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“I’m leaving too.”
He looked at his watch. “Really?”
“Mel has the quarterlies.” I pulled my jacket off the back of the chair.
“She’ll brief me in the morning.”
Instead of walking out, he closed the door behind him. “Son. It’s six
o’clock. Are you sick?”
“I’m fine, Dad.” I put my jacket on, in no mood for a discussion about
my feelings or anything else.
“You haven’t been yourself.” He sat down on the other side of the desk.
“You’re right. Maybe I’m sick.”
“Where’s Ella?”
“That’s over. I told you.”
“You did.”
“I’ll be back to normal soon. I can’t put in the hours right now. It’s
covered. Don’t worry.”
He crossed one leg over the other. “You get it now.”
“Get what?”
“What’s important. You finally got it.”
“Okay.” I sat down across from him. “I’m sitting. You got me where
you want me. Again.”
He nodded, accepting the jab he didn’t deserve but not retreating either.
“Has anything exploded this week?”
“No.”
“Has your team done anything you wouldn’t have done yourself?”
“No.”
“Major fuckups? Bankruptcies? Anybody dead?”
“What’s the point, Dad?”
“You can run the show and still have a life. That’s the point. That was
always the point.”
“What if I don’t want to run it anymore?” The words left my lips before
my brain could put the brakes on, and with that failure, more spilled out.
“What if I leave it? But not to go be happy or get married. What if I was a
bum like Colton? Or just did my own thing?”
“What thing?”
“Whatever. Like Byron. What if I asked for my One Big Thing and
went off and built shit? Or made sculptures out of tin cans? What’s the