Chapter 7 Thatcher
THATCHER
Steam rises from the Chinese food containers spread across my coffee table, carrying the scent of garlic, ginger, and fried rice. Alli sits cross-legged on the floor across from me, her chopsticks hovering over the lo mein.
It’s Saturday night, which means takeout, gossip, and absolutely no work talk. Or at least, that was the plan before I opened my mouth.
“Now you have to tell me, and I want every single sordid detail,” she says.
“So, I had this brilliant idea, right?” I launch into my story between bites of orange chicken. “Pierce has been working really late, and he always looks so tired. And you know how cookies make everything better?”
“Oh no,” Alli mutters, but she’s smiling. “Where did you hide the cookies this time?”
“That’s not the point!” I protest, but I can feel heat rising in my cheeks because she knows me too well. “The point is that I wanted to do something nice for him.” I steal a piece of her kung pao chicken while she’s distracted by a notification on her phone.
“Okay, so what happened?” she asks, turning back to the food, fencing my chopsticks away with hers.
“There’s a new cookie shop downtown, and they make these amazing chocolate-chip cookies, the fancy kind with sea salt on top? And I wanted to surprise him, you know? Make him smile for once.”
“I know this is going to end in disaster, but so far, unless you ripped your boss’s shirt off and smeared cookies on his chest before licking it off, I’m not seeing it.”
I snort but refrain from saying that sounds like a not-bad idea. “I left the cookies in a bag in his desk drawer—not even on any important papers!—and went home feeling like the best assistant ever.”
“But?”
“But apparently our building has an ant problem.” I pause, watching her face as understanding dawns. “A really enthusiastic ant problem.”
“No,” she gasps, her lips twitching.
“I didn’t even notice it at first until I came back to grab my card before getting Pierce his coffee.
He was there with a horrified look as this perfect little trail of ants, all organized and purposeful, marched right up to his drawer.
They even seemed to be moving in neat formations, which I kind of respect, you know? ”
Alli snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the lo mein. “Only you would admire ants for their organizational skills while they’re invading your workplace.”
“They were very efficient!” I defend.
“So what happened next?”
“Well, Roberto from maintenance showed up with their sprays and traps, looking like some kind of pest control SWAT team.”
“And your boss?”
“And Pierce… Oh man, his face when he saw the ants doing their little cookie crumb parade across his perfectly organized desk? I thought he was going to explode.”
“But he didn’t?”
“No, he just did this thing where he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed really deeply, you know, like he was questioning every life choice that led him to working with me. It’s his fault anyway.
I left a note about the cookies. He decided to ignore it.
And then he made me sign an actual document promising ‘no more food items left unattended on the office premises.’”
“He made you sign a contract about cookies?”
“A legally binding document!” I confirm proudly. “He even had it notarized. I think he’s starting a special file just for ‘Meatball-related incidents that require official documentation.’”
She laughs.
“But he did promise to eat all the snacks I give him from now on,” I say triumphantly.
“He’s in love with you already.”
I throw a cushion at her face as she laughs harder.
My phone buzzes against my thigh, then buzzes again. And again. The group chat I have with my cousins erupts like a volcano of emoji and exclamation points.
Noah:
Guess who got Mom to make her chocolate mousse for dessert tomorrow?
Adam:
I bet she’s doing it for Lior. He’s her favorite.
Lex:
Hey, everyone knows Emery is her favorite.
I smile at Lex’s outrage that his fiancé would somehow not be my aunt’s favorite, but then Adam’s text comes through, and I laugh.
Adam:
No way. My River is and has always been Mom’s favorite, since we were five.
“We’re not done with this conversation,” Alli says, pulling my attention from the phone. “I’m grabbing a beer from your fridge.” She stands and heads to my kitchen.
Meatball:
Everyone knows that Aunt Carla’s favorites are everyone but the three of you.
Noah:
You might be right there. Anyway, you’re coming, right? We haven’t seen you since you got the new job.
Lex:
Obviously, he’s coming. He already said yes.
Adam:
About that… Dad just told me something.
Noah:
What?
Adam:
Uncle Ed is in town. He’s joining us.
The chat goes quiet for a moment. Even through text, I can imagine my cousins holding their breath.
Lex:
Meatball, you okay?
Noah:
You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. We can make an excuse.
Adam:
We’ve got your back either way.
