The Relationship Clause

Chapter 2

I’m being paranoid.

That’s it, that’s all this is. Paranoia, pure and simple. No one is out to get me, all of my employees are loyal, there is no conspiracy.

And yet…

I stare at the screen in front of me, not quite believing my own pep talk.

“It’s quitting time!” My business partner, Shane, bursts into my office, a wide smile on his face. The way he’s dancing a jig around the room, you’d think it was his birthday or a holiday or something other than the regular old Thursday it actually is.

I lower the screen of my computer and scrub my hands down my face. Shane’s intrusion is both welcome and an annoyance. I need something to distract me from my disturbing thoughts, but I have a feeling I know what he’s going to say next, and it is not the distraction I’m looking for.

“Come on, Owen, grab your coat. I’ve got a hot double date with our names on it.”

And there it is.

I didn’t forget about this. Shane has been going on about some new double-dating app for a while now, trying to get me to go with him. He’s been reminding me for a week about this double date. What he seems to have forgotten is the fact that I told him no. Several times.

My therapist likes to remind me that boundaries are important. I don’t think I’m the one who needs this reminder though.

“I told you, I’m not going.” I train my eyes back on my computer, officially dismissing him. Unfortunately, Shane is not one to be dismissed so easily.

“Aw, come on.” He plops down onto one of the leather chairs in front of my desk, that pleading, puppy dog look in his eyes. It’s the same one he used to feed to all of our teachers in high school whenever there was a game coming up and he was “too busy practicing” to remember to turn an assignment in on time. “Live a little, man. Stop taking yourself so seriously. I promise tonight will be fun.”

“A colonoscopy would be more fun than a blind double date.”

“That’s not always true. Remember that one we went on in college with those twins?” Shane waggles his eyebrows. “Now that was fun.”

I suppress a groan. This is exactly why going into business with my best friend from high school was one of my best and worst ideas.

Shane and I have been friends ever since middle school. I was the weird new kid with clothes that were a little too fancy and mannerisms that were a little too polished. He was the southern hometown hero beloved by everyone and destined for the NFL. For some reason, we clicked, and he’s been trying to persuade me to go along with his harebrained schemes ever since. Not that they all end badly, of course. Our business is doing great. This double date though? I have my reservations.

“Look,” I say, focusing back on him, “even if I wanted to go tonight, I can’t. I’ve got dinner with my mother tonight.”

Finally, a serious look crosses Shane’s face. “Oooh, tough luck. Can’t you cancel on her?”

I level him with a cold look, and Shane cracks another smile. He knows as well as I do that canceling on Cynthia Burton isn’t only a bad idea, but also nearly impossible.

My mother isn’t exactly what you’d call warm and fuzzy. The best description I can give while still being polite would be to compare her to a hurricane: a powerful force to be reckoned with, equal parts scary and awe-inspiring. There’s a reason she was named one of Forbes’ Most Powerful Women. She was number thirty-five, to be exact, somewhere between Oprah Winfrey and Kathy J. Warden.

My dad’s not any better. He isn’t exactly a corporate giant like my mom, but he is top-tier in a big insurance company. They’ve been telling people how to spend their own money and run their own lives for over forty years, tearing empires down and building them up again.

Intimidating? Nah. Not at all.

“As much as I’d love to cancel,” I say, “we both know I’d need to be in the hospital for that to occur.”

“Hold on a second.” Shane grabs a decorative glass paperweight off my desk and starts throwing it up in the air like it’s a baseball. He knows I hate this, which is precisely why he’s doing it. “Didn’t you already have your quarterly meeting with Cynthia? Why is she back already?”

Shane’s only half-joking when he refers to my “quarterly meetings.”

On the first Saturday of every quarter, Mother flies into town from her penthouse in New York City to have dinner with my sister and me. She claims it’s to “connect” with us and “stay in the loop,” but we know better. It’s basically a board meeting where we get grilled on the objectives of our lives, judged when our progress doesn’t meet her standards, and then given new orders to accomplish before the next meeting.

I sigh, watching the paperweight as it floats up, almost touching the ceiling before gravity pulls it back down again. “I don’t know what’s going on. She called me yesterday, informing me that my presence is required at dinner.”

I look out my floor-to-ceiling window at my emptying office. Most of our employees have already gone home for the day with a few stragglers finishing up or socializing.

