Brave by Tammara Webber
Last Christmas, Daddy grilled Foster about how soon he might make partner.
“Dad, that’s a decade or so away. Jesus.”
“Don’t cuss in front of your mother,” Daddy said, as if Foster was still a kid. “If ten years is average, your fancy-schmancy degree oughta bring that down to six or seven, eh?”
Foster side-eyed Pax and mumbled, “Living six hundred miles away. You lucky bastard.”
“Luck’s got nothin’ to do with it, bro,” Pax answered, using the tongs to grab a second slab of ham off the platter and plopping it onto his already-full plate.
The management of me had been left to Mom for the most part, though my parents had joined forces in attempting to talk me out of majoring in psychology, even after I’d declared it. At first, I thought it was because they didn’t consider the study of the mind and associated mental illnesses a real science. This was the philosophy of some people in their circle, no matter how many of them were high-functioning alcoholics or consumed anti-anxiety meds like candy while feeding their kids whatever amphetamines would control their nonconforming behavior and boost their GPAs, because God forbid anybody try a little talk therapy along with the pills.
It wasn’t until winter break of my sophomore year that I figured out my parents’ chief motive for urging a change in my course of study even though I had never expressed any interest in swapping majors. Events had occurred the prior semester that had solidified my desire to be a therapist. My boyfriend’s best friend had assaulted and stalked my roommate and raped one of my sorority’s little sisters. I was the person they’d both turned to first. I’d listened and advocated and stood by them when some of the Greek leaders just wanted it to all go away. I had never in my life felt so influential and necessary and useful.
Not that I ever discussed stuff like that with my parents, but still.
One morning over breakfast, out of the clear blue sky, they brought up other majors I might like better. Again. “Public relations or marketing would be fantastic for a people person like you, Princess,” Daddy said, slathering a bagel with nonfat cream cheese.
“Or management—you’d be a wonderful manager.” Mom grinned like she’d discovered the Holy Grail of nondescript careers.
I tried to connect the dots in the parental logic but couldn’t. “Psychology is fantastic for a people person like me,” I said, remembering Jacqueline’s quiet revelation in our dorm room and the sorority meeting during which Mindi held my hand so tight that my fingers went numb. “I want to help people. I don’t see how marketing would fulfill that desire.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“I know it will take a little longer.” I frowned, wondering if they were stressing over the cost. But they hadn’t balked at paying Foster’s exorbitant law school tuition, so that didn’t add up. “I’ll need at least a master’s if not a doctorate—”
They exchanged a quick glance then, identical hesitant expressions, and click, I knew. The career paths they’d suggested didn’t require demanding advanced degrees like psychology did. They didn’t think I could do it. That was the only explanation. They didn’t believe I had the intellectual capacity or maybe the work ethic required to go to graduate school. I put a bite of egg in my mouth and chewed robotically to cover my muteness.
Daddy had steered Leo toward summer construction internships while pushing Foster toward law school, and I’d eavesdropped on enough conversations with and about my brothers to know why. Leo was the football jock who couldn’t care less about school; Foster was reading by age three, and by ten he would throw a tantrum if some hapless teacher gave him a B. He’d been his class salutatorian in high school (twelve years had passed and he was still bitter about coming in second), graduated college in less than four years, and started law school at twenty-one. Pax had been Pax—as smart as Foster and more athletically gifted than Leo, he just about drove Daddy off his rocker with his lack of drive to do any more than scrape by academically, play baseball, and hook up with as many girls as possible.
I’d been the popular cheerleader with a healthy social life and a B average. In college I’d traded cheering for sorority life and kept my adequate-but-not-exceptional GPA. They’d forever been on my brothers’ asses about education and career ambitions and working smart as well as working hard. But with me, they advocated sorority alliances and my volunteering efforts and maintaining a part-time job to help pay for my shoe-buying habit and give me work experience. Every semester I brought home a B average, and that was good enough. I never got the lectures about earning an A in any class I could.
When I swallowed that bit of egg, it lurched down my constricted throat like lightly chewed rubber, determined to stick where it was. I coughed, not quite choking, and Daddy pounded my back a couple of times. I didn’t retain the rest of the conversation, but I’d never forgotten the unspoken Oh, dear between them, my silent comprehension of it, and the difficulty swallowing—an occurrence right up there with suddenly being unable to breathe or finding your heart pounding after an unexpected scare. We don’t notice reflexive motions like heartbeats or breathing or swallowing. They just happen. Until they don’t.
I wallowed in self-pity for the following semester, thinking maybe they were right, maybe I wasn’t capable of graduate work, but then I stepped it up and started studying harder. Despite the demanding upper-level coursework, my grades were solid and my GPA inched higher. But my parents never asked when I was planning to take the GRE. They never suggested a tutoring course as they’d done before Foster took his LSATs. So I resolved to handle all of that myself. To show them that their little girl was a perfectly capable, motivated, self-sufficient woman.
