Chapter Five #2
On the plus side, my parents are finally spending more time at home after their product launch, and Jeremy’s back for the weekend.
This evening we’re all in the family room, a rare sight in the Morgan household.
My parents are on the sectional with me, and my brother is hunched over his phone, tapping away.
“Are you doing well at school, Jer?” my dad asks, a Kindle in hand and a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon on the coffee table. Every so often he stops to highlight a sentence.
Jeremy barely looks up. “Uh-huh. Fantastic.”
“And you, sweetheart?” My mom is swiping through emails on her company phone, deleting one after another. Despite the tired redness in her eyes, she still manages a smile. “How’s your dating life? How’s Sean?”
“He’s dreamy. He tells me everything—what he’s been up to, what his calls are about if he answers in front of me.
I never have to wonder where he is, he doesn’t disappear for hours without responding.
And if he’s driving and a text comes in, he asks me to read it for him. It’s like he has no secrets.”
“I love that.” My mom nods. “Reliability is undervalued these days. Your father’s the same. He tells me everything, sometimes more than I need to hear. Honestly, there are moments I wouldn’t mind a little silence.”
“But I want to tell you!” my dad says.
“He studies a lot, though,” I add. “He says normal people don’t have time to date on weekdays. He volunteers to tutor online, but he also takes on loads of paid sessions to save for college.”
Sean is, technically, not under desperate financial pressure.
Sure, he may think Great Wolf Lodge is peak luxury and a Costco run counts as “splurging,” but his parents have solid jobs, nonprofit admin and city maintenance management.
He just likes to help out where he can. Save for a decent laptop, cover some tuition, and, occasionally, a preppy shirt that makes him look like he summers somewhere.
“Good thing we’ve got you covered,” my dad says, but he doesn’t ask me where I want to go to school, which is just as well because I have no idea. It’s always been the same—Jeremy, the obvious prodigy with his ironclad career goals, and then there’s me.
Growing up, my mom wanted me to feel comfortable, to blend in, and maybe that’s why I always feel like I’m supposed to be fine, like they don’t need to worry about me because I’ll figure it out eventually.
My mom sets her phone on the coffee table with a resolute thud, a sign she’s decided not to check her emails anymore.
“We had an interesting meeting this morning.” She picks up my dad’s glass and takes a sip, frowns, and sets it back down in favor of her own mug of genmaicha.
“We were reevaluating how to streamline our mentorship program. The issue is that some mentees struggle with relationship building and effective communication. Typically, we match them with someone higher up the ladder—ideally, someone who’s done the same role before—to help them navigate challenges through firsthand experience. ”
My dad lowers his Kindle, already engaged. They love talking to each other, and work-related topics rank high on the list, right up there with strategizing ways to maximize our passive income.
“That makes sense,” he says. “I tend to connect high-potential talent from our affiliates with global counterparts in the same function. It sharpens their technical skills and expands their network at the same time.”
“True, but that can lead to siloed thinking,” my mom counters, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Sometimes pairing someone in a technical role with a managerial role offers a fresh, outside perspective.”
“But there’s a risk.” Jeremy cuts in from the leather swivel chair, eyes still on his phone. “Someone from the commercial side won’t always grasp the nuances of a medical role, and that disconnect makes the mentorship ineffective.”
He’s such a smart-ass.
“Good point there, Jerry,” my mom says, and I wish I’d come up with that myself. They continue the debate for a while, making valid arguments as smart people of this family.
No one asks my opinion.
“Is this mentor-mentee thing set in stone?” I say finally.
“You all make it sound like an arranged marriage, but it should be like speed dating—let mentees talk to several mentors and see where the chemistry is. There’s no guarantee that you’ll match with someone of the same function, sometimes opposites attract.
People will only be willing to share when they like each other. ”
My mom laughs, and Jeremy snorts under his breath. “Morganite, is dating all you think about?”
“That’s certainly an unconventional perspective. Very interesting,” my dad says in that I’m a professional marketer and I’ll humor you tone of his, the one he uses when he hears something stupid.
“I just remembered I have to finish a paper.” A sharp sting creeps behind my eyes. I get up before anyone can say anything else and head to my room to call Sean.
* * *
Sean picks up on the second ring. “Hey.”
