13. Lyla
Lyla
I put the peaches and the coconut whipped cream in the fridge for later, and turn to find Beck already seated at the kitchen table, flicking through the papers I’ve spread out and organized into piles.
Invoices for cattle sales and other income have gone into one pile, receipts for expenses in the other. That pile is a lot bigger. I had started writing down amounts on a separate piece of paper, cataloging transactions to get a better picture of where money is going.
Beck’s brow is furrowed as he takes it all in, the proof of his fathers mismanagement over the years laid out in front of him.
He’s so focussed he barely notices Critter stretching up on his hind legs, asking to be picked up.
I scoop him into my arms before folding myself into the kitchen chair, tucking one leg up underneath me.
I regard Beck in silence as he tries to make sense of everything. My eyes trail over his form, the way his denim shirt pulls tight over his biceps as his elbows rest on the table, the broad shoulders, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows, the kind face beneath his rugged stubble and moustache.
Beneath his prickly facade, I can still see the sweet and caring teenage boy that sat with me while I waited for my mom to come and attend to my skinned knee.
He was right there, so close I could see the same warmth in his eyes when he told me anyone who isn’t prepared to tolerate my emotions isn’t a man.
I wonder if it’s the pressure of taking over the ranch that hardened him, or something else.
Finally, he puts down the paper he was scrutinizing and sits back in his chair. He scrubs his hand over his jaw.
“What do you make of it all?” he asks, glancing up at me.
His dark eyes are earnest, almost desperate.
I’ve been on the receiving end of that question many times.
I’ve had to answer many owners of failing businesses with a delicate balance of candour and kindness.
But I’ve never had to do it with someone I know. Never someone like Beck.
A lot of business owners are able to see things objectively, and I don’t like to mince my words.
When your company is bleeding money, you’ll do anything to stem the blood.
For some, it’s cutting back on production costs, or trimming the fat in other ways.
For others, it’s shutting down completely.
Most of the time, it’s a disappointment, sure.
Or, as I like to frame it, it’s a redirection.
They’ll recover and then start again, and start fresh.
I wish I could tell myself the same thing about losing my job.
Now, I know how that disappointment feels.
The blow from the universe–who apparently sometimes shows up as an asshole of a boss–telling you you aren’t good enough.
So it’s harder to deliver the message this time, especially knowing Beck, how personally he takes this responsibility.
I wince. “It’s not looking good.”
He nods, as if he already knows. “You don’t have to sugar coat anything Lyla, I don’t want you to. I can handle you.” He flushes. “I can handle it.”
“Okay…” I glance down at the stacks upon stacks of receipts. “It’s a mess. This–” I gesture at the boxes on the floor, loose papers that haven’t yet been categorized strewn about “—is utter chaos. I hardly even know where to start. Has nothing been done to digitize all this?”
Beck shakes his head. “Dad was always a bit paranoid about things he couldn’t understand. Technology being one of them. He thought digitizing would mean putting ourselves at risk of hackers stealing it all.”
I absentmindedly scratch Critter behind his ears. “All of… what? Exactly?”
Beck lets out a soft chuckle. “Yeah, that’s what I told him. Right before I asked him if he wanted me to make him a tinfoil hat.”
A laugh I wasn’t expecting bursts out of me, and I cover my mouth with both hands, but I can’t stop myself.
Soon, Beck is laughing with me, the kind of laugh where if you don’t let it out, you’ll cry.
I think he needs it, to loosen up a little, to let go of some of the crushing pressure and look at this from a new lens.
One that will let him see potential and possibilities instead of dead ends and road blocks.
“Does he even have an e-mail?” I ask, my laughter fading. I sniffle and wipe a tear from my eye.
Beck shakes his head as his own laughter settles out and he returns to the reality of what we’re facing. “No. I mean, I think he might have at some point? But I wouldn’t know how to access it, and I’m willing to bet he doesn’t remember the password.”
“Do you have an e-mail?”
Beck stares at me in silence.
“Beck,” I scold. “You don’t have an e-mail? How on earth have you been conducting business?”
His eyes widen and he shrugs. He appears like a child trying to evade punishment. A very big man-child.