It still makes me proud knowing that it’s because of Shane and me that these people are able to put food on their tables and pay their bills. We built this business from the ground up, even though it’s not what either of our parents wanted for us. His parents were hoping to have an NFL Hall of Famer in the family, but a knee injury ended his career early. My parents wanted me to be…well, not doing this. They wanted me to go into business, just not for myself, and definitely not with Shane.

“Why don’t you see if Dan will go with you?” I say, going back to the previous conversation. I nod to where we can see him at his desk, logging out of his computer and packing up his bag. “Word around the water cooler is that he’s single.”

Just like you’re single.

I want to tack that last part on, but I don’t. Mostly because it doesn’t need to be said, but also because Shane’s relationship status is a sore spot for him.

He plays it off like he doesn’t care, but I know differently. He’s only ever had one long-term relationship. He dated Sally for over three years, but their breakup tore something apart, and he’s only been casually dating ever since.

Maybe I should be a good friend and try to talk to him about it, but we kind of have an unspoken agreement: I don’t ask him about Sally, and he doesn’t bug me about my lack of relationships ever since things with my parents went sideways.

It may not be healthy, but it’s working for us.

Shane nods and sets down the paperweight. “Yeah, fine, I’ll ask Dan if you insist on being anti-social.”

“Don’t I always?”

Shane stands and goes to the door. “What time is your dinner?”

“Six-thirty.”

“Good. At least something will get you out of this office before seven.”

Before he leaves, I ball up a sticky note and throw it at him.

When he’s gone, I turn back to my computer. The problem I’d been facing before he came in stares back at me.

Right. I’d almost forgotten.

The paranoia returns in full force, taking over every thought and seeping through my system until it nestles somewhere in my gut.

Someone is stealing our company’s secrets.

It’s not a claim I can prove. Heck, it’s not even a fully-formed accusation yet. It’s a worry. A culmination of little things that have been off for the last several months. Files left open on my computer that I swore I’d closed, a missing set of inventory, an unexplained stagnation in sales of our 3D printers, and now this: a rumor in the tech world that a newer, faster, more affordable printer will be hitting the market only weeks before our company is supposed to unveil our next set of products.

All of it has me feeling sick to my stomach.

I haven’t told Shane yet. I know I should. I trust him with everything, but I want to be sure before I go around making accusations, and right now, all I’ve got are some suspicions that look more like paranoia than anything else.

So, I’ll keep this to myself for now.

After everyone leaves, I grab my overcoat and leather messenger bag, looking around my office. My gaze snags on the coffee cup that has been sitting on the corner of my desk since this morning, and I pick it up. The cold coffee inside sloshes around, and I can’t help examining the writing on the outside.

Mr. TDC.

My mind conjures up the image of the barista who wrote it. Milky skin, blue ocean eyes, long red hair, and a sunny smile that somehow always manages to make my mornings a little bit brighter. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed seeing that smile until I saw her again this morning.

I wanted to ask her where she’d been. In fact, that’s almost what I did. That’s what any normal human being would have done. But what did I do? I saw the itty-bitty speck of black in her teeth and mentioned that instead.

Yeah, it was a classic Casanova move. The kind she’ll be telling all her friends about, quickly followed by the fact that as soon as she turned her back, I bolted like a coward. I don’t even know what my thought process was throughout that whole thing. One minute, I was processing the fact that she was finally back, the next minute, I was fleeing the scene.

It’s something that I’m sure if I told my therapist about, she’d want me to talk about more. Dig in deep. Unpack it. Reveal some deep-seated trauma, which more than likely connects in some way to my parents.

Which is a big nope from me and exactly why I won’t be telling her about it. At least, not yet. I need to process it a little myself first.

I take the coffee to our break room and dump the untouched, cold liquid down the drain, throwing the cup in the trash as is my nightly ritual. After double and triple-checking the locks, I take the elevator up to the top floor of our building, which also happens to be my apartment.

When Shane and I were looking for buildings for our business, this one came on the market at the perfect time. An office in the middle of downtown Greenville with plenty of room for our inventory, staff, and the extra perk of two identical, mirrored apartments on the top floor. Shane had some worries, but after a lot of talking, negotiating, and working out the kinks, we got it.

Originally, Shane was either supposed to stay in the apartment across from mine or we’d be roommates like we’d been in college and rent out the other. But then he went and bought himself a house after he found “a deal he couldn’t pass up.” We still haven’t rented out the other apartment, but as a self-proclaimed loner, I’m kind of okay with that. Who needs nosey neighbors, strange noises, and awkwardly polite conversations? Not me.