And then the past year happened, and I fell into an emotional spiral I couldn’t pull out of no matter how hard I tried. Still full of faith in my chosen career, I made appointments at the campus counseling office, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. I began skipping sessions and eventually stopped going at all. I saw a private therapist off campus, once, but he targeted current stress and anxiety—as though the enormous guilt weighing on my soul day after day was a by-product of being a frazzled college senior instead of the other way around. I didn’t return, and the fact that therapy had failed so miserably made me question what the hell I was basing my future on and why I assumed I could help anyone when I couldn’t even help myself.
The worst part? I was completely cognizant of all of it—the plunging lack of interest I had in every aspect of my life. The way I walked around like Eeyore with a small, persistent gray cloud always overhead. I was sinking lower every day, and struggling only hastened the descent. A few of my more perceptive Chi-O sisters tried to cheer me up, but ultimately they didn’t get it and I had no desire to elaborate. Once, maybe twice, I almost called Jacqueline—the one and only person I could have blurted the ugly truth to. But she was hundreds of miles away and caught up in her happy life and I couldn’t bear to drag her down. So I sent her carefully constructed, upbeat texts, and left superficial voicemails full of amusing stories and lies when I knew she was in class or studio and couldn’t answer or call back.
Finally, I used every ounce of energy I possessed to do what I’d always done best. I slapped on my sunny Erin mask and let everyone off the hook so they’d stop asking if I was okay, stop with the apprehensive “Are you sure?” inquiries and the benevolent “I’m here for you” avowals when I said I was fine. And every one of them looked relieved as hell.
My grades kept slipping and so did my GPA. I crawled across the finish line and graduated as planned, but I neglected to sign up for the GRE in time for fall deadlines. I abandoned partially completed grad school applications without submitting them. I failed to turn in reference requests to professors who’d expressed prior interest in recommending me.
Now I had to prove myself at this job because otherwise I had nothing, and I damned sure hadn’t trained for a job in husbandry.
chapter
Two
Uncle Hank ges
“He’s a young fella, but sharp as a tack and hardworking. Respectful too. Everybody likes him. When you work finance in a construction company, that’s no mean feat.” He went on to explain how my new boss’s degrees, a BS in architecture and an MBA, emphasis finance, made him the perfect candidate for the dual role he currently held at JMCH: financial analyst plus client liaison manager. I wasn’t sure what a financial analyst did, exactly, and made a note to Google it when I got home instead of asking and confirming my ignorance.
“Who else does he manage?” I asked, handing over my contact information, W-4 allowances, health insurance elections, and 401(k) designations.
“Just you,” Hank said, tapping the small pile of documents into a neat stack as if his answer hadn’t just opened the door to making an awkward situation ten times worse.
“So the person who held the position before me was promoted? Or resigned? Or…?” An uneasy suspicion whispered his response to my brain before he answered.
“It’s a new position.” He clipped the paperwork and slid it into a file folder with my name on the label: MCINTYRE,ERIN R.
I looked at my clueless father, who winked at me. My stomach flipped and sank. “A new position. As in, you made up a job for me.” I felt a surge of adrenaline signaling panic born of (totally valid) mortification. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Is there even a job to do?”
“Uh,” said my father, catching on and looking to Hank to impede my escalating freak-out. Fat. Chance.
I imagined the formidably talented, genial but diligent Mr. Maat whipping up simple little projects to keep the owner’s incompetent, otherwise jobless daughter busy, like when I was six and Mom towed me along to her book club meeting because my sitter had the flu. Daddy was leading a church men’s retreat, Foster was on a field trip to Quebec with his French class, Pax was too young and untrustworthy to be charged with watching another human, and Leo, at sixteen, was incapable of keeping himself out of trouble, let alone his six-year-old sister.
“If I hadn’t chosen this month’s book, I would skip,” Mom had murmured aloud, eyeing me with just enough annoyance that I felt defensive. Book club night was sacred, and through no fault of my own, I was throwing a wrench into it.
Scanning the kitchen counter, she’d grabbed a handheld game of Pax’s, a banded set of Latin flash cards belonging to Foster, a random sketch pad and two pencils, and Leo’s box of Whoppers. He would rant like a bratty toddler when he found out his baby sister had eaten it, which daunted me not at all. Ushering me toward her SUV, she said, “We’ll get you McDonald’s on the way.”
We never got McDonald’s, so I brightened at that sweet kickback. An hour later I was in a food-coma from chicken nuggets, fries, Dr. Pepper, and candy, bored out of my mind with Pax’s tedious game, and so done trying to draw something identifiable with the dull graphite pencils. I crossed “artist” off my list of potential brilliant careers and glared at the Latin flash cards. No. I’d ended up devouring a shocking edition of Cosmo from a stack I discovered in the guest bathroom while a dozen wine-drinking mommies argued over whether reading Pride and Prejudice or watching Colin Firth spar verbally with Miss Elizabeth and dive into ponds was a better use of their time.
I could not spend my days at JMCH reading Cosmo!
“Oh sure, sure—we’ve been in dire need of a specified client liaison,” Hank assured adult me, sputtering a little with the obvious lie and adjusting his glasses while his eyes darted between my father and me before glancing toward the door and beaming. “Ah, Isaac—perfect timing!” His gleeful appreciation of the interruption was palpable.
