Colt (Double U Ranch #1)

Eldest Daughter

LAINEY

OCTOBER

That can’t be it.

Using a pair of metal tongs to turn over the meatballs in Mom’s ancient cast iron pan, I try not to wince as the memory of today’s interview loops through my head for the thousandth time.

The parade of haughty private equity bros in their matching puffer vests.

The not-so-subtle digs about me applying for a “non-income-producing seat” in the marketing department.

The freezing conference room with a sad little office park pond outside the windows. Even the fountain looked depressed, trying in vain to keep the toxic-looking sludge from crowding the pond’s surface.

The cherry on top, though, was being propositioned by one of the firm’s partners at the end of my interview. Randolph Price Edwards III was his name. No, I’m not joking. Just like he wasn’t joking about the two of us—and only the two of us—hanging out afterward.

Yeah, Prestige Partners can’t be the company—the type of job—I’ve spent years busting my ass for.

“So?” Mom drops some ice cubes into a glass of pinot grigio and hands it to me. “Did you get the job?”

Taking a long, hard pull of wine, I give the meatballs another flip. They’ve started to sizzle, releasing the mouth-watering scents of butter and garlic. I don’t love coming home to Fort Worth anymore, but I do miss Mom’s cooking.

“I didn’t get an offer, no,” I reply. “Honestly, I’m relieved. The people I met…they just didn’t feel like my kind of people. One of the guys I interviewed with had the balls to ask me out. During the interview. Can you believe it?”

Even now, my stomach turns over at the way Randolph kept fluttering his stumpy, lily-white hands between his thinning mop of brownish hair, the arms of his chair, and the pile of paper in front of him.

My résumé was on the top of that pile. The one I’ve meticulously built, first with internships at marketing firms in college and then with a very specific selection of courses in business school at the University of Texas at Austin, where I still live.

It was almost like Randolph wasn’t sure what his most vital appendages were for. Bet that applies to more appendages than just his hands.

But the memory of Randolph keeps me from following that train of thought, even though I’ve had sex on the brain lately. Guess that’s what happens when you haven’t gotten laid in a year.

Longer than that if we’re talking about getting properly laid. But I’m starting to think good guys who are also good in bed just don’t exist.

“Huh.” Mom lights the burner underneath a giant pot of water. “I’d take the invite as a compliment if I were you. That’s just how men are, sweetie. I think you’re expecting too much of these guys.”

I blink. Sip my wine.

I’m…honestly not sure what to say to that. I recognize that Mom comes from a different generation. She also hasn’t worked since I was born, so her view of how people act in the workplace is probably a little skewed. But surely I’m not asking for too much by wanting to be respected?

“I’m not sure I agree.” I avoid meeting her eyes.

She shrugs. “You haven’t had much luck in your job hunt so far. I’d keep an open mind if you really do want an offer.”

Thing is I don’t want an offer. Not anymore. But I’m not sure how to explain that to my parents.

Letting out a silent sigh, I tell myself I’ll only be back in my hometown of Fort Worth for thirty-six hours.

Maybe less if I play my cards right. I made the three-hour drive from Austin right after my bomb of an interview because it’s Mom’s birthday this weekend.

If I don’t celebrate the occasion, no one else in my family will.

So here I am, having procured her favorite cake from her favorite bakery. We’ll enjoy it after brunch at the buzzy French bistro where I made a reservation weeks ago. Mom loves that spot.

Dad looks up at me from the magazine he’s reading on the family room couch. “You haven’t gotten an offer yet, Lainey.”

“It’ll happen.” My younger brother Pete, who’s a senior in high school, is seated beside him, scrolling on his phone. “You’re smart. They’ll notice.”

Y’all aren’t hearing me, I want to say. I just told you I got the ick during my interview. I don’t want to work at Prestige Partners. I don’t want to work in private equity, period.

Instead, I sip my wine and stay quiet. Mostly because I don’t have an answer to the inevitable question Mom and Dad will ask: If I don’t want to work at Prestige, where do I want to work?

What do I want to do if I no longer want a career in PE?

I’ve been passed over by five private equity firms since I graduated from business school back in May.

My professors and classmates just made it seem like PE was the ticket to an exciting and lucrative career.

Yes, I was “only” gunning for a position in marketing instead of those income-producing seats everyone kept mentioning during my interview.

But marketing jobs still pay very well in the sector.

