Page 103 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

I shrug. “It’s whatever. At least Mama’s proud of me, for once.”

Kam scoffs. “Boo hoo. Do you think you’re the only one she does that too?”

“Feels like it,” I say bitterly.

“Do you know what she said when I got my MBA?‘Well, at least you can actually use this one.’”

I chuckle at that, remembering the uproar over Kam’s bachelor’s in English Literature.

“And poor Vanessa,” she says. “’Dentists aren’t real doctors.’Remember that?”

I shake my head. “I forgot about that one.”

“Because it wasn’t directed at you.” She pauses to take a breath. “That’s just how she is. Grandpa was hard on her. You know that.”

“Fuck that gotta do with us?”

“Um, everything? Apples don’t fall far from trees, and whatnot.”

Grandpa Harris was a mean old bastard. Military man. Real cold. I always admired him because he looked like the kind of man you don’t fuck with. Carried himself real regal and authoritative. I guess I never thought about what it might have been like growing up with him.

“You have to learn how to stop taking it personal,” she says. “Mama’s boy.”

“Whatever, Kam.”

She pauses, then her tone shifts. It’s lighter when she says, “Rico’s taking me to Paris.”

“Cool. When?”

“Over Thanksgiving. I think he’s gonna propose.”

I raise an eyebrow wondering how that’s gonna go over with my parents. “Congrats,” I say flatly. “Happy for y’all.”

“Yeah, you sound happy.”

“Love is in the air,” I say with a sigh.

She laughs. “Okay, Les Misérables. You ain’t finna kill my vibe. Bye.”

She clicks off before I can muster up some enthusiasm.

Her and Rico. Dayton and Shara. Everybody wanna be all in love and shit. For what? To get let down? Miss me with it.

I turn on Future and put my head down to work.

Fuck all this love shit.

Lunchtime comes and goes while I bury myself in my project, double-checking blueprints, running over calculations. I know every inch of this shit, because I’m good at what I do. I don’t know why I ever doubted myself.

Actually, maybe now I do.

Cuz apples don’t fall far.

A knock on my door gets my attention. It’s Hugh, my boss, the owner of the firm.

Hugh is like Zuckerberg—a nerd made good. Wiry, sharp-eyed, and always mentally five steps ahead of everybody else. His hair is more salt than pepper, combed over his balding head with precision, but constantly messy from him running his hands through it when he’s thinking. Clothes always wrinkled, pants too short. And he’s obsessed with numbers. Probably did calculus for fun as a kid. He’s an affable guy, though. Always believed in me.

“I have news for you,” he says as he passes through the door. “Get your best suit cleaned.”

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