Page 13 of Boss Me

Me: Dell 25$ Class A shares

Normally, I’d have talked through it with Luis, but he wasn’t working tonight. That was probably why I composed the text. I was lonely. Missing Jackson, but also angry at him. Wallowing in the feels I usually kept boxed up inside. Surrounded by happy vacationers. And drunk.

The bartender was some kid I didn’t know. I turned to the beefy guy on the next barstool. He wore a hat that reminded me of Marlon Brando in Guys and Dolls. Who the hell wore a fedora in this heat? Still, he seemed more sober than me.

“Hey. Does this text make sense?” I showed it to him.

He frowned at the screen. “I thought Dell wasn’t publicly traded anymore.”

“Dell? What the fuck?” I squinted at the screen. “Oh, shit. Typo.” Fighting my recalcitrant fingers, I changed the D to an S and held up the phone. “Better now?”

“Did you mean to sell twenty-five dollars’ worth of stock? Or maybe you mean percent?”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” I stabbed at the dollar sign, backspaced over it, and then flicked through screen after screen to find a percent sign. The characters swam in my vision.

“Want me to help?”

“Would you?” I tried to flash him a winning smile, but I’d numbed my face with whiskey. Jackson never had that problem. Even drunk, his grin could charm the pants off anyone. But he didn’t do that anymore. Not now he had a wife and a goddamn kid. And a baby. Fuck. I wiped my prickling eyes on the sleeve of my dress shirt and left a wet smear on the droopy cotton.

Jackson would never be alone in a bar like a loser. Not for long.

Me, on the other hand? I’d be alone forever.

The guy nudged my arm. “All fixed.”

I glanced at the screen.

Me: Sell 25% Class A shares

“Thanks, man.” Carefully, I zeroed in on the tiny arrow and mashed it.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” the guy said, “why’re you doing that now? You don’t look like the kind of guy who has to sell something to stay in a place like this.”

I looked down at my rumpled suit pants and my shirt that had gone soggy in the island’s humidity. I looked like—like my father. I swallowed. He’d never had clothes as expensive as mine, but when he’d come home from the bars, his work shirts had lost the crispness my mother had so carefully ironed into them.

What had he asked me? My phone’s screen flashed. Another call from Ben. Dismissing it, I remembered: the stock.

“Bad associations,” I said. Even I wasn’t sure if I meant the stock reminded me of Jackson or if it reminded me of my own bad behavior in my office yesterday. Either way, the memory had to be purged, and the booze told me selling stock would do it.

I sat for a minute, staring at the lone ice cube in my whiskey glass. Did I feel any different? Any lighter, with fewer ties, fewer burdens?

No. I still felt heavy and morose.

Selling Synergy stock hadn’t helped. The whiskey hadn’t helped either, though now the bar had a soft-focus glow like Carole Lombard in My Man Godfrey. It was a good bar. I smoothed my hand over the glossy wood top. A nice bar. I’d visit it again tomorrow. Maybe another day of drinking would help me forget.

I slid off my stool and wobbled for a second.

“You okay, man? Need help?” The husky guy with the hat spread his hands like he’d steady me.

“I’ve got him.” A shorter bulk hovered behind me. Ramón.

“You’re a porter,” I said, like that was relevant to anything. “I don’t have any bags for you to carry.”

He laughed. “I’ll just make sure you get to your room. Safely. And alone.” Glaring at the other guy, he grasped me under the elbow.

After we’d descended the steps and started down the gravel path to my bungalow, he asked, “How’s your mama?”

“She’s fine. I called her when I got here yesterday.” A warm feeling filled me when I remembered I’d added a couple guys to her security detail. She’d be safe even though I was thousands of miles away.

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