I sigh and shut down the treadmill. I grab my gym bag and head toward the showers to clean up.
Thirty minutes later, I'm walking into my parents' house on the outskirts of the city. Everyone is in the formal sitting room, and they all look at me as I enter.
"Tristan, there you are!" my mom calls, clapping her hands together and rushing over to give me a hug. I squeeze her back, a small smile stretching across my face.
That smile quickly falls when I look over her shoulder to see my dad and brother staring at me with matching frowns. They're perched casually on the furniture across from each other, my brother very clearly the spitting image of our father.
"Tristan," my dad nods by way of greeting. My brother merely smirks at me.
"Hi, Dad." I walk over to sit on the other end of the couch from my brother, my mom once again taking up her place next to her husband.
"Scott and I were just talking about you," my dad drawls, staring directly at me. Without even hearing the words, I know what he's going to say. I can tell just by the condescending look in his eyes, the slight curl of disgust in his lip.
I guess we're jumping right into the usual fight, then.
"There's an opening in your brother's company for a financial analyst," he starts. "It's a new job posting, and they're probably looking to hire internally, but Scott can put in a good word for you and get you bumped to the top of the list. If need be, I can call the CEO, as well. He and I went to college together and still connect occasionally."
I exhale an angry breath and awkwardly rub the back of my neck. I know exactly how heated this argument is about to get, but I always think I can keep things calm if I can just answer politely.
"Dad, I'm not looking for a job," I say quietly. "I have a job. Several, actually. And I'm making good money. I probably make as much as Scott does."
My brother laughs from his spot on the couch next to me. He's lounging comfortably like he always does, one ankle resting on his opposite knee and his arms splayed out along the back of the couch. I don't think I've ever seen him tense or uncomfortable. Only obnoxiously arrogant.
I ignore his reaction to the thought that we might make the same amount of money doing such vastly different things—and with very different amounts of hard work.
My dad studies me with his usual frown. I can never decide what answers he's looking for when he glares at me like this.Why I don't want to follow in his footsteps? How I could possibly like fighting? How he failed so miserably with me?
I swallow roughly when I realize it could be any of those.
"When are you going to be done with this karate bullshit?" he finally asks me.
I can't help the wince that flashes across my face every time my father makes the cheap comparison. I never know if he does it intentionally or if he really thinks of me as the fucking Karate Kid.
"Not anytime soon," I say bluntly. I can feel myself nearing the end of my rope a lot sooner today than I usually do.
His lip curls in disgust as he shakes his head and looks away. That look hits me directly in the chest every time I see it—regardless of how many times I've been on the receiving end.
Like clockwork, my mom jumps in to try to ease the tension. She hates when Dad is irritated, and she always takes on the role of peacekeeper. Though I don't know if you can be considered a peacekeeper when you're very clearly supportive of one side and against the other. "Honey, wouldn't you rather have an easy 9-5 job where you're home at a normal time and you don't have to get hurt? You know it kills me when you get injured." She clasps her hands in her lap and looks at me with hopeful eyes.
I wince and lean forward to rub my temples. As much as I would love to have this out via a screaming match, I know that would break my mom's heart. For her, I try to gentle my words again. "Mom, I know you think that's the ideal job, but that kind of life is not for everyone. I would hate sitting on my ass and running numbers all day. It's just not for me. Can't you just accept that I love something you don't understand and support me for it anyway?"
"No, because we're your parents and we know what's best for you," my dad snaps. "We're not going to stop pushing this until you come to your senses and leave this ridiculous, barbaric hobby behind."
I aim a cold stare—the one I inherited from my father—at the man that I sometimes can't believe is really a parent. "It's hardly a hobby, Dad. I'm one of the best fighters in the Northeast."
Scott lets out a snort from next to me. "Nobody even knows who you are."
I turn my piercing glare to my brother. "Tell me that again in a year. I'll be in the UFC and you'll still be getting drunk on golf courses with your shitty frat brothers."
"Enough," my dad snaps. "Your brother is following the career path thatyoushould be following and he's doing a damn good job. He'll be a Chief Financial Officer one day."
I smother the delirious laugh that threatens to break out of me. My brother does bare minimum in every aspect of his life—he’ll never even get close to a C-level title.
I turn back to my dad. "Regardless, I'm not looking for a job. I'm perfectly happy right where I am. It's a completely pointless conversation. Do you want to keep talking about it or should we change topics?" I look at where Mom is nervously wringing her hands. "How are you, Mom? How are your friends doing at the country club?"
She casts a nervous glance at my dad, but I know she can't resist sharing gossip from their country club. They've only been members for the past three years, ever since Dad really hit his stride at work and got a big promotion and pay raise. As much as I hate the pressure he puts on me to follow in his line of work, I can't deny that he's become very successful at what he does. He's a hard worker and it definitely shows. The long years he had put in at his company finally paid off with the promotion and at that point my parents' lifestyles really changed—Mom retired from her occasional substitute teaching job, they bought a new house and made some rich friends, and they joined their most sought-after status symbol: the country club.
Three years ago is when Dad really started pushing me to fix my career choice.