Page 42 of Plum

I sigh, and set my glass down with a clink. “It’s not about Renee.”

“It was one time, man. I was drunk. If I could take it back, I would.” Eric’s wearing the “sincere” expression that I’ve seen him use a hundred times, to get out of detentions at Mountchassen, speeding tickets, fights with girlfriends, every time we were called on the carpet by Thomas Wade.

I should feel betrayed—I should have felt betrayed when I found out that he fucked my fiancée—but I don’t. I’m mildly embarrassed for him and disgusted by myself.

How is it that I’m stumbling through this life, so much so that I was totally prepared to marry a woman I didn’t actually give a shit about, and the most alive I’ve felt in years is with a stripper named Plum?

“It’s not about Renee. I swear. It’s—I have some shit going on right now. Can we focus on the present?”

“If Dad gets involved again in the day-to-day, I’m going to lose it.”

“Agreed.” Thomas would rather gouge his eyes out than sit through a project management meeting, but shit runs downhill. He puts the staff on edge, and all of a sudden, I’ve got software engineers worried about dress codes instead of coding.

“So, what do we do?”

“Mom seems to think it’s about spending time with you. It’s probably about feeling useful. Can’t you invite him on some golf outings? Take him to the convention in San Diego?”

“Fuck.” Eric sinks into the chair, listless. “Can’t you?”

I don’t bother answering. I’m tech. He’s sales and marketing. “And maybe pop some breath mints. Mom said he’s worried about your drinking.”

“I’m going to need a shit ton of breath mints if you expect me to buddy up with the old man.”

“Feel free to expense them.”

As if I reminded him, Eric pulls out his flask and takes a swig. “So, what’s this shit that you’ve got going on?”

A picture of Plum, hugging her arms close as she glares at me on the sidewalk in front of Altimeter, flashes in my mind. I cast around for something else, anything else.

“I’ve been getting emails from a man who says he’s my father.”

“No shit? You write back?”

“No.”

“What does he want?”

I shrug. “He says he wants to ask me something.”

“Money?”

“Mom seems to think so.”

“You should write him back. Find out.” Eric leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “That would drive me nuts. Not knowing. How many emails has he sent?”

“I don’t know. A handful.”

“Don’t you want to know?”

“Know what?”

“Shit. Where he’s been all these years? Why he left?”

“There’s a good reason that a man leaves his kid?”

A shadow falls across Eric’s face, and I wince. “I don’t know. My mother…you know I can’t remember her smiling once? She cried a lot. Locked in the bathroom. The way I see it, she saw her chance, and she took it. The older I get…the less I fault her.”

We sit in silence a moment. Thomas Wade is a powerful man, a dedicated family man. But you know where you stand with him, and it’s in direct proportion to how well you conform to that ideal he holds himself to. I used to admire his principle. Now, it exhausts me.

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