While I do want that kind of high-paying career—being financially independent is super important to me—I’ve realized I’d be miserable cooped up in an office like Prestige’s, working for people who clearly don’t respect me.

My youngest brother, Andrew, a high school sophomore, doesn’t say anything. He just yawns, feet up in the recliner, arm bent behind his head. He’s been watching ESPN since I arrived an hour ago.

I keep turning over the meatballs while turning over a familiar question in my head: Why am I the only one in the kitchen helping Mom with dinner? Didn’t I have a long day too? Don’t I get to relax too?

But that’s a road of eldest (and only) daughter problems that leads nowhere. So I try my best to ignore the familiar flame of anger that burns oh so brightly in my chest. I tilt my head to one side, then the other, hoping to relieve the tension in my neck.

This is how it’s always been in our family: women in the kitchen, men on the couch. It will be different in my house when, God willing, I have a family of my own. But here, double standards and rigid gender roles are just a fact of life.

Dad sniffs at the air. Expecting him to tell us how good the house smells, I feel my heart twist when he makes a face instead.

“Michelle, those meatballs aren’t turkey, are they?”

I glance at Mom, who’s busy sliding the garlic bread into the oven. “What’s that?”

“The meatballs—they don’t smell like the beef ones I like.”

Whew, that has me holding the tongs in a death grip. I don’t know why Dad gets me so riled up.

That’s a lie. He gets you riled up because he can be rude and selfish and completely ignorant of your mother’s needs. And then she’s rude to you because you’re the only one who cares enough to talk to her.

“Kenny,” she says. “I worked hard on these. Your cardiologist said—”

“Eating beef once in a while isn’t going to kill anyone.”

I grab my wine. “It could kill you, actually.”

“Fine. I just won’t eat, then.” He’s pouting.

“Dad, they’re going to be delicious,” I try. “You won’t even be able to tell.”

“I’ll be able to tell.”

“Kenny,” Mom says. “Just try them. I bet you’ll—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Are you kidding?” She raises her voice, making my stomach clench. Please, God, not another fight. “You’re acting like a five-year-old. If you want to stay alive—”

“Stop with the hysterics.” Dad rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

Mom sets down her wineglass with a loud clink and lets out a mirthless laugh. “We’ll see about that.”

“So you want me to die,” Dad snaps.

Mom rolls her eyes. “What? That makes no sense.”

“Meatballs made with some kind of bullshit health stuff don’t make sense.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Mom replies.

“I work twelve-hour days for this family,” he shoots back. “There’s nothing ridiculous about that.”

“Well, I think they smell delicious, Mom.” I clear my throat. “The meatballs.”

“Just make sure they don’t burn,” she bites out.

I feel bad knowing that my biggest fear is ending up like my mother. She’s a good person who’s worked hard her whole life. She showed up to every recital, volunteered to be room parent every year, and has made three square meals for us day in and day out over the past two decades.

But because she gave up her career to raise us, she doesn’t have things like her own 401(k) or savings. She’s totally dependent on my dad.

Are the two of them happy together? Not really. But I also don’t think she wants to leave him. If she did, though… I mean, could she, with no income of her own?

The thought of being trapped like that keeps me up at night.

Which is why I initially wanted a job in private equity, even though I’m a creative at heart.

I majored in visual arts and marketing in undergrad, and I even started my own brand and website business, the Creative Cactus, a few years ago.

I took on a handful of pretty cool clients each semester.

The work is fun, and the money is good. Good enough to cover rent at least.

Randolph chuckled earlier today when I brought up my business. “The website design thing.” He flapped his hand in a vague gesture that made me search for a rogue fly or gnat. “I remember that from your résumé. I mean, that’s not an actual job, but it’s cute.”

I kept my smile pasted on my face, doing my best to absorb the blow without even blinking.

My parents haven’t put it that bluntly, but they’d agree with Randolph’s assessment of the Creative Cactus.

Dad’s worked for the same wealth management company his entire career, and his job comes with great benefits: health insurance, matching 401(k) contributions, and stock options.

Not to mention a steady paycheck. He and Mom believe a job isn’t a real job unless it comes with perks like those, ones that lead to a stable lifestyle.

Which I understand. I want a nice life for myself too. I’ve been trying to get a “real” job for months now. But the guy who was supposed to hire me today only saw me as a piece of ass. Is that just how corporate America works, though? Was Mom right? Am I naive to expect otherwise?