Trade Me (15 page)

“Not really.”

I don’t look at him. “It’s terrifying. It’s all terrifying, okay? And you’re one to talk—you’re picking on my driving because you don’t want to answer my question. What is the deal with you and your dad right now?”

He sighs again. His fingers drum against the door. But after a long moment, very quietly, he speaks. “I don’t want to disappoint him.”

I let that sink in, playing with it.

“Fernanda is your baby,” I finally say. “You had control, up to a point. So this is about your presenting your hard work to your father. Laying it at his feet for approval, so to speak. I can make that work.”

“Glad we got that figured out.” He smiles at me. “Then I can go back to being me. Or, rather, you.”

BLAKE

By the time Saturday comes around, it’s been a few days since I’ve signed into the Cyclone intranet. For one thing, the internet is slow enough here that many of the features bog down. For another, I know that as soon as I do, Dad is going to pounce on me, and I don’t know what to say to him. I haven’t seen a copy of Tina’s working draft of the launch script yet—she’ll be here in a few hours to go over that—and I don’t want to muddy the waters.

But this has been a good week. All my life, I’ve had things appear for me without my having to think of where they come from. Fruit magically appeared in bowls. I’ve had a personal chef who puts my favorite foods in single-serve portions in the fridge, so I can reheat them and stare at them for a while before tossing half of it in the garbage.

Now, I’ve had to go to the store. I’ve had to look at price tags, something I’ve never even thought about before. I’ve been too busy to run, and too tired to play half my food games. I’m trying not to feel hopeful; I’ve had good weeks before. But maybe, just maybe, this thing will solve itself.

Still, I sneak on the Cyclone intranet Saturday morning before Tina comes over to take a peek at some of the suggestions. I choose this time of day because I’m hoping that dad won’t be around. Unfortunately, it takes about thirty seconds before the chat icon blinks.

What the fuck, asshole,
my father writes with his usual bluntness.
Are you avoiding me?

I pull a blanket around my shoulders, but the goose bumps that pop up on my arms have little to do with the morning cold. Yes, I admit it. I’ve been avoiding my dad. For one, I haven’t exactly told him about the swap. That would lead to difficult questions, questions that I don’t want to answer.

I’ve also put off his attempts at video chatting, simply because I don’t want him to see my surroundings. It’s been five days since we’ve spoken, longer than we’ve ever gone before. From his point of view, it must feel like I disappeared off the face of the planet.

Possibly. I have some stuff on my plate. I need to disconnect a little, so I’ve been conserving my time to take care of the script.

The light indicates that he’s typing a response. It comes in piece by piece.

Disconnect?

What new fucking rancid bullshit is this? If you are blowing me off for some new-wave meditative retreat shit, I swear to God there will be a nuclear explosion down here.

People think that my dad is an asshole because he says shit like this all the time and they think he means it. He doesn’t. He’s not really an asshole. He’s just fluent in the language of asshole and likes using it.

Jesus, Dad. Mushroom clouds are 60s-era scare tactics. They’re not even frightening anymore. Get with the program. Dirty bombs are the new black.

He comes back with:
I’ll compromise with weaponized anthrax, but that’s as modern as I can manage. You can’t teach an old dog new methods of mass destruction.

Ha. With you, it’s more like weaponized affection.
There’s a pause after I send this. After staring blankly at the screen, I get up and make another mug of coffee with the remaining hot water. It’s tepid, and I only have instant—really terrible instant—but it’s bitter, it’s liquid, and it’s caffeine. I’ll take it.

When his reply comes, it’s matter of fact, down to earth—and I can tell from what he’s not saying, just a little hurt.

Fine. We can talk about that later. But since you’re doing the script, I have a suggestion for the Blake & Adam show.

With a little trepidation, I type back:
What do you have in mind?

I stare at the screen as the words appear.
Launch is in six weeks. We chose the date to coincide with that thing you have—that school thing right after midterm exams?

Funny, that dad knows almost nothing about college life. He did go—for one semester. He proudly flunked every single one of his classes and was given a stern round of warnings. He flipped them the bird on his way out. Since then, of course, Yale has done its best to kiss his ass, but it’s not like he cares.

You mean spring break,
I tell him.
It’s pretty iconic. Beaches, booze, babes. Not really my style though, if that’s what you’re thinking.

Yeah. That. I was thinking we could do a flip.

My heart gives an extra thud. I already have one trade going on in my life. Does he know?
What do you mean, a flip?

If you’re going to be a college student, we play to the expectation. Everyone’s thinking you’ll jet off somewhere wild for spring break. Instead, after I do the financials, I hand off to Yu, grab a copter, and get somewhere that looks like it will work. Fuck, a painted background on a mock set will do. And then we use the vidcall feature to make the announcement.
I’m
going on spring break, and you’re taking over for the next six months.

I look at this, frowning at the laptop screen. My heart starts to beat a little faster.
Yeah, and what do we tell them two days later when you’re still in charge? That it’s just a joke? The whole point of these little family interactions is that they’re supposed to be a slice of Reynolds family. True construct, asshole. We’ll ruin the whole thing if we throw out something objectively false.

He types one word in response.
Well.

Just that single word, but it sends a chill down my spine. Nothing else comes for a few seconds that seem far longer than they should, and then the icon blinks, indicating that he’s typing once again.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be objectively false. We both know you’re going to take over eventually. Why not then?

Because I’m not ready to be my dad for the rest of my life. Because six weeks is not enough.

I have to take a pass on that one.

