Page 31 of The Love Losers

No one’s ever done anything but assume that I’ll be what I was born to be. My father’s successor. His shadow.

“I don’t know,” I say, feeling the inadequacy of my answer. Of myself. “Maybe the same thing but differently.” I wrestle with myself and lose, letting the words that usually stay trapped escape. “When I took over, I wanted to make some big changes. This place was supposed to be part of that. I wanted to develop it into low-cost apartment units, but the people who’d worked at Smith Investments under my father weren’t interested in that. They liked things the way he’d done them—and they resented the necessity of working with me.”

“Shouldn’t you be able to make the decisions if you’re the boss?” she scoffs. “If not, what’s the point of being the boss?”

I take a sip of the crappy beer, then say, “My father’s second-in-command, Simon, had been running things for me since my father’s death. Everyone wanted him to keep the role.”

“He’s the one you were talking about the other day.”

I nod. “Simon’s…likable. Relatable. Or at least most people think so. They want to please him. To follow him.” My mouth hitches up again. “Kind of like you.”

“Bite your tongue. Anyway…you don’t need to be a crowd pleaser. My brother isn’t. We aren’t all given the gift of the gab, but I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, and I reallydobelieve we’re all given something. A purpose. A talent.” She smiles at me, leaning forward slightly, and I feel myself doing the same, drawn in. “You, Anthony Rosings Smith, are more interesting than you appear to be. That’s much better than being less interesting than you appear to be.”

“You’re exactly as interesting as you appear to be,” I say, and her smile feels like a balm.

“So I guess this charming jerk liked the way your father was doing things too,” she says, pausing as she studies me. “But why do you give a shit what they think? Why not press the point? You’re in charge, aren’t you?”

“It’s not that simple. There’s a board to keep satisfied, and they favor him over me. Always. And I can’t make a good argument for my ideas making us more money. They probably wouldn’t.”

“But you said the business isn’t doing well. So I’m guessing his way isn’t super profitable either.”

I smile at her. “No, I guess not. He wants us to do business the way my father did, but he’s no good at it. Neither am I. My father would say we lack the killer instinct.”

“Good. So leave the shitty company to Simon Says and do your own thing. You’ll be able to if you get the money.”

I shrug, feeling a push-pull inside of me that’s as familiar as the sight of myself in the mirror. “Yeah, I guess.”

“It’s because of him, isn’t it?” she asks. “Your father, I mean. My uncle liked to order people around too. He was a criminal, but everyone loved him. He took advantage of all of us.”

“Oh?” Maybe that should alarm me more, but I know plenty of criminals. They call them the white collar kind, like a rich criminal deserves a different status, but they’re criminals all the same.

“Yeah, he’s dead.” Her eyes flash blue fire at me. “But before you say you’re sorry, it’s a good thing.”

I nod, accepting this. Because even though life should be precious and death is forever, there’s no denying that the world is better off without some people. I’ve tried not to be one of them. Maybe that’s my real answer to her question—I want to be the kind of man who gives more than I take.

I’m not there yet.

Watching me, she reaches over and takes my beer—and I watch her as she lifts it for a sip, her lips firming around the place where mine sat minutes before. There’s a challenge in her eyes, but I shrug. “The beer’s terrible, and I’m more than happy to share my burdens with you. What wouldyoudo if you could do anything?”

Eyes dancing, she says, “I’ve been thinking about that too, but theoretically Icando anything. So could you, you know.”

“Is that what you’d tell the cops after they arrest you?” I smile, because I can actually imagine her doing it. Hell, I could imagine them listening and letting her off with a warning.

She grins at me. “It is what I told them. After I got arrested for illegally entering a hedge maze.”

“Did you get lost in it?”

“Yes. To be fair, I was drunk. I usually have an excellent sense of direction.”

Something passes through her eyes, and then she snaps her fingers. “You should make a bucket list.”

“Am I dying?”

“Hopefully not, but I reluctantly admit that Jake might have succeeded in finding you a fake wife. And it sounds like you’ll beselling your soul to the overdevelopment gods shortly thereafter. Seems like the perfect time for a bucket list. It’ll help you figure out your purpose.”

I could say no, I’d rather not, and that would be that. After all, we both know what I’m dealing with right now. But whenever I’m with Rosie, it feels like the weight bearing down on my shoulders isn’t quite so heavy. Which must be why I find myself asking, “Am I putting this bucket list together, or are you? Because I’m not streaking through the streets of Marshall or changing all the contents of the salt shakers in the diner to sugar.”

“Stop giving me cute ideas.”

---