“What are you doing?” Two weeks ago, I never would’ve imagined calling him whenever and basking in the certainty that he wouldn’t mind. Sean would get it. He’d laugh at my speed-dating idea, but in that kind, amused, you’re smarter than people give you credit for kind of way.
“Doing my math homework. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, just needed to hear your voice.”
A pause. “How are your parents? You finally getting some quality time together?”
“Wait till you hear this. They’re—” Now that the perfect opening is here, the words snag on the edge of my throat. “We’re hanging out at home. It’s nice having them back.”
What’s the point? As far as Sean knows, my mom’s a powerhouse, climbing the corporate ladder faster than anyone else, a feat made even harder by the fact she’s a woman of color, and my dad’s the youngest VP in company history.
They’re everything success looks like on paper.
Honestly, Sean would fit right in. The four of them could chat Ivy Leagues all day and pat each other on the back.
“I know how much you miss them,” Sean says. “Were you going to say something?”
He might pity me, which is even worse. “We’re going to this restaurant tomorrow that’s usually booked out months in advance. I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Please do. Hey, I want to ask you something.” He stalls, and inhales on the other end. “Want to go to the homecoming dance with me?”
I can’t help but smile, my eyelids already lighter. How sublime it is to be wanted. I drop my voice and try to sound as grave as possible. “Cutting it close, Foster? It’s two weeks until homecoming. I’m usually booked out months in advance too.”
“Oh.” Even without the visual, I can hear the disappointment. “Sure, if there’s no way, I get it. I just—I really want to go with you.”
“Of course I’ll go with you! I’d be so heartbroken if you didn’t ask. But I thought dances weren’t your thing?”
Sean laughs. “Until now, there wasn’t anyone I wanted to dance with.”
I sink into my pillow, close my eyes, and sigh. If I could travel back in time, I’d tell freshman me to dream big, aim for the stars, floss your teeth, eat your vegetables, and everything will be all right. One day, Sean Foster will take you to homecoming.
My phone buzzes. “Wait, I’m getting another call. It’s Raymond. I’ll call him back later.”
“No, it’s okay,” Sean says. “Take it. I should probably get back to my homework.”
We say a hurried bye, and I swipe to answer Ray’s call.
“Ah, hello there,” he says in a fake noble accent that lands somewhere between aristocrat and total nonsense. “Let me guess, family night went like running naked through a cactus field?”
“What gave it away?”
“Intuition. Jeremy is home, and sixty percent of the time, he pisses you off every time.” He quotes Anchorman.
Here’s someone who doesn’t need the backstory of the Morgan family saga, but I give him a quick rundown anyway.
“Poor little rich girl,” he says. “At least your parents like each other. The more mine try to demolish each other, the bigger the house gets. It’s like every screaming match adds a bathroom.”
When Ray’s parents yell at each other and, on occasion, fling plates across the formal dining room, he hides in his room and gets stoned. His current house is the third one I’ve seen him in.
“Poor little rich boy. At least you’re an only child.
No one to benchmark against. You can smoke pot and binge movies all day and still be the golden child.
” Movies are about as useless a hobby as fashion.
Every year we watch the Oscars together (despite being appalled at the nominees), and boo the screen and chuck popcorn from his vintage popcorn machine at it.
“Golden child? Please, more like a hot potato with trust issues. Plus, neither of my parents have the slimmest idea of what a movie is. They probably think a montage is a fancy French cheese. At least your mom takes you to runway shows. Mine just takes me to family court.”
We trade digs back and forth, and I say, “Fine. I’ll let you take first place for most disappointing offspring to high-achieving parents.”
“Happy to share the stage. Think of the speeches we’d give. Real tearjerkers. ‘I’d like to thank my family for setting the bar so high I need oxygen tanks to reach it.’”
“And the crowd goes wild.”
Ray snickers on the other end in that familiar way of his. Then he says, “What does Sir Seanathan think of all this?”
“Obviously that I’m this sophisticated girl who’s traveled the five continents and always has a story ready, straight from a perfect family.”
“Ah. So he doesn’t know. Shocking.”
“That’s a twentieth-date topic. Besides, he doesn’t have patience for people who complain, especially not when he’s the one counting every dollar in his college fund.”
I’m already so lucky, and I want him to admire my family as much as I do.
“Fair enough. Gotta be careful with these plebeians and their coupon-collecting egos,” Raymond says, but his tone is not unkind. “Well, if you ever need to air out the dirty laundry, you know where to find me.”