Chapter 8
I’d like to pretend that I had the final word and calmly sailed out of the kitchen to begin my new life, but that’s not what happened.
Dad lost it and told me that he refuses to subsidize or enable such idle, lazy entitlement and told me that until I come to my senses, I’m no longer welcome in their home.
I volleyed back that no one can kick me out of a house I’m already happily vacating, along with a string of childish insults regarding my dad’s age and receding hairline.
It wasn’t my finest hour, but it did cement my conviction that this was totally the right decision.
After Mom and Dad head off to golf, I reach for my phone and dial Adam. Some things are easier said than texted.
“Adam West McKinney,” my brother answers.
“I’m calling in that favor,” I say as I reach under my bed for my gym duffel.
“Bea—not now.”
I dump everything from my bottom drawer into the bag. “I want you to find me an apartment to rent in La Jolla.”
“Bea, I’m not a real estate agent.”
“And I’m not a cosplayer, but I showed up at your escape room when you needed help. Turnabout is fair play.”
“Fine,” Adam sighs. “I’ll see what I can do. Text me your non-negotiables and price point.”
“I already have.” I shove my yoga mat into the bag.
“Sorry, you want an apartment, not a shoebox. Not a van by the ocean.”
“I want an apartment that has a patio or veranda or something. Definitely one that requires no freeway commute to get to the ocean.” I find my yoga blocks, dust them on the back of my golf skirt, and shove them in too.
“When are you looking to move?”
“Today.”
“What happened?” Adam’s tone changes.
“Something that should have happened a long time ago. I quit the family business.”
Adam whistles.
“Can I crash on your couch tonight?”
“Of course.”
There’s a tap on my door. “I gotta go.”
“Yeah. Go. Door’s unlocked. We’ll get sushi when you show up. There’s this amazing place I found last week. Small plates. You’ll love it.”
I hang up as Adam is trailing on about his latest hole-in-the-wall gem. Mom is standing in my door.
“I thought you were golfing.”
“Forgot my gloves.” Mom waves a canary yellow and white leather pair in the air. “I left your father at the driving range and came back to get them.”
She looks me up and down, a hand on the back of her hip.
Dad swears the first female Starship Cruiser captain was based on her.
Thirty years ago, they were at lunch in Santa Monica at some exclusive café, and Mom negotiated her way to a table despite her lack of a reservation.
That table just happened to be next to some producer, and I’d like to pretend that there is zero credibility to this story, but whenever I watch old Starship Cruiser Pathfinder episodes, I wonder.
Of course, anyone who sees Molly McKinney negotiate would peg her for a Starship Cruiser captain. And that’s why I have to move the heck out. Even being a cactus in this family comes with too many expectations to live up to.
“I’m willing to cut a deal.”
I straighten. A little stiffly. Yoga on the beach is a top priority. Yoga on the beach and other forms of self-care that I’ve been eschewing.
“Do I have your attention?”
“Mom, your deals never favor anyone but you.”
“I’m flattered you noticed.” Mom adjusts a cactus on my bookshelf, turning it so the single bloom faces outward. “I will take care of your exit plan at the firm, ensuring that you leave gracefully and all the bridges that you worked hard to build remain intact.”
I cram all the sports bras I can find into the side pocket of my bag. “In exchange for?”
“You agree to call this a sabbatical. You keep all your licensees active, pay your California State Bar fees and the ones to all those databases. You expand your Tbr pile to include a healthy portion of law articles”—Mom adds the stack of law books on my desk and my legal pads to my bag—“so that in a year when you’ve worked whatever this is out of your system, you can save face by publishing some sort of scholarly article and slide back into your career. ”
I’m about to throw the books out of my duffel, but Mom keeps her hand on the stack. “Additionally, we meet as regularly as I deem fit to discuss what you’ve been researching.”
“You’re not an academic or a lawyer, Mom.”
“But I’m more than capable of monitoring your progress and making sure you are not selling drugs on the corner of Grand and Balboa.”
Seriously? “Like anyone would hustle on street corners in the digital age.”
Mom isn’t smiling.
“That was a joke.”
“We can call my check-ins a lunch date to save face. Do we have a deal?”
As if! I groan, but ghosting an employer, even if he is your father, isn’t good business.
Still, two weeks’ notice sounds unbearable.
All the memos I’d have to write and clients I’d have to pawn off on other associates.
Mom is offering to make it all go away. And she is better at navigating all the messy, interpersonal nonsense than I’ve ever been.
“I’m waiting.” Mom inspects her golf gloves.
“The frequency of our ‘check-ins’ cannot exceed the limit of one lunch-hour meeting per quarter.”
“One lunch-hour meeting per month, and you have a deal.” Mom straightens the duvet on my bed. “It should be no problem since you’ll have all that flexibility that comes with hustle culture.”
“Vibing.”
“Yes, darling. Whatever you say.”
What is her angle? Wanting to keep tabs on me? More likely, she wants a steady stream of information about Adam. “Fine. You pay for the meals.”
Mom sniffs, not snorts. Never snorts. It’s another mannerism that she has in common with the Pathfinder captain. “Of course. My idea, my treat. Do we have a deal?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Small price for being able to never commute to work with Dad again.
“Excellent. Despite what your father said while he was having his temper tantrum, you are welcome to stay until you find a place.” Mom pulls a dried, crinkled leaf from one of my succulents. “You are always welcome to stay.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say Mom sounds a little teary.
But I do know better. Emotions are just part of her arsenal when it comes to negotiating and getting her way.
“Thanks, Mom, but Adam offered me his couch.” It’s a sore spot that Adam has never once invited Mom and Dad over to see his place.
She’s too proud to bring that up, though.
Dad is still too angry. I heard him shouting the other night, The nerve.
He didn’t even ask us. He just up and invests a small fortune into some fanfic indulgence.
All those years, all that money we thought he was saving for law school!
I stuff the final pair of sweats into my duffel and zip it up. “I’ll look forward to our lunch date, Mom.” I heft my bag onto the floor. “And as soon as I find a place, I’ll come back for my other crap.”
“Language,” Mom says reflexively.
“My other belongings, furniture, and personal effects.”