28. Sebastian
That boy is going to be the death of me.
He walked out of the exam without taking it and shouted at Raya.
And that’s after I hauled him out of his apartment, that we pay for, half an hour late.
I should fire him.
Instead, I head to my office and call Uncle Roger.
He picks up on the first ring. “What’s he done already?”
He knows.
“Just looking for some tips before he gets axed. He’s pulling some real shit.”
Uncle Roger sighs. “I was hoping getting through college would give him some perspective.”
I swivel in my chair. “He bucks all authority. How did he even graduate?”
“It took some doing.” He sighs again. “We got him a campus advocate. She had the most to do with it.”
“Really? What did she do for him?”
And more importantly, could I hire her?
“I don’t know exactly. She did some paperwork. Got what she called ‘accommodations’ for him. He doesn’t talk to me, and since he’s an adult, she couldn’t get me his grades or anything. But he walked the stage. And he got a diploma, I know that. It came to the house.”
“Do you have her name?” Maybe she can shed some light on how to make him straighten up.
“Sure. I’ll track it down and send it to you.”
“Thanks.”
Uncle Roger sighs. “I appreciate it, Sebastian. I know it’s a burden. I didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t going to get anywhere if I didn’t intervene.”
“He didn’t have it easy. Neither did you, picking up where your sister left off.”
He’s quiet. Both of us imagine all the scenes from the past, and those only Maverick witnessed.
His mother Maura, Roger’s only daughter, is in jail for life. She did every drug imaginable, broke every law in the land other than murder, and very nearly did that too, with how she treated her only son.
I was twelve when a five-year-old Maverick appeared at Uncle Roger’s, where we spent every Sunday afternoon to give Mom a bit of time to herself.
But I remember. He was scrawny, mean, and half-feral. Bruised from eye to knee.
There were social workers all the time, even on Sunday. Therapists. Someone helped him with his speech.
He didn’t go to kindergarten that year. And when he did, he got held back. This made him bigger and tougher than the other kids, and he used that to always be on top.
We called him cousin, even though Uncle Roger was a family friend. But our lives were tightly intertwined growing up.
He seemed to be straightening out when I left for undergrad. I only heard the stories as told by Arya.
Maverick dated a lot, showed off his girlfriends, broke their hearts. This was a different track from the one where he sucker punched anyone who crossed him.
Now I wonder if he’s ever recovered. It’s like he wants to hurt the world for the hurt he got when he was little.
But apparently somebody in college found a way to make him productive. Someone who was helping him as recently as last year.
I’ll be calling her the first chance I get.
I’ve played it straight at this job for five years, but I’m really in it now. Forcing an intern into the program. Having an affair with a subordinate.
I rub my forehead. I would fire me, if I knew. At least call me in.
But I’m the one in charge. Havannah has already moved into a hands-off approach for everything she can pass to others. She only does the event management, her favorite. She’s been hiring an outside team to implement her visions, but that’s something she hopes to give to the intern she thinks can handle it.
In our meetings about the interns before they were hired, she liked all of the choices. Ilsa had shown true leadership, getting glowing reports from her professors and hotel references alike. She had a double major in business and hospitality and got things done.
Brooklyn had charmed everyone, and sometimes was given a difficult bride or mother-of-the-bride at the hotel where she did her undergrad internship. She excelled at handling hard customers.
Owen was a teddy bear of a choice, able to work with anyone, loyal, and thoroughly reliable.
And Mila. I only vaguely remember those discussions, before I knew their names, and overlay that early impression with what I know of her now. Hardworking. Diversity of experience. Minored in interior design.
I had forgotten about that. Havannah had been particularly interested in this combination of skills, since her ballroom decor was one of her most treasured elements of her parties.
There’s a rap at my door.
“Come in.”
Jessie from HR appears, her white-blonde hair more freshly dyed than yesterday. She smells of a salon.
“Hey.” She sits in the chair opposite my desk.
I have a feeling I know what this is about.
“I like the hair.”
She touches it. “You always notice.” She twists her wedding ring, and I figure her husband probably doesn’t.
“What’s up?”
“What are we going to do about Maverick? I’ve got a written report from Anna, which states she already spoke to you and got no action. Raya is ready to throw him off the interstate, I think. I have two reports of him yelling in the back halls earlier today. And one girl from laundry left an email citing an ‘unbearable work environment’ as the reason she didn’t come in over the weekend.” She sits back in her chair. “We have to intervene.”
I’m glad I talked to Uncle Roger. “I have a lead on someone who can rein him in.”
Jessie looks skeptical. “You think that’ll help? He’s wreaking havoc.”
“I’d like to try it before we chuck him. It’s only been a week.”
She lets out a sharp laugh. “I’m not sure we’ve had anyone cause this much friction in only a week. And he lives on site! Raya is on the warpath.”
“Give me one more week. If we don’t get him in line, I’ll let him know he’s out.”
“Okay, boss.” She stands up. “Please don’t add a legal mess to the already problematic personnel one. He’s not going to do something irrevocable, right? Havannah doesn’t need this.”
“I’m on it.”
“Okay.”
When she’s gone, I lean back. This is a lot.
I reach for the phone. Normally on a really bad day, I’d text my sister.
But today, I pull up Mila’s thread and add a message.
This has been a doozy of a day.
She’s in HR, so she might not be able to text back for a while. I set my phone on the desk and turn to my computer. Havannah has sent the fifteenth draft of who should handle her various tasks when she goes on maternity leave.
But then my phone buzzes.
Mila: I’m heading to lunch. Know somewhere safe to meet?
My body instantly stirs.
Me: I do.
Mila: Tell me where and we’ll turn this day around.
I shouldn’t.
But my fingers don’t get the message. They text out what they want.
Me: Meet me in the princess tower.