Chapter 10
Monday.
And no work.
I haven’t told Ian that I may not have a job anymore, which is probably the most Dad-like thing I’ve ever done.
My sophomore year of high school, he spent weeks setting his alarm—showering and shaving—pretending he still had an office to go to.
He must’ve known long before then that we weren’t going to be able to keep the house.
We could all tell something was wrong. For one thing, he’d started smoking again.
On the nights he was home for dinner, he would sit at the table like a zombie, wordlessly shoveling food into his mouth, never looking up from his plate.
The afternoon that Mitch and I got home from school and found the foreclosure notice in his nightstand was almost a relief.
At least we understood what had been going on.
My situation isn’t anything close to that, of course. I’m not lying to Ian—just withholding some details. I have been loyal to Jordana for over a decade. She knows we’re trying to buy a house and start a family. She isn’t heartless.
But until I hear from her, the day blinks back at me like the cursor in an empty search bar.
I’m at my desk, where I’d been pretending to respond to work emails before Ian left for the office. Now I’m mindlessly scrolling Twitter. Oh, look, here’s a nice little nugget from CNBC: “30-year fixed mortgage rates inch past 5 percent.” Fuck me.
Now we really can’t go a dollar above one-three.
Though higher rates might weed out some of the competition.
Wonder what Ginny thinks. I’ve put off calling her long enough, and this is as good an excuse as any.
I’ll wade in with some interest-rate chatter, then ease into my “It’s not you, it’s us” breakup speech.
Obviously, we can’t use her to bid on the dream house if we want to keep our offer anonymous, but I’ll just say we want a fresh start after so many losses.
I get my phone from the charger in the kitchen. But her number doesn’t even ring—it cuts straight to voicemail: “This is Ginny Gunther, it’s a great day to make a deal! Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Did she screen my call? I send her a text: Can you let me know when you have a sec to talk? I have a couple things to discuss. Thanks.
I stare at my phone, trying to conjure a response. I guess I could work out to pass the time. I really have no excuse not to today.
At ten thirty on a Monday morning, I’m the only one in the fitness center.
I reluctantly climb onto a Peloton, the forty-five-minute ride feeling even more like some kind of elaborate yuppie torture thanks to my stubbornly silent phone.
It only chimes once I’m back upstairs, getting out of the shower.
Ginny, finally: I’m sorry, but I can’t work with you and Ian any longer. Good luck.
She’s breaking up with us? The steam in the bathroom suddenly feels suffocating.
Jack must’ve ratted us out to Ginny’s sister-in-law.
He has the perfect house and he looks like he stepped out of a goddamn Renaissance painting, but he still feels the need to pile on?
Or maybe Curt made him do it. I bet that’s what happened. That smug asshole.
I take a deep inhale to steady my breathing, then type out a response: Thanks a ton, kiddo. It’s a great day to go fuck yourself.
My thumb hovers over the send button. But I can’t do it. Taking this out on Ginny feels misdirected. Who knows what blown-out-of-proportion version she got of how things went down? And she’s not the one who treated us like criminals.
Curt’s words ricochet around in my head.
If you ever come near my family again …
As if Ian and I are perverts or something!
Get the fuck off my property …
Is that all that house is to him? A piece of property?
Still in my bathrobe, I go to my desk and tug open the top drawer.
I pull out my copy of Curt’s book, most of which I read last week when I probably should’ve been reviewing the VIP notes for the party.
I flip through it, searching for what, exactly, I’m not sure.
I skim the acknowledgments again. He thanks the usual suspects: His “unflappable” agent, “who assured me from the jump that this idea was a winner.” His “esteemed colleagues” at Georgetown for “indulging my passionate ramblings over many a cafeteria lunch as I was putting this tome to bed.” And “Jack and Penny, the loves of my life, the center of my universe.”
Something about this guy doesn’t sit right. That’s at least one thing I learned from being around my dad—to be skeptical of people who seem to be trying just a little too hard.
It’s been long enough since Falling Apart came out that I’m sure no one is paying attention to the ratings anymore. Except for Curt. I bet he monitors them religiously. A new anonymous one-star review could really be a day-ruiner.
I pull up the book on and click on the ratings—still 239 of them, with an average of 3.5 stars. Before I write my own, let’s see if any of the other one-star pans can provide some inspiration.
Here’s a write-up titled “Patronizing and dull” from a user called Tom S.
: Bradshaw weighs down chapter after chapter with oversimplified anecdotes about the complex mechanisms of the global supply chain.
You’d think he’d assume some basic level of intelligence from his readers, but instead he relentlessly talks down to us, deviating from his patronizing tone only for an occasional, unsuccessful attempt at a joke.
The result? Flabby, sophomoric, obnoxious.
Damn, Tom S.
There are a few others, generally in the same vein, though not quite as devastating. A user named GenieLee says the book is repetitive and obvious. Someone called PrincetonProf deems it pseudo-intellectual.
But then I scroll to the review that stops me cold. It’s dated January 17, 2019—only a couple days after the book was released. It’s five words long, all caps:
DO NOT TRUST CURTIS brADSHAW.
Whoever left it identifies themself only as “…”
As in, just an ellipsis. Three dots. No initials or numbers or special characters. Essentially, a blank space.
I read it over and over:
…
DO NOT TRUST CURTIS brADSHAW.
A chill prickles my neck beneath my still-wet hair. It’s not really a review at all. It seems more like a message.
But from who?