“The phone seems to work just fine.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. I’ve been doing that a lot lately, feeling exasperated. If I didn’t still need a reference–and a convenient place to live for the time being–I’d throw my hands up and walk out that door. I steel myself, schooling my features and putting on my best professional tone.
“Task number one will be to digitize this. All of it from the last year. We need to be able to see everything clearly, understand where the ranch is losing money, where we might be able to maximize profits. It’ll be a lot of upfront work–” work I know I will be stuck doing “—but it will allow us to streamline, keep all the ranch finances separate from personal ones, and put everything into an accounting system.”
Beck blows out a breath through pursed lips, his cheeks puffing out.
“It’s not going to be easy, I’ll tell you that for free. It might get worse before it gets better. We’re going to have to consider some pretty major cutbacks. But listen, this is what I do for a living, okay? I’m good at this, Beck. I want you to trust me here.”
Solemn understanding and acceptance crosses his features. Then, he rolls up his sleeves, bends down, and grabs a stack of papers from the nearest box. “Let’s get started, then.”
We work at the table together in a comfortable silence, and we wordlessly fall into a rhythm together. He categorizes receipts into piles, and I clip them together marking them with colourful sticky tabs.
There are still plenty of boxes to go through when I finally stand, placing Critter down on the floor.
He goes to his plush bed in the corner of the living room and turns around a few times before laying down.
I stretch out my legs, extending my arms overhead.
Beck’s gaze lands on my midriff and I feel it as acutely as I feel it snap away from me.
“I think it might be time for some dessert,” I say, wandering over to the fridge and pulling out the peaches that have been calling my name since Beck handed them to me. “I can’t look at hay bale prices any longer or I’m going to go cross eyed.”
“Yeah, I better get back to the house,” Beck says. “Dad falls asleep in his chair most nights, and I have to remind him to go up and put on his CPAP.”
He stands and turns as if he’s ready to leave, but I don’t want him to. I was dead serious when I said I could use some company. I’m not lonely exactly, I enjoy my alone time, and I have Critter, even though it’s not quite the same.
But the recent sting of rejection has made it hard to stay out of my own head.
It’s been tough not to wonder if I’m the problem.
When you get rejection after rejection, you can’t help but acknowledge the fact that you’re the common denominator.
You can’t help but wonder, was I too loud, was I too intimidating, was I too, was I too, was I too.
And in the case of my job, I know it was the truth. The voice of my boss as I sat in the board room and heard him lay out all the reasons I was being let go was like listening to someone lay out why everyone in my entire life has left.
You let your emotions get the best of you, Lyla. You’re a great consultant, you’ve got an eagle eye for spotting the shortcomings, but you have to be able to see your own too. You get too invested, you step on people’s toes, bulldoze them with your strong opinions.
It was like he held a mirror up to me and circled all the parts of me I already knew were wrong.
Since then, I don’t exactly want to be alone. I don’t want to hear the critical voice in my head and know that it was right all along.
“It’s still early.” I gesture outside, through the kitchen window framed by floral curtains, at the soft glow of the sun only just hidden behind the mountains. “Stay for some dessert.”
Beck’s face does something funny, as his features soften and he says a soft and tentative “Okay.”
I divide up the sliced peaches into two bowls, topping them with a generous amount of coconut whipped cream, my heart strings tugging at the thoughtfulness that Beck put into this dessert. The fact that he remembered peaches are my favourite, and went out of his way to find vegan whipped cream.
I glance over and study him through the window, sitting on the porch swing, his back not revealing any answers about what prompted the gesture. Then, I head out to meet him, grabbing a blanket on my way to shield me from the cool evening air.
I hand him his bowl and sit next to him. The swing sways slightly, and I let my weight settle into the cushions.
“Hey, thanks for helping my dad out earlier and for getting him to his appointment,” Beck says around a mouthful of juicy peaches. “I normally do it, or else Skye or Nash will help out. But it’s gotten harder since his diagnosis. He struggles to keep track of all his appointments.”
“It was my pleasure, really. I get that I don’t know your dad like you do, but I think deep down he’s a good man, and I know he wants the best for you,” I say.