoot back, “a girl can’t believe he’ll notice anything about her.”
“I’d give you all the reasons that logic is illogical if you were in the mood to hear it. She didn’t seem sick to me.” He eyes my oversize bag now on my shoulder, while my MacBook is in my hands. “Where are you going?”
“To the back room. Kara’s going home sick. She’s making me prepare data for her presentation. I need quiet. I can’t let her down.”
His eyes go wide. “You’re preparing her presentation? Do you feel capable of doing that?”
I bristle with his obvious assumption that this is outside my comfort zone, which of course it is, but me thinking that and him thinking that are two different things. That’s the contrary, irrational part of me I can’t seem to deny or suppress. The part that doesn’t want to be pushed but also doesn’t want anyone to assume I can’t handle being pushed, especially by someone who knows me well.
“I got this,” I say firmly. “I’m not giving the presentation. I’m just preparing it.”
The bell rings again, and he surprises me by smiling and saying, “You do. You got this, Mia.” With that, he disappears into the other room again.
I realize then that he wasn’t implying I wasn’t capable of doing the job at hand at all. I’m simply a bit defensive after our conversation about Jess, and I projected my own self-doubts on him. Bottom line, Jack and Jess doubt each other, but I doubt neither. I’m not going to start now.
And with that, I add another “The End” to the topic.
Chapter Seven
The “back room,” as we call it, is at the rear of our floor, where a singular wooden desk brushed with nicks of time and scratches sits among boxes of treasures, also known as the new books to be cataloged. There is also a conveniently located break room, which is home to a coffeepot and is walled off inside the same space. As work and caffeine go together almost as well as books and coffee, I start a pot brewing. By the time I’m sitting at the desk, with steam billowing from a ceramic mug, and I’m ready to work, my phone buzzes with a text message from my mother.
Call me. It’s about your father.
My lips press together—and with good reason. It’s always about my father.
For instance, some people might be curious as to why I would have such a visceral reaction to the idea of preparing Kara’s presentation. The answer is simple: my father. Three years ago, he stepped out of his little creator’s space, otherwise known as the garage, and onto the television screen. My father had done what thousands wish and pray to do by winning a spot on Lion’s Den, the newest, hottest show competing against Shark Tank. He’d had merely two weeks to prepare his presentation, two weeks of nerves and practice pitches. He was ready. My mother and I had been backstage, rooting for him. We’d even held hands, which in and of itself was a miracle that passed that cold New York day. With excitement waving off us, we’d watched as he presented a new type of home window that conserves energy.
It was a disaster.
He’d frozen up, and then Big Davis, one of the most successful investors on planet Earth, mocked him. The longer Big Davis niggled at my father, the more painful it became, excruciating, to the point that I’d literally had to wipe tears from my eyes. Me and my mother’s hands had fallen apart. My mother had stood there, saying nothing—what was there to say, really?—her fingers curled on her lips, looking as if she wanted to cry right along with me. Looking back, I believe that day my family was the closest and farthest away we’d ever been, depending on the time of day in question. From the morning, when we’d been united in a way I never remember us being, a team, flying high, jabbering about the future, to the afternoon, when we’d packed up and taken an early flight home, and we all welcomed the cramped plane that allowed no real conversation at all.
When I say it all comes back to my father, well, so do me and my mother. All the good and bad pieces of our relationship come back to him. She never agreed with my choices, even when my father supported me, which often pitted them against each other. On the other hand, she loves Dad as I love him, and for him, like that day in New York City, we unite.
When I was sixteen, I remember sitting across from the two of them in a restaurant as we celebrated him selling one of his patents, this one for a camping bottle with a flashlight in the bottom, to a private investor. He hadn’t made a fortune, but he’d made more than my mother’s annual salary at the time, a detail she proudly announced with a toast. That night, her love and admiration for her husband had shone in her eyes. It also wasn’t an unfamiliar look she’d given him. It was just the first time I’d been old enough, and aware enough of the intimacy of relationships, be it a marriage bond or other, to understand what I was witnessing.
She loves him deeply.
He’s my hero.
And, therefore, when he stood on that stage, embarrassed on national television, for a sliver of a moment, my mother and I were united in his pain, in our heartache for the man we both loved then and now.
In the aftermath, that moment when my hero was crushed for the world to witness left a mark on me and taught me a life lesson. Shelter in place, and like a good little July Cancer baby, I’m a quick learner. A crab likes her shell. Find my shell. Shelter in place. Maintain safety. Some might say I’m too quick a learner in this arena, but learn well I did.
Floor three has always been my playhouse, a.k.a. shell in the big backyard of the world, but after that day, it was more so than ever. Therefore, while I’m forced to take on duties that do not fit into my safe place—it’s a small playhouse by design—I chose to stay on floor three and not go to Kara’s office, which is on the first floor. The first floor is a place to be entered and exited. The first floor is a place to be watched from above. It’s a zoo of unknown species entering from the outside world, and with it the kind of recipe for disaster I’ve generally avoided. Jess would say I play it too safe for my own good. There was a time when my father would have agreed. But he’s not the same man anymore. Risks are no longer rewards, as he used to say often.
Worried about him now, I punch my mother’s autodial number. “Mia, oh good,” she breathes out as she answers.
“What’s wrong with Dad?”
“I’m headed out of town in the morning. I was hoping you might come by and bring your dad dinner. It would really make him happy.”
My brows dip. “Since when do you travel for business?”
“Moving to the private sector in pharmaceuticals pays better than academia did, and it’s also a new way of life,” she says. “My boss wants me to deliver the statistical findings on several new drugs at a convention in Texas. I’m flying out tomorrow, delivering my little speech on Thursday, and then flying home that night. Your father will only be alone one night.”
She’s speaking of him as if he’s a pet that needs a sitter, but then I’ve found mathematicians to be almost as clinical as scientists. Also, I frown with another thought. “Who is your new boss?”
“Dirk Michaels. He’s the head of statistical findings for North America.”
“And he wants you to deliver the findings? Why not himself?”