THE NOT SO PRODIGAL SON
Jordan
I sat on my bed and stared out at the harbor. My parents’ place in the city did have a magical view. It was a shame that coming home from Harvard wasn’t the warm experience normal kids had when they got back. I’d been here for three days, and everything felt off.
My dad was grumpier than usual, but he put on a happy face whenever he saw me.
Mom was going out of her way to be overaccommodating.
And my brother had that weird glint in his eyes that suggested he knew something that I didn’t.
Whatever was up, it created an air of tension that you could cut with a knife. Something was about to give, or straight-up break. Remembering I needed to transfer some money from my former trust account that was finally in my control to my Canadian friend who was investing in some marijuana company in British Columbia and getting 70 percent returns, I flipped open my laptop.
Incoming.
I stared at the text from my brother as my father’s footsteps entered the room.
“Jordie!” He sounded jovial, which was weird because there was no way he was off work yet considering it was only three in the afternoon, even if it was Friday.
“Dad.” I scowled, not sure why he was saying my name with such a zest for life.
“We need to talk, son.” He closed the door, which, when I was a kid, meant I was in trouble. Now it meant he didn’t want the house staff to overhear.
“Okay.” I put down my laptop and waited for it.
“Look, I know that you don’t exactly like the whole schmoozing, business-deal side of things; you’re more of a straight-shooting numbers guy.” He gave me that cheesy used-car salesman grin. It made my stomach hurt, because it always meant looking the other way or helping to do something I didn’t want to. He switched to a woe-is-me expression as he continued, “And my situation with Grandpa hasn’t always been stellar.”
Underexaggeration of the year.
“But I was hoping you might help me out the next couple of weeks. I’ve had a real dry year. Investing has been shit.”
Ironically enough, I’d been making a killing with some advice from friends; my father just wasn’t motivated enough to try. An utter lack of imagination could have had something to do with that. And possibly the stubbornness that prevented him from following Grandpa’s investing, something I always did. Between him and Frederick La Croix, my returns were always amazing.
“And I have a potential deal that could mean a lot of money and a lot of stability. Quite frankly, it could change the future of this business. You remember the Weitzman family?”
“No.”
The bottom fell out as he revealed his hand, making my stomach hurt. “Well, they have a daughter. Amy. She’s your age. Red hair.”
“Okay.” The name didn’t ring any bells, but his hand was starting to look like setting me up the same way he and my mom had been in a business merger–marriage from hell.
“No, wait, she’s younger, maybe by two years. She went to Pennbrook.” He was stalling. It had to be bad. Had he already promised me to this girl? Was I getting married this weekend?
“Okay,” I repeated, wishing he would just get on with it.
“Anyway, long story short, she’s apparently always had a thing for you. Kinda watched you from the societal shadows at varying functions, so to speak, and”—he continued rambling while my brain screamed, Nooooooooo!—“since you’re home for the summer, her dad and I thought you both might hit it off.”
“No.” I didn’t have an okay for that. I couldn’t even pretend.
“Now listen here—” He instantly changed to the man I was used to. The song-and-dance act had dropped. He stood over me, tall and trying to be intimidating, but I wasn’t eleven anymore. All I had to do was stand up and stare down on him. He was stuck at five feet eleven, and I was three inches taller now.
He bristled. “You can do this family a favor for once instead of just taking, and help your old man out. I’m not asking you to marry her. Go out, get a meal, see a show, hit a nightclub. Do whatever it is you young people do. How hard is it to entertain a pretty girl so her dad feels comfortable enough to invest with me? Weeks, Jordie. Not the rest of your life. Don’t be selfish about this. It’s important to me,” he said, bringing out the big guns.
“Dad—”
“No. Before you start making up excuses, remember that I pay for your education. I gave you the first half of your trust early, but I still have the other half. I make sure you have this beautiful life. And meanwhile all I’m asking is one favor, one small favor, so that I can continue to provide for you and this family in the comfortable way you’re all used to. And when you think about it, I’m actually doing you a favor.” He circled back to used-car salesman. “This is a beautiful girl we’re talking about. Consider this your first test. If you can’t handle this one little responsibility, how are you going to handle working for Grandpa as a partner? And your grandpa is on board with this. Is it worth the rest of your inheritance to put your family’s best interests behind screwing around all summer?” And there it was, the biggest gun he had. Mentioning Grandpa and calling me worthless while disinheriting me from the second half of my trust. He was extra manipulative today.
“I’m not dating some girl because you want her dad to invest. Jesus!” I almost laughed at him. He was a caveman.
“It’s a billion-dollar deal, Jordan! Do you have a billion dollars lying around to make up the difference? Cause Grandpa sure wants that money.” His face flushed as he got more worked up into convincing me.
My phone vibrated, drawing my eyes down and making me fight a grin as I realized my brother, Stephen, was in the house and texting me as Dad was screaming.
Hang in there.
“A billion dollars! Think about that!” He sounded like he might have a stroke at any second, he was so amped. This was just the start. His act was amazing, and it was easier to agree than listen to him go on and on. He wouldn’t stop until I did. “This is our family business, Jordie. We have to work together, everyone pulling their own weight. Right now you’re not doing much to chip in.”
“Fine, whatever.” I gave in, like I always did. “If you can’t come up with a single other intelligent idea to convince her dad you’re the man to trust his money with, then I guess prostituting your own kid out is the only alternative.” I sighed, defeated. If Grandpa was involved, I would end up doing it anyway; the old man was much better at presentation than Dad was. He at least would have gotten me drunk, put me in bed with her, and faked a pregnancy. He’d do a lot for a billion-dollar Klondike bar.
“Attaboy!” He ignored my jab. “Stop being such a downer, kid. The girl’s a knockout, and your old man is about to show your grandpa who the boss is!”
Doubtful.
“That’s my boy.” He turned and left, uncaring about me and convinced he had already secured the deal.
I was alone with the prospect of how much my summer had just crashed and burned when Stephen came slinking into the room, poorly hiding the fact that he’d come by the house solely to watch this performance. “Okay, Dad’s lying. Grandpa totally isn’t on board, and while Amy isn’t a troll—actually, she’s kinda hot—she’s also likely a starfish. Vapid as fuck. Like, you need to bail on this. Take the disinheritance. You can’t go through with this. You won’t make the summer. What kind of man would you be if you couldn’t even decide for yourself where you put your dick?” He said it like he was laughing, like it might be a little funny, because this wasn’t happening to him.
“You’ve met her?” I groaned.
“Oh, God, yes. It was awful. Had dinner a couple of times in the last two weeks before you got back. You haven’t lived until you’ve watched her play with her phone for three hours without speaking once. I didn’t even know if she was breathing the whole time. Trust me, this is not your kind of dish. She doesn’t know who Chaucer is.”
“Fuck you,” I said with half the effort it deserved. “You don’t know who Chaucer is.”
“Awww, I love you, too, little buddy.” He sat next to me. “But for reals. No. You can’t do this. She will eat your soul. Even I wouldn’t bang her with your dick.”
“Awesome.” And that was that. I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t. I just had to decide what flavor of screwed I wanted to be.