I turned, and my earlier relief at having bypassed the second floor and the rude man I’d hoped to escape meeting on my first day, if not forever, crashed and burned. My smile faded before reaching full wattage as I stared at the very last person in that building I wanted to encounter. This guy was the sociable, even-tempered, model employee I’d just spent fifteen solid minutes hearing all about?
Up close, he was beyond good-looking, which just pissed me off more. Attractive men have no right to be assholes. They were starting ahead of the curve. At frat parties, I had downgraded the pretty ones in my head before they spoke. Beautiful eyes: minus two points. Tall (unless lanky): minus three. Muscular: minus five. The cuter they were, the more I made them work for my attention. It was only fair.
Isaac Maat’s medium-brown skin held a hint of red, like a warm sepia polish. His lashes were long, thick, and curved, framing large, nearly black eyes. Sharp cheekbones. Wide nose balanced over full lips. Square, stubborn jawline shaded by a dark, neat scruff of beard. Dressed like a GQ cover model. His physical appeal handicap was so low he could turn pro.
Lucky for me his personality left a lot to be desired. Unlucky for me that brushing him off was not a viable option as he was now my freaking boss.
His earlier scowl had been replaced with a placid, not ill-disposed expression, but then, he hadn’t shared my surprise. He’d known exactly who I was when he’d glowered down at me like I was an avowed nemesis instead of his new report. Okay, sure, I was the owner’s daughter, and it probably irked him to no end that he’d lost the rock-paper-scissors match and had to take on babysitting duties, but I hadn’t come to wreak cosmic havoc on the place, and I wasn’t remotely qualified to commandeer his job out from under him. So what the actual hell was his deal?
“Good to have you on board, Ms. McIntyre,” he said, nodding across the expanse of polished teak between us, unbuttoning his perfectly cut suit jacket and sitting directly opposite me, one foot atop the opposite knee and large, well-manicured hands loosely clasped in his lap, casual as the devil. His voice was deep and soothing, like a tranquil country stream leading to a fishpond with no visible bottom. Mistake it for a harmless swimming hole and you could get tangled up in submerged weeds or bash your head on an unseen rock.
Despite his reserved demeanor and sincerely expressed words of welcome, I knew he no more welcomed me here than a cantankerous cat welcomed a yappy puppy to share the sofa. I felt the insult of his presumptions, whatever they were, but I was more miffed than nervous. If he thought I was going to let his surliness intimidate me, he could guess again. I’d grown up with three older brothers and a gruff bear of a father. I’d put up with four years of inaccurate frat-boy assumptions about what amount of unsolicited handiness would or would not earn a knee to the balls. Dude was gonna have to up his game.
“Mr. Maat. Pleased to meet you.” If words were visible, mine would’ve had icicles dangling from them.
His eyes narrowed for a split second before he noticed my awareness of his puzzling animosity and shut it down.
Oh ho. There was a concealed jut of jagged stone under this man’s surface, and I felt a dangerous, unnecessary impulse to unmask Isaac Maat. I knew better, I swear. But I’ve never been good at steering clear of temptation, especially when it came packaged like Satan peddling original sin.
After a five-minute discussion of client and project updates and something about the previous weekly report that sounded like finance, Hank dismissed the two of us, but not without parting decorating advice. “Fix up your office however you’d like, honey. Artwork, plants, framed photos of your favorite uncle…” He chuckled. “My secretary, Mrs. Gardner, even has a few of those beanbag bears sitting on her credenza.” His mouth puckered on one side and his brows drew together as he seemed to reconsider. “C
Through obstinate, concentrated effort, I kept my mouth from falling open and steered my vocal inflection away from affronted and toward amused. “I’m well past my Beanie Baby stage, Uncle Hank. Bratz dolls too. I might have a My Little Pony lying around somewhere, but I’ll leave him at home.”
Isaac Maat snorted but converted his grating amusement into an extended throat-clearing as Hank said, without a trace of sarcasm, “That would be best,” and Daddy sat there smiling and oblivious, as though I hadn’t just been demeaned for looking like a child in the presence of my new supervisor, who’d already formed an adverse, invalid opinion of me.
The walk to my new office was silent, even while waiting for the elevator and during the unbelievably slow one-floor descent. We exited, he turned down the nearest hallway, and I followed. He gestured toward an open doorway and said, “This is my office.” Sliding a key from the front pocket of his perfectly tailored slacks, he continued to the very next door. Once it was unlocked, he stepped back and motioned for me to precede him inside. I would have assumed that to be a gentlemanly action if not for the fact that there wouldn’t have been enough floor space for both of us if he’d entered first.
My office was microscopic. Like used-to-be-a-supply-closet tiny. There was just enough square footage to cram a desk and a file cabinet inside without blocking the door. One narrow, east-facing window—more suited to a cell than an office and partially blocked by a tall file cabinet—was directly across from the door. Hot, blinding sunlight streamed in through the pane, unimpeded by a shade or blinds. The room was several degrees warmer than the hallway. A cloudless blue sky and the terra-cotta tops of the posh shopping strip across the street was the view. Upscale was how we did things around here, whether the structure housed a James Avery or a 7-Eleven.