That’s my mom, stating the facts. I close my eyes, trying to internally reboot.
“I’m right on time, Mom.” I open my eyes and take in the activity going on in all corners of the room—Nat talking to the photographer, Jen and Megan finishing their coffee at the game table, Vi reading a Harry Potter book on the window seat, and Dad overseeing it all from his silent post. This is the photograph that would say it all, that would give the public a clear view into the life of a would-be member of political office. This is the Happy Holidays portrait people would believe, each member of the Reed family scattered around the room, maximum distance separating those confined to the same space.
But that’s not the picture that will show up in all the local papers in a couple weeks. We’ll all stand, pose, and smile like we always do, the dutiful children and their hard-working father. The headline will read something like, “Griffin Reed, Sr.—Business Man, Family Man…Mayor?” Below the headline will be the portrait of staged perfection.
I think of the Polaroid, the goddamn candid shot that caught me looking at a strange girl with a kind of need I don’t acknowledge, a need to know more. Not much I can do without a name, but my mind wanders to thoughts of her anyway. It doesn’t stop me from wondering if I went to Royal Grounds tomorrow, would she be there with friends again? Is she a student at the U? Because I’d totally be able to find a girl whose name I don’t know on a campus of over thirty-thousand students. Fuck. My phone is filled with names, names that come with numbers. I’ll call one tonight, give myself a reset, and forget this stranger.
“Time to line up, everyone.”
For the first time since I got here, Dad takes notice of the photographer, of me, even. Only once we’re all in place does he move toward the group, the last piece of the perfect-family puzzle.
“Griffin.”
That’s my greeting, an acknowledgment of my presence.
“Dad.” We’re one for one.
“Stay for dinner tonight,” he says, the invitation unexpected. Despite my light class-load for senior year, I always lay on the homework excuse, but his tone tells me this subject is not up for discussion.
“Sure,” I answer.
“Good. It’s time we discuss the decisions you’re going to make when the graduate school acceptances start coming in.”
I hold back a laugh, remembering a similar discussion that went something like this: Your mother and I would like you to take the January GMAT. I should have seen it coming. Tonight’s dinner is to remind me what my next step is on my obvious career path. I’m the one with his name, which means I’m the one with his plan.
“Discuss is a subjective word when it comes to us, isn’t it?” I ask him, then wonder where the fuck that bit of bravado came from. I didn’t come here today with the intent of arguing. The plan for today was to defend how I spend my free time, despite the evidence on my face, not rock the grad-school boat.
He leans closer so he can speak quietly, but we’re all too close for no one else to hear.
“We can also discuss how your mother and I let you fuck around Europe for over a year without spending a penny of your own and how I called in a very high-profile favor to keep your spot at the university so you wouldn’t have to withdraw. How about we discuss that condo you live in and the truck you drive?” His tone is mockingly pleasant. “We have lots to discuss tonight, son.”
My jaw clenches as I swallow back my defense. Because he’s right. I have no argument. I just have to do what’s next, follow the path someone else set for me. That’s who I am.
“Sure, Dad. I’d love to stay for dinner.”
“Smiles, everyone!” The photographer has the floor.
The giant flash momentarily blinds me, but I know we all got it on one take. We always do.
Dinner. I just have to make it through dinner. Then a drink, or two, or seven. It’s looking like a Scottish whisky kind of night—minus greeting anyone else’s fist with my face. I make a mental note to check my phone for someone willing to join me. Whisky goes great with a late-night phone call.
Chapter Three
Maggie
I tamp the grounds down into the filter and brew, a perfect crema forming atop the espresso shot. The steamed milk is ready to go, and George, a Saturday night regular, waits and watches.
“What’ll it be tonight?” I ask him, hoping he’ll order something simple. Almost at the end of my double shift, my design skills wane as does my energy.