Page 118 of Betting on the Brainiac

“Are you joking? I wouldn’t miss it.”

I step in and pause. “Okay.” I take a deep breath. “Katie.”

Oliver slips his hand into mine and squeezes as Katie’s smile changes to one of acknowledgment. We’re making baby steps. It’s been a couple of weeks since I invited her to the party, and she’s dropped by a few times to hang out. Next week, she’ll takehome Big Stripey—renamed Daisy Buchanan by my sister who, it turns out, is funnier than I remember. Katie is under strict orders to bring Daisy for visits with her brothers, Tuxie and Little Stripey, at Mrs. Lipsky’s house, and Tabitha and Smudge, who will be removed from Oliver’s house by nuclear detonation and nothing less. He won’t let anyone else adopt them.

We follow Katie into the living room, where my parents are seated.

“I’ll get drinks,” my dad says, rising from his armchair.

“No, don’t,” I say. “I have something to tell you first, and you can decide if you still want us here or not.”

“That sounds ominous,” my mother says, her voice dry. “You needn’t be so dramatic. Introduce us to your . . . husband.”

I lead Oliver to the sofa, and we take our seats. Katie sits in an accent chair and waits.

“This is Oliver Locke. We came to tell you we’re getting a divorce.”

My father studies both of us, his poker face giving away nothing. He’s used to being the most powerful person in a room, and it’s rare to see him tip his hand. I might be the only person who can ever get him to lose it now and then.

My mother puts the back of her hand to her throat and presses it in different spots the way she does before she’s about to announce some symptoms. “Your marriage of convenience is ending in a divorce? How shocking.”

I tighten my jaw. I gave myself a thorough pep talk before setting up this dinner, but they’re already getting under my skin.

“The reason might shock you,” Oliver says, smiling. Another gentle hand squeeze.You can do it.

I can do it. Can I do it without losing it? I glance over at Katie. She gives me an encouraging nod.

“I deserve my trust,” I tell them. “It has nothing to do with my marital status. But I know the terms. Oliver and I are divorcingbecause it turns out that we want to be together for real. And having this marriage for money is bad for relationship health. I’m paying it all back. I’ll access it when I’m thirty.”

“You’re giving back five million dollars?” my dad says.

“And all the strings.” I don’t say it sharply, but my mom flinches.

“And until then, what?” my dad asks. “You keep working as a cocktail waitress and gifting us ironic protest art?”

“No, Dad. I worked my last shift at Gatsby’s last night. I’m moving to a full-time position with Teak Heart.”

“She’s going to business school,” Katie adds. When my dad starts to look pleased about this, she adds, “What’s the name of that program, Madi? Something about sustainability?”

“Impact entrepreneurship,” I say. “Creating a business that is driven by a clear social purpose, but revenue generating, so that it’s sustainable.”

“Kind of sounds like that do-gooder stuff Dad would hate,” she says.

“It’s exactly like that,” I say.

“How are you going to pay for all this?” he asks.

“Loans that I pay off when I’m thirty. Look,” I say, moving to the edge of the sofa so I can emphasize my next point. “You have tried to dictate and control everything about my life. It hasn’t worked. It won’t work, and I hate it. Please stop.”

“You’re here to throw your money back in our faces and show us you’ve turned your sister against us too?” my mom asks. She’s gone pale, and the words are shaky.

“Yes to the money, no on Katie.” I keep my voice even.

“You know I’ve been opposed to the way we do business long before this,” Katie says. “Don’t try to manipulate her with that.”

I give her a grateful smile before turning back to my parents. “That’s all I wanted to say. I’ll have my bank do the wire transfers next week.” I stand, and Oliver stands with me. “Fromnow on, I will not be guilted into a visit by your hypochondria, Mom. And Dad, you can’t come to any of my spaces without notice and permission. I won’t engage. The harder y’all push, the more I’ll retreat, and if that means no contact until our lawyers connect in four years to release the trust, that’s your choice. I’ve made mine.”

I nod at Oliver, and he turns to lead us from the room. We’ve nearly crossed the threshold when my dad says, “Wait.”

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