Then again, I’ve never been this kind of teacher, and I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy every single second of tutoring CJ one-on-one.
As the elevator chugs upward, my phone buzzes with a text. I grab it quickly, in case it’s CJ. But my jaw clenches when I see the name.
I mutter a curse, but then take a deep, fueling breath as I open Lucy’s message. The last time I saw her, the day I broke things off, she’d asked if she could move in with me instead. Can you say whiplash? First, we’d been dating one month. No way did I want her to move in. Second, I wanted to end the relationship—that’s what “this isn’t working for me” means.
I brace myself for her note, hoping it’s not another plane ticket to fly out of town with her, or some comment about what I was wearing on the running path the other morning, since I’ve noticed her a few times on the greenway when she was ne
ver a runner before.
Lucy: Thinking of you and that scarf you said you wanted to use on me.
I give my phone the side-eye. What is she talking about? We never discussed a scarf, and I don’t have time for mind games. But I can’t just keep hoping she’ll leave me the hell alone.
I need to send a very clear message.
Graham: Please stop texting me. And don’t attempt to contact me again.
I erase her text. I delete her contact info. Then I hit delete on Lucy’s space in my brain.
Done.
Gone.
Washed clean.
While my messages are open, I tap out a quick note to my parents, asking if Mom wasted Dad on the tennis court again today. Her quick reply—Of course. Three-love. Booyah!—makes me smile. Their condo, their tennis lessons, the fun they’re having after decades of killing themselves in dead-end jobs—that’s why I’ve worked my ass off since I was a kid with my first paper route. Even on the day the bank kicked my family out of our house years ago, I knew the future was going to be brighter. Because I would make it brighter. I was determined to get out and make good for all of us.
And I did. My parents love their condo in West Palm Beach, and every day I’m glad I bought it for them before putting the down payment on my own NYC apartment.
The elevator dings, and the doors whoosh open on my floor, on the kingdom I built from the ground up. I say hello to the receptionist, then stride through the work space, flashing smiles and quick hellos to my team on the way to my corner office.
When I reach the door, a voice calls out. “Did you see that penalty last night?”
I swivel around, my eyes widening, my disgust over the ridiculous penalty against my Portland Badgers returning in full force. “It was highway robbery,” I say to Brian, a rising marketing star at the company and a rabid hockey fan, too.
He shakes his head, his blue eyes narrowing as he walks toward me. “I’m telling you, the refs hate our guys because we’re too damn good.”
“Oh, to be hated for being amazing. Something we should all aspire to.” I glance at my watch. “Hey, you want to review the PowerPoint for next week?”
Marketing the new lines is critical to my plans for the company. In this fast-moving industry, we need to be spot-on with communicating to consumers. But in a sexy, delicious way.
“Absolutely. Let’s make it amazing.”
“Let’s make it so damn good the board will be blown away,” I agree.
“That’s the only way to treat a board.”
I push open the door for my office and let Brian head in first. He joined the company a few years ago, a newly minted MBA, and he’s eager as a Boy Scout. He has a fresh-faced go-getter attitude as well as a tenacious work ethic that I dig.
We roll up our sleeves and tackle the presentation I need to make to the board next week, refining a few slides to make it even better. When we’re done, I hold up a hand to high-five. “This is like a hat trick in the Stanley Cup Final.”
“You know it,” he says, laughing as he drags a hand through his brown hair.
But then I have to ask myself if it is.
It’s almost there, but . . .
I lean back on my leather couch, thinking.