One Bossy Offer (51)

My parents manage to bring me my homework for a solid week.

Every day becomes the same conversation, but my will to stay in bed is always stronger than his will to get me out of bed.

Eventually, I’m placed in a temporary homeschool program so absences don’t count.

In fairness, Dad tries hard to help me find some joy that none of the therapists can.

He takes me to playgrounds and amusement parks.

Mom makes me help her cook. A near disaster every time since I was born without the chef gene, but I try.

We sail the Puget Sound, visit the zoo, take road trips to California when their schedule allows, and wherever else they can think of.

Nothing matters.

It won’t bring Grandmom back or help me relate to people like less of a little psycho.

Then one day, Dad walks into my room with a big box. I watch, somewhat annoyed, as he opens it and pulls out a white square.

“What’s this? More homework?” I ask.

“It is. But not from your teacher.”

“Huh?” I blink as he pulls out another small box of what looks like paints. “I don’t get it.”

“You will, Miles. Painting was an old hobby of mine through college. Your grandmother paid for a lot of classes when I was young, but I haven’t had time to paint in a good long while. I was thinking of going outside and trying to paint a tree. It’s been a long time. I’m not sure how good I’ll be. Do you want to come with?”

I hate that I’m intrigued.

Will the canvas help empty the black abyss inside my head?

I’d never been much of a writer, but I wouldn’t have to write for this.

What if all the dark and red swirling through my thoughts could stop? What if I could clear my head and be myself again?

I feign disinterest as I follow my father outside and get set up.

The first few pictures we work on are just blobs of color.

Then, slowly, my mother’s favorite rosebush takes shape.





Present





Painting saved my life once.

With a brush, I could create new worlds. Better places without any pain or sadness or a hundred million dollars going up in flames during the depths of a recession.

And until the holes opened in Dad’s memory, painting was this special thing we shared.

Until I let down the man who showed me this heavenly world existed.

Until I let a snake of a woman upend everything.

And now, there’s another woman crowding my head so much I can’t even find my muse without her.

“Fuck,” I mutter, not paying attention as I hoist up the canvas and hurl it across the room.

She can’t take this part of me.

Tap. Tap.

Benson again, knocking at the door so lightly I’m sure he knows I’m in a mood.

“Come!” I belt out.

He strolls in holding a white envelope, his face tight.

I don’t bother asking before I walk over and rip it out of his hands.

“I didn’t know if you’d want to see it or if I should feed it straight into the fireplace. But given her recent... token at your mother’s graveside, plus the proposal she sent to Louise, I thought you should decide, sir.”

Anger lashes my veins.

I haven’t read the return address on the envelope yet, but I know who it’s from.

“Bring me another scotch. Hell, this time bring the bottle,” I growl.

“Right away.” He takes my empty glass with him.

I sit there in grim silence, staring at the envelope burning my fingers until he returns with the drink.

What the hell does Simone want?

Is she so fucking stupid she thinks I’ll ever do business with her again?

He returns with the bottle and an extra glass. “I thought you might need more than one. You don’t have to do this, you know. We can just throw it in the fire.”

“No, you were right. I need to know what she’s after.” I drain the glass and wait for the burn in my gut before I open the letter.



Dearest Miles,

Where does the time go?

Was it only yesterday when I was more than your mortal enemy? So much more.



Fuck her so much. I pause, exhaling fire from my lungs before I read on.



I understand you were angry. If I ever knew the tragic outcome that night, I swear I would have let you go. I wouldn’t have tried so hard to make you relax. But that’s water under the bridge.

Let me cut to the chase. We work in the same industry. We’re both powerhouses. Once, we were so close to becoming allies, friends, lovers.

Do you still think being bitter rivals over something so personal benefits either of us?

Her stocks must be down or new investments aren’t paying off. That’s the only reason she’d ever be stupid enough to come crawling back with this half-hearted direct appeal.

Seriously. Can’t we start over, purely for business?

A little cooperation. Mutually beneficial and respectful, just like we had years ago.

Woman, you are the last person breathing I will ever respect.

After what we shared—

Shared is an interesting way to put it, but I force myself to finish.

A mutual respect is the very least we should have. Even after all these years, I can’t stand the way we parted, but I understand your grief.