I’ll stay up here in my tower, enjoying my solitude, thank you very much.

I open my door, and a dark streak skitters from my couch, across the floor, and toward my feet, accompanied by an indignant yowl.

Okay, so I don’t live in complete solitude.

My cat, Storm, meows again loudly and weaves between my legs, rubbing against me. I take my coat off and pick her up, giving her way more love and affection than I’ll admit is probably “manly,” but I don’t care.

Storm is the only girl who can have my heart. Mostly because she’ll never break it and take me to court for half of everything I own. She’ll also never judge me for how much time I spend in the office or accuse me of neglecting her. She’s happy with the snuggles she gets when I am home and the treats I give when I leave.

Translation: my corporate lifestyle won’t negatively affect our relationship like my parents’ affected theirs.

Yeah, I’ve got some issues. Hence the reason for my therapist, who insists that everyone on the planet has issues. She’s trying to encourage me to get out of my comfort zone and try dating again, but she doesn’t understand that it’s better this way. For me and for any potential girlfriends.

“Hey, girl,” I say, carrying Storm through the kitchen toward her food bowl. “You’re not going to like this, but I’m not home to stay. I’ve got a dinner date tonight.”

She turns her large, yellow eyes on me. Okay, so she won’t ever accuse me of neglecting her out loud. I smirk and rub her head again. Her long, dark fur splays away from her face, giving her a somewhat wild appearance.

“Trust me, I’d much rather spend the evening with you. I’ll make up for it when I get home with extra snuggles.”

She meows again and swipes at my face as if she’s telling me off, but she quickly forgives me when I scoop a generous portion of food into her bowl.

After taking care of a few more things and a quick visit with the lint roller, I head back down the elevator.

Outside, the cold air tries to blow down my neck, and I lift my coat collar higher. South Carolina winters aren’t particularly frigid. I’ve been to New York, Michigan, and Illinois for business, and I’ve been to Maine, Vermont, and Colorado for vacation. I know what a real winter feels like, but right now, we’re going through a little cold front, so things are chillier than usual.

I get to the restaurant fifteen minutes early. That’s something else you can’t be with Cynthia Burton: late. Five minutes early is late for her. I learned a long time ago that getting somewhere early is the best way to start a meeting off on the right foot.

The restaurant she’s chosen for tonight is like all the others she chooses: stuffy, uptight, requiring a suit and tie, and dishing out proportions that are sure to leave me still hungry by the end of the night. Inside, the hostess doesn’t even ask for my name. She takes one look at me, lifts her pretty little upturned nose, and beckons for me to follow her. “Right this way, Mr. Ferguson.” I don’t even ask how she knows my name.

She leads me past tables with crisp, linen tablecloths and ambiance lighting. Mother always gets a table in the back.

When she sees me, she stands long enough to grasp me tightly with her scarily strong hands, gives me a half-excuse for a hug that feels more like a business handshake, and sits back down, folding her napkin over her lap.

“Owen,” she says, picking up her menu, “it’s wonderful to see you again.” She says this while looking at her menu, as if she could be talking to the appetizers.

I see that the table is only set for two and lift an eyebrow. “Where is—”

“Your sister will not be joining us tonight. She had another engagement.”

Another engagement? How the heck did she get out of a dinner with Mom? We will definitely be talking about this later.

“At any rate, this dinner is more for the two of us,” Mother says. And now I’m not just annoyed but also wondering if I need to book an immediate flight to Anywherebuthere, USA. “I took the liberty of ordering for you. I haven’t much time tonight and wanted to get right to the issue at hand.”

My eyebrows lift. “There’s an issue at hand?”

“Yes, there is.” She lifts one of her perfectly arched eyebrows and folds her arms, but whatever she’s about to say, she’s delayed thanks to the timely arrival of our first course. Once our waiter disappears, she wastes no time in getting back into it. “The last time I called your office, I noticed that you’ve let another secretary go. Somehow, you neglected to mention this fact during our last dinner.”

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. Yes. I did neglect to tell her this. Mainly because it’s none of her concern and also because I knew she’d react like this.

Although Mother has absolutely no stake or share in Em3rge Technologies, she makes it her business to try to tell me how to run my business. Over the last four years of Em3rge being up and running, I’ve had a grand total of ten secretaries. The last one quit last week.