His reply comes swiftly.
Fuck me, Blake. I’m not telling you to take over permanently. Just a few months. Something where people will know I’m waiting in the wings. Keeps investor confidence up, allows them to build faith in you as a person.

I try again.
It’s the middle of the semester, Dad.

So what? You withdraw, or whatever the official term is. Or you don’t and you flunk all your classes. Who the fuck cares what happens? I didn’t spend the last twenty-nine years busting my ass building a legacy just to have you fuck it up because you’re afraid that some pansy-ass tweed-wearing bespectacled professor might wring his hands in your direction.

Now he’s making me legitimately angry. My hands shake as I type.
That is such bullshit. A legacy is like a $50K trust fund. You’re talking about a company with a $413 billion market capitalization. And you want things to transition smoothly because you like beating the competition, not because you give a shit about me and my “legacy.” You want me at the reins so you can fake step down but still be in control, because you can’t bear to hand off to someone who doesn’t get your vision. God forbid anyone ruin your fucking stock price record. This is all about you.

So yes, I am avoiding you, and I will continue to do it until you stop this shit. You’re the competitive one. You’re the cutthroat one. You’re the one who smells opportunity and sweeps in like a shark on a wounded beluga. I’m not you. I’m never going to be you. So stop trying to shove me into your box. Stop. Now. While we’re still friends.

I’m shaking when I hit return.

For a long time, I don’t get a response.

And then, finally…

Blake. Please. Come home. I need you.

And that shakes me more than anything. My dad doesn’t beg. He doesn’t ask. If he wants something, he demands, and if you intend to say no, you have to shout “No, fucker, get out of the way.” I don’t know what to do with this.

Truth is, it brings to mind memories that are a little too inconvenient. It’s one thing to tell my dad that he’s trying to make me over into himself. But he’s also the man who would pause board meetings when I was three so that he could find the plastic dinosaur I lost. He’s the one who made his executive team attend my baseball games so he wouldn’t miss them.

I have never doubted that my father loved me. And now… I know, and he knows, even though he won’t say it, that his appeal is about more than me taking over the company.

I know,
I say.
I’m sorry. That was out of line.

It’s bad for me. For him? He didn’t just lose his CFO. He didn’t just lose his best friend, someone he spent every day with for seventeen years.

Peter had a violent heart attack when they were both working late—and Dad was there at the office with him. He watched him die while they waited for the paramedics.

Dad never flinched. He never let a hint of his distress show. He did the fucking product launch without shedding a single tear. The only outward sign of his grief that anyone saw was that he installed AEDs on every floor in every Cyclone building with a single-minded intensity. He gave over two million bucks to a local emergency room to make sure that they had exactly the equipment they needed if this ever happened again. And every day since then, he’s become just a little harder, just a little more brittle. As if he knows now that his mortality is showing, as if he expects with every product we put out that he’ll lose someone he cares about again.

The only time I’ve ever seen him break down was two months after the funeral. I had come downstairs late one night to get a glass of water. I saw him in the living room with a stack of papers. He wasn’t looking at them. He just held them in his hands, crumpling them. And then, while I watched from the stairs, he broke down, curling over and sobbing quietly.

My dad doesn’t break. He doesn’t. I have never seen anything so terrifying in my life.

We’ve never talked about it, but it’s always there.

Slowly, I type my next sentence.
I can’t take Peter’s place,
I tell him.
And you have to stop trying to put me there.

A long wait. And then…
Fuck the whole idea. It was stupid anyway. Everyone will know it’s a fake beach—there’s nowhere in range that would work—and so that violates the true construct rule.

I type the words:
Dad. I have a problem.
I don’t hit enter. I watch the screen, watch the black letters against the cream background. They are everything I want to say to him, and nothing that I can admit. I don’t hit send. I’ve typed the words, but I’m still completely silent. Finally, I delete them.

We’ll figure it out,
I write instead.

Fine. We have six weeks.

I’ll figure it out, is what I mean. But when I shut the laptop, my entire body itches. I know I shouldn’t. I know I can’t. But between class and my new shifts washing dishes, I haven’t had time to run this week. My body feels weird; a combination of restlessness and exhaustion compounded by the fact that I’ve had nothing this morning but two cups of coffee. I change into running gear and take off. Easier than trying to navigate my way through the unspoken morass of my emotions.

The road, at first, goes straight up the hills and so do I. My heart rate rises; my stride length falls. There’s nothing but the hill, nothing to me but my quads pushing further, faster, my lungs burning for air.

Running takes everything away. My anger and confusion all dissipate in sweat, leaving nothing but a pool of inchoate sadness. I’m stuck, stuck because I love my dad and I can’t tell him no forever. I’m stuck because I know that it’s turning into a war of determination, and he’s the one that can dismantle the fiercest business competitors. I pose no real threat to him. I can’t fight him, not really, and I don’t want to.

I can fight this hill.

Harder. Faster. When I run, I disappear. There’s nothing but the pain, and the longer I run, the less I remember.

I hit the entrance to the park behind the hills an hour into the run. Concrete sidewalks give way to dirt paths covered by leaves and sloughed-off eucalyptus bark. I keep going. It takes two hours to find the summit. From here, I can see a wide green valley fringed by mansions. Beyond the hill to the west, there’s the gray waters of the Bay, the Bridge, stretching in the distance against the sky. But the entirety of the East Bay has disappeared, hidden by the hill. It’s almost like my worries have vanished.

My hair is plastered to my head with sweat, and now that I’ve stopped running, the wind is cold. I take a moment to have some water and a terrible-tasting energy gel. And then—because I can never run far enough—I go back.