Savannah raises an eyebrow. So I didn’t tell her everything about my upbringing. Someday, I’ll get around to legally changing my name.
“Mother, this is my girlfriend, Savannah Sunday.” Saying the word is a big step. There were lots of conversations after I confessed my past, and one of them was the ‘what are we’ one. I haven’t had that conversation since I walked out on my parents. Having it with Savannah, however, just felt right.
“I see.” Mom runs a critical eye over Savy, taking in every detail from her designer bag to her heels. If Mom doesn’t approve, it’s going to be hard to get Savannah out the door with her claws coming out.
“I’ve heard much about you from Cash. I’m so glad we finally get to meet.” Savannah sashays forward, completely at ease in the surrounding. She gives my startled mother a hug, and then turns back toward me, motioning me forward.
The faster I get this done, the faster we can leave.
“I’m afraid my son has put me at a disadvantage here. Would you like some tea?” Mother motions toward the terrace, where her lunch has already materialized. Crossing the small space, I meet up with them. Mother looks me up and down--there is hope for your grandbabies yet. If not, I’m happy to practice. I hear lots of practice makes perfect, and if there’s one thing Savannah deserves it’s perfection.
“That’d be lovely,” Savannah says, pulling me after my mother, who moves at warp speed. Probably too afraid that she’ll blink and it will all be a dream. She holds onto Savannah like the last rays of the sun, refusing to give into the night.
“Cassius, would you go talk to your father?” Mother calls over her shoulder, before turning her full attention back to Savannah. “Savannah and I here need a little girl time.” She threads her arm through Savannah’s and pulls her the rest of the way to the terrace.
My stomach tightens. This is the moment I was worried about. Savannah gives me a small wave and calls over her shoulder, “Go get ‘em, Cassius.”
“Savannah, how do you take your tea?” Mom asks, with a determined look at me. That would be my cue to leave. I’m not needed here.
“Straight up,” Savannah says, giving me a wink. “And maybe with a twist…of lemon.” If my mother isn’t eating out of Savannah’s palm by the time we leave, there is no love in the world.
“Now tell me, how do you feel about children?”
My stomach hits the tops of my boots --she’s going to leave me over this, I think as I exit the garden. Savannah is going to spend an afternoon with my mother and then look at me and say, ha, you’re so not worth this.
My father reclines in a chair in the library, reading The Prince by Machiavelli. Do not make a comment, I think when I see the title, but for him the end will always justify the means. It doesn’t matter who gets stepped on, as long as you get what you want in the end.
“Isn’t this a surprise,” dad says, not looking up. “Come to read me a new riot act? Or are you just here to gloat on your moral superiority again?”
I take a seat across from him. Before we left this morning Savannah briefed me on how to be a good negotiator, but when she learned I was a complete mess as a student she gave me three simple rules to follow. I’ve always been a better teacher than I ever was student, but she wasn’t interested in my lessons at that point.
Rule number one: get on their level. People like other people when they’re on the same playing field. It makes you feel like equals.
“I was hoping we might talk.”
Dad closes the book and looks at me expectantly. All right, so we’re talking—positive step forward. “Have you finally come to your senses and want to take up a real profession?”
And just as quick we’re two steps back.
“What I do is a real profession,” I bite out. The tendons in my neck tighten and I try to focus on not getting lost in his provocation. He wants me to take the bait so he can control the situation, but I’m not here to give into any of his demands.
“Six thousand four hundred and twenty-three.” I can’t help but say it, because the number has been burned into every one of my cells. People who believed in my father, who trusted him with their futures and he let them down. Maybe I should include myself in that number. Maybe my father ruined six thousand four hundred and twenty-four lives—twenty-five, if Tasha can’t get her act together.
Like hell I’ll let that happen.
“Why pay accountants when I have a son who keeps those kinds of numbers in his head? What did I say about your wasted talent?” He opens the book again.
Savannah’s second rule for good negotiation, make them hear that you understand their concerns. “I can’t make you feel remorse for what you did. You made a choice and clearly you can live with it easier than I could and while I may not agree with it—I have to live with your decision.”