You would think the common denominator would be me, but half the time, it has nothing to do with me. One of my secretaries had to move home to take care of his ailing mother, another decided she was going to go back to school to pursue her degree, and a third sort of had a mid-life crisis when her beloved dog of fifteen years died, and she decided to move to Fiji.

See? Not my fault.

The other half of those secretaries…well, okay, maybe they had a little something to do with me. I tend to be grumpy and demanding with my secretaries, expecting a certain air of professionalism and exactness in carrying out their duties. It’s not my fault they fail to live up to my expectations.

Of course, Mother doesn’t see it this way. She thinks it’s unprofessional of me to “go through secretaries like they are hors d’oeuvres at a cocktail party,” and my inability to keep one will reflect on my business as a whole.

“I didn’t let another secretary go,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “She quit of her own volition.”

She gives me a blank stare, and I know what she’s thinking: How is that any better? Then she drops the bomb. “Owen, I’ve taken it upon myself to help you hire a new one.”

I stop with my fork raised halfway to my mouth. “Excuse me?”

“You’re clearly incapable of choosing the right fit for your office. I can be of assistance. I’ve already taken the liberty of compiling a list of suitable resumes for you to choose from.” She then takes out a small stack of papers from a bag I had no idea she was concealing behind the tablecloth. There can’t be more than ten papers there, which means she’s hand-chosen these herself.

Right away, my anger flares up. My muscles tense, and it’s all I can do to keep my breathing even and quiet. I’m about to retort when she changes the subject so quickly, it almost gives me whiplash.

“Are you still planning on going to Vail this year?”

This is one of my mother’s favorite tactics: get the opponent all worked up about something, then BAM, hit them with something else completely different but equally as volatile. They’ll be so shocked from the whiplash, they won’t be able to adequately respond to either outrageous thing, and she will be left the ultimate victor. She’s been using this tactic on me, Kiera, and our father for years now, and even though I can see it happening, I can never fully defend against it.

My father never could either.

My teeth grind together, and I take an extra second to push my fork across my plate until it makes an awful scratching sound. I’m rewarded by the tiniest of twinges evidenced in the plump, botoxed skin around her eyes.

“Yes,” I say, setting my fork down carefully. “I plan on going to Vail like I always plan on going to Vail. Just like you used to always plan on going to Vail.”

Calm down, Owen, I tell myself. What were some of those tactics my therapist was trying to get me to do? This is probably one of those times she’d tell me not to ignore or suppress my emotions. Let it out. Talk it through. Breathe.

She’s always trying to get me to breathe.

“Oh, Owen, don’t get so upset.” Mother waves a dismissive hand. “I’m only trying to make conversation.”

Breathe in for five, out for five? Or maybe it was four? I think there was some number I’m supposed to hold my breath to.

“I know things won’t be quite the same this year without me there, but you’ll have to make do.”

Do I hold my breath on the in or the out?

“At any rate, I’m sure your father already has another bimbo lined up to go with him. Some air-headed, gold-digging—”

I’m standing before I even realize what I’m doing. All thoughts of breathing are out the window. Now, I’m fuming. Burning up from the inside out. “I have to go.”

“Go?” Mother’s thin eyebrows almost touch her hairline. “Go where? We were in the middle of a conversation.”

“I forgot I have a meeting.”

“A meeting? Now? With whom?”

“That’s none of your concern.” I manage to force what I hope to be an apologetic look, even though what I really want to do is blow up at her. I throw some cash onto the table. I have no idea how much my “meal” cost, but at this point, I don’t care. “Good night, Mother.”

“Honey, the resumes!” she calls to my retreating back.

But I don’t care. I leave it all.

By the time I get back to my place, I’m still furious. Part of me wants to lie on the couch with Storm and watch a movie, but the rest of me is still too keyed up to sit still. I exchange my suit and tie for joggers, a t-shirt, and a light jacket, then hit my treadmill. Normally, I prefer jogging around downtown Greenville and the Reedy River, but it’s too cold for that tonight.

I start out at a grueling pace. It’s not sustainable, but it’s what both my mind and body need—motion and distraction in the form of sore muscles and burning lungs.

The longer I go, the more my mind clears. The tension that was in all my muscles takes on a different form, a welcome relief. The stress from the day, the office, the leak in our company, dinner with Mother, it all starts to melt away.

It doesn’t solve anything, but for now, I feel better.