My food suddenly sours in my stomach. My father. The great Thatcher Edward Charles II. Of course he’s in town for business. He’s always in town for business, except when I have art shows, career milestones, or birthdays.
Meatball:
I’ll be there.
Noah:
You sure?
Meatball:
Yeah. Can’t avoid him forever.
Lex:
If he starts anything, I’m spilling wine on him. Accidentally.
Adam:
Lex.
Lex:
What? It worked at Thanksgiving.
Noah:
That was NOT an accident, and we all know it.
Meatball:
Love you guys. See you tomorrow.
“You okay?” Alli asks, coming back with two beers and cheesecake.
“Yeah, totally fine!” My voice comes out too bright, too quick. “Just another fun family meal with dear old dad.”
“What are you going to do?”
With my appetite suddenly taking a hike, I grab my sketchbook and work on a drawing of Pierce I started yesterday. “Survive. Smile. Pretend everything’s fine.” I focus intently on capturing the exact angle of Pierce’s frown. “The usual Charles family meal strategy.”
“Thatch…”
“I know, I know.” I add a shadow to Pierce’s jawline, avoiding her eyes.
“It’s just…every time I think I’m past caring what he thinks, he shows up, and I’m twelve again, showing him my drawings and watching him look right through them because they weren’t the academic essays my perfect brother wrote on how to make rich people richer—but legally. ”
Alli moves closer, her shoulder pressing against mine. “You’re not twelve anymore. You have a job you’re actually good at, friends who love you, and talent that anyone with eyes can see.”
“Anyone except him.”
“Then that’s his loss.” She squeezes my arm. “You don’t need his approval to be successful. You just need to believe that.”
I laugh softly, finally looking up at her. “When did you get so wise?”
“I’ve always been wise. You just don’t listen.” She grins, then nods at my sketchbook. “Now, are you going to tell me why you keep drawing your grumpy boss, or should I start making assumptions?”
My cheeks warm as I hastily flip the page. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t push, but her smile says enough. “Come on. Let’s figure out what you’re wearing to this meal. If you’re facing your dad, you’re doing it looking like the successful, beautiful man you are.”
I stare at her for a long moment, then sigh. “Fine.”
An hour later, my closet looks like it’s been attacked by a tornado with good taste but poor impulse control. Alli stands in the aftermath, holding up shirts like evidence at a crime scene while I fidget with my hair in the mirror.
“My dad won’t care what I wear,” I say as she tosses aside another rejected button-down, “because he won’t look at me anyway.” I tug at a stubborn curl in the mirror.
“Then dress for yourself,” Alli says firmly, holding up a charcoal blazer that somehow manages to look both professional and creative.
We settle on jeans and a T-shirt, with my favorite leather jacket over the top. It’s worn in all the right places, comfortable like armor.
I practice my unaffected face in the closet mirror, the one I wear to family functions and father-son interactions. Shoulders back, chin up, smile careful but not too eager. It’s a mask I’ve perfected over years of disapproving looks and dismissive comments.
“I know you said you would go, but you don’t have to, right?” Alli asks softly, sitting cross-legged on the floor.
“Yes, I do. Because if I don’t, he wins.”
Sunday morning arrives too quickly, bringing with it the familiar dread of family obligations. I wake to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window and lie there for at least an hour, staring at the ceiling, rehearsing conversations that haven’t happened yet.
By the time I’ve showered and changed three times because, of course, I doubt the choices we made yesterday, I’m running late and still not sure if I look like a successful adult or a kid playing dress-up.
The ride to my aunt and uncle’s restaurant, Lusitana, gives me time to decompress and get ready to face my father. Maybe I should count my blessings that my brother isn’t coming. He’s probably busy being a successful something-or-other, as well as my father’s favorite son.
Lusitana glows like a jewel box, all warm light and polished surfaces. Uncle Jack and Aunt Carla’s pride and joy stands as a testament to following your dreams, something my father has never quite forgiven them for encouraging in me.
I don’t come here as often as I should.
Uncle Jack sweeps me into a bear hug as soon as I’m through the doors. “There’s my favorite artist!” His voice booms through the entrance, drawing looks from the other diners. My father stands behind him with an expression that couldn’t express his disappointment in my outfit more if he tried.
“Hello, Thatcher. I see you’ve chosen casual attire.” No greeting, no “how are you,” just immediate disapproval.
Nice to see you too, Father.