42 Ginger
42
Ginger
“How was the day? Do you feel like an exec?”
“Eh…no. Unless feeling like an exec means nearly falling over from exhaustion, thinking about taking a vacation my third week of work, and what I can do between invoices so everything isn’t so goddamn boring.”
My sister’s smile vanished as I tossed my bag onto the sofa and settled down next to her. She wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. A quiz show was on TV. I’d been working at the family business for three weeks. It wasn’t much different from my internship the summer before, even if my dad kept saying I was his “right-hand woman” and future CEO. I could feel the angry stares of coworkers who thought (and maybe they were right) that I was a daddy’s girl and hadn’t had to work hard to get where I was. But no one looked at Dean like that. For some incomprehensible reason, he’d managed to butter up half the staff in his first couple of days, with his charming smile, his jokes at lunchtime, and his gentle, open attitude.
“Is it so bad?” Donna looked worried.
“I wouldn’t say bad exactly, but I feel out of place. Every day at the office, I tell myself this will finally be the day things start to go better. But every hour is an eternity. It doesn’t help seeing Dean like a fish in water. What is it about me?”
“It’s nothing about you, Ginger. You’re just different.”
“Sure. But, like… I’m supposed to have been familiar with this company since I was a kid… For years I’ve assumed this would be my future, and I’m not sure I can do it.”
“Yeah, but like, you don’t have to do it, obvs.”
“ Obvs ? Where’d you get that from?”
“It’s something Amanda says. Don’t worry about it. Stick to the subject.”
Amanda was my sister’s girlfriend. That was something else my parents hadn’t expected from Donna: for her to be gay. Just as they didn’t expect she’d never care a jot for the cabinet business. Or that she’d study fine arts. Or that she’d decide to shave her head not long after starting at the bar where she still worked. Me, on the other hand—I struggled to do all they expected of me, even when they never asked for it.
Why do you do it, Ginger? That question crept into my mind sometimes. It was obviously dying for an answer, but as soon as I sensed it, I always whisked it away again instead of taking it seriously.
“What I’m trying to say,” Donna continued, “is you’re not obliged to do things you don’t want to. You know that, right? You can change your mind, Ginger. I did.”
“But I’ve been preparing for this for years.”
“Yeah, but sometimes things don’t work out the way we like.”
“And Dean…he’s doing an amazing job there.”
“You are too. He’s just different.”
“No, you don’t understand. Remember last week when I stayed up so late three or four nights in a row? I wasn’t talking with Rhys; I was writing a report with some proposals I wanted to send to Dad. That’s another thing. Calling my boss Dad is weird as shit. Anyway, I was breaking my back trying to give everything the right focus; you know how resistant he is to change. And for what? For nothing. The other day, I go into his office, I see the report under a pile of papers in the corner, I ask if he’s read it, and he’s like, ‘I haven’t had time, honey, but I’m sure it’s wonderful.’”
“I know. He treats you like his daughter, not like a colleague. That’s what you mean, right? It’s complicated, Ginger. Dad adores you. You’re the apple of his eye.”
“He adores me, but every time I tell him something, even if it’s just a minor suggestion, he scowls and frowns like one of those pugs with the little squished-up face.”
“You’re right, that is what he looks like.”
Donna started laughing, and I couldn’t resist doing the same.
“I guess I’ll get used to it…”
“Yeah.” She sighed. “By the way, how is Rhys?”
“Ah, great. Really great. Brilliant.”
“Are you mad at him or something?”
“No, not at all. It’s just his life is so marvelous…” I got up, walked around the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room, and opened a carton of juice. Donna watched me from the sofa. “He’s recording a song with Alexa Goldberg. As you can imagine, I googled her. She’s amazing. She can sing like you wouldn’t believe. I saw some videos of her on her Insta. There’s a photo of her with Rhys. You know who doesn’t have a photo with him? Me.”
“Are you jealous?” She looked amused.
“Yeah. A little. I mean, I just saw it. I’ll get over it. But he told me he hated photos. Maybe all he means is he hates them if I’m in them.”
“Ginger, you act like an idiot when you talk about him.”
I went back to the living room with my pineapple juice in hand. I tried not to pay attention to what she’d said. I knew I acted like a little girl when it came to him, but I couldn’t help how I felt. He was THE GUY. I’d never thought so much about anyone else, not even when I broke up with Dean, not even when I said goodbye to James a month before leaving the dorm and we did it on the carpet in his room. With Rhys, it was different. Not like a fleeting thought that appeared and vanished. In some weird way, he was always in my life, in my head, in the emails I read and wrote every night. When something dumb happened or something major, I smiled, knowing I’d be telling him about it a few hours later. Like the week before, when the alarm at Harrods went off as I was walking out, and two security guards ran after me like I was a hardened criminal. I was so tired after staying up the night before working on that report, which was now gathering dust, that all I could think of to shout was, “I’m innocent, don’t hurt me!” And then, with tears in my eyes, I looked at the ground while they were going through my bag.
“Sometimes I don’t understand why he still talks to me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m boring, Donna.”
“Don’t be silly! Anyway, Rhys adores you. I still remember how he looked at you during our Christmas lunch. Not to mention what happened after.”
“I’m the one who kissed him,” I repeated.
“So? You or him, what does it matter?”
“He’d never have done it.”
“Ginger, you need to get out more.”
“I’m serious. If it had been up to Rhys, that kiss would never have happened. I think he just felt sorry for me. He’s a sweetie, even if he doesn’t look like it. So he just went along.” I shrugged. “Anyway, I have a long, boring summer ahead of me. Again. You working tonight?”
“No. So pick a movie, get the chocolate ice cream out of the freezer, and stop whining, okay? Don’t make me start playing the big sister. Besides, Michael’s out of town all weekend.”
Michael was our roommate. He wasn’t a bad guy, but he didn’t talk much (or at all), and he hardly came out of his room when he was around (apart from raiding the fridge or taking an hour-long shower). He was an IT guy. He had a shaved head, tattoos, and piercings in his eyebrow and tongue. When she came to visit, my mother would purse her lips every time she saw him. She didn’t like his “inelegant” appearance, as she called it, and she never understood why we wouldn’t let her pay his part of the rent so the two of us could live alone. “It would do wonders for your quality of life,” she’d said.
“Why don’t you invite Amanda over?” I asked.
“Maybe tomorrow. Today’s a Davies girls night.”
I smiled. I liked how that sounded. I got the ice cream from the freezer and flopped down next to her with two spoons in hand while she turned on the TV.