Page 24 of The Sweet Spot

“I’m good at coding, but architecture is my passion. You know that.” My fingers are clenched around the steering wheel so tightly they’ve turned white. I try to loosen them. “I owe it to myself to at least try.”

“You are one of the brightest young men I know,” Pai says. “You are being offered an excellent opportunity and a host of connections, things that could change the trajectory of your life. Do this for me, Luca. Trust me. And if you don’t feel differently by the end of your time in Brazil, I’ll back off.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Claro.”Of course.

“Is this about my career or yours?”

“It’s about both.” He laughs. “But let me make it easy for you. Come now, or don’t come at all.”

I catch a glimpse of my confusion in the rearview mirror. “What?”

“There’s no point spending the fall in Florianópolis if you don’t want to establish connections here, meu filho. Let me know what you want to do, okay? I have to go.”

“Pai.”

“I have a meeting, Luca. We’ll talk later.” And with that, he hangs up.

The sun glints off the cars in front of me, the air conditioning blows past my cheeks. Stunned, I touch my finger to the radio dial, shutting off the music that came on when the phone call ended. Maybe I’m crazy, but it feels like I was just verbally strong-armed by my own father. He knows how much I want to take the urban architecture courses at UFSC, but he’s always paid for my education. If he wants to pull funding to make a point, he can.

Mãe always said my father was a ruthless man. She says this almost affectionately, like it’s harmless, no different than being clumsy or impractical, but I’m starting to wonder if Nico had it right all along. He never forgave Pai for choosing his career over his family.

What Mãe calls ruthless, and Nico calls unforgivable, I alwayscalled ambitious. Growing up, people—family—told me I was a lot like him, so I thought I understood him. Successful, passionate, and hard-working, Carlos Cardoso built his software firm from the ground up and I admired him for it. I loved him for it.

But he’ll do what it takes to get what he wants, and right now, he wants me at his side in São Paulo. I graduate in two years. He wants me to meet his associates now, to get a feel for the software industry. The family business, I guess.

Maybe I should be proud he believes in me as much as he does. I just never thought he’d threaten my plans because I wouldn’t submit to one of his.

Wren

Fall

The alarm on my phone goes off, vibrating silently on the tabletop. Rubbing my eyes, I check the time. It’s nearly ten, but the library is still pretty busy. That’s the way it is around here. But I’m exhausted. Between my full course load and work study on the side, I have to get some sleep.

Yawning, I close my books and slide my laptop into my backpack. My phone lights up with a text. It’s my roommate.

Leighton: Mojito Monday?

I groan inwardly, because experience has taught me that there’s no stopping this girl once she’s in bartending mode. So much for sleep.

Wren: Can’t. Anthro final tomorrow.

Leighton: So just have one ;)

I don’t bother responding. Knowing Leighton, she’s already cajoled our suitemate, Skye, into having said mojitos. Resistance is usually futile with her.

Ten minutes later, I walk through the glass doors of my residence hall, Angela Davis House. As usual, I’m met by loud music, weed and incense—tonight, it’s technical/instrumental guitar shredding and Nag Champa. I’m not sure about the weed. I don’t really smoke.

Letting myself into our first-floor suite, I find Leighton, Skye, and Leighton’s kind-of-boyfriend Noah sipping on mojitos in elaborate, pink glasses.

“Hey, girl, hey,” Leighton says, raising hers in greeting. “The studious student has returned. Come have a drink.”

Noah smirks and drinks, the same dainty, pink glass looking ridiculous in his big, meaty paws. He and Leighton are smooshed into giant, yellow inflatable chairs on the floor. They barely fit in our triple, so we only pull them out for company.

I cock an eyebrow, dropping my backpack on the floor. “You do realize it’s Monday, right?”

“And way past five o’clock, so don’t be a killjoy, darlin’,” she drawls, climbing to her feet. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed Leighton grew up in Nashville and her accent ripens when she drinks. Picking up an empty pink glass, she gestures toward the impromptu bar on her desk. “What’ll it be? Classic? Muddled? I have grapefruit…”

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