Page 7 of The Relationship Clause

“Your sister will not be joining us tonight. She had another engagement.”

Another engagement? How the heck did she get out of a dinner with Mom? We will definitely be talking about this later.

“At any rate, this dinner is more for the two of us,” Mother says. And now I’m not just annoyed but also wondering if I need to book an immediate flight to Anywherebuthere, USA. “I took the liberty of ordering for you. I haven’t much time tonight and wanted to get right to the issue at hand.”

My eyebrows lift. “There’s an issue at hand?”

“Yes, there is.” She lifts one of her perfectly arched eyebrows and folds her arms, but whatever she’s about to say, she’s delayed thanks to the timely arrival of our first course. Once our waiter disappears, she wastes no time in getting back into it. “The last time I called your office, I noticed that you’ve let another secretary go. Somehow, you neglected to mention this fact during our last dinner.”

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. Yes. I did neglect to tell her this. Mainly because it’s none of her concern and also because I knew she’d react like this.

Although Mother has absolutely no stake or share in Em3rge Technologies, she makes it her business to try to tell me how to run my business. Over the last four years of Em3rge being up and running, I’ve had a grand total of ten secretaries. The last one quit last week.

You would think the common denominator would be me, but half the time, it has nothing to do with me. One of my secretaries had to move home to take care of his ailing mother, another decided she was going to go back to school to pursue her degree, and a third sort of had a mid-life crisis when her beloved dog of fifteen years died, and she decided to move to Fiji.

See? Not my fault.

The other half of those secretaries…well, okay, maybe they had a little something to do with me. I tend to be grumpy and demanding with my secretaries, expecting a certain air of professionalism and exactness in carrying out their duties. It’s not my fault they fail to live up to my expectations.

Of course, Mother doesn’t see it this way. She thinks it’s unprofessional of me to “go through secretaries like they are hors d’oeuvres at a cocktail party,” and my inability to keep one will reflect on my business as a whole.

“I didn’t let another secretary go,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “She quit of her own volition.”

She gives me a blank stare, and I know what she’s thinking: How is that any better? Then she drops the bomb. “Owen, I’ve taken it upon myself to help you hire a new one.”

I stop with my fork raised halfway to my mouth. “Excuse me?”

“You’re clearly incapable of choosing the right fit for your office. I can be of assistance. I’ve already taken the liberty of compiling a list of suitable resumes for you to choose from.” She then takes out a small stack of papers from a bag I had no idea she was concealing behind the tablecloth. There can’t be more than ten papers there, which means she’s hand-chosen these herself.

Right away, my anger flares up. My muscles tense, and it’s all I can do to keep my breathing even and quiet. I’m about to retort when she changes the subject so quickly, it almost gives me whiplash.

“Are you still planning on going to Vail this year?”

This is one of my mother’s favorite tactics: get the opponent all worked up about something, then BAM, hit them with something else completely different but equally as volatile. They’ll be so shocked from the whiplash, they won’t be able to adequately respond to either outrageous thing, and she will be left the ultimate victor. She’s been using this tactic on me, Kiera, and our father for years now, and even though I can see it happening, I can never fully defend against it.

My father never could either.

My teeth grind together, and I take an extra second to push my fork across my plate until it makes an awful scratching sound. I’m rewarded by the tiniest of twinges evidenced in the plump, botoxed skin around her eyes.

“Yes,” I say, setting my fork down carefully. “I plan on going to Vail like I always plan on going to Vail. Just like you used to always plan on going to Vail.”

Calm down, Owen, I tell myself. What were some of those tactics my therapist was trying to get me to do? This is probably one of those times she’d tell me not to ignore or suppress my emotions. Let it out. Talk it through. Breathe.

She’s always trying to get me to breathe.

“Oh, Owen, don’t get so upset.” Mother waves a dismissive hand. “I’m only trying to make conversation.”

Breathe in for five, out for five? Or maybe it was four? I think there was some number I’m supposed to hold my breath to.

“I know things won’t be quite the same this year without me there, but you’ll have to make do.”

Do I hold my breath on the in or the out?

“At any rate, I’m sure your father already has another bimbo lined up to go with him. Some air-headed, gold-digging—”

I’m standing before I even realize what I’m doing. All thoughts of breathing are out the window. Now, I’m fuming. Burning up from the inside out. “I have to go.”

“Go?” Mother’s thin eyebrows almost touch her hairline. “Go where? We were in the middle of a conversation.”

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