Page 73 of The End of Summer

“Please don’t discuss football with Brady,” Gretchen says.

“Yougot strong feelings on the subject?” Mr. Andrews asks me.

I hold my hands up in surrender. “No, sir. I’m a baseball guy.”

“Red Sox?”

“Yep.”

“Good. Don’t worry, Gretchie. He can stay.”

“Thank goodness,” she laughs, and opens the screen slider to let herself back into the house.

My phone goes off in my pocket. I pull it out intending to silence it when I notice the call is coming from a 212 area code.I think it’s the job I’ve been waiting to hear back from.

“You can take that if you need to,” Mr. Andrews says.

I shouldn’t take it,I tell myself. I check the time. It’s 4:47.Just before 5:00 p.m. on a Tuesday. Could be bad, but could also be good. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m awful under pressure like this.“Excuse me just one sec,” I say.If it’s good news, I might look a little more like a prospect for their daughter.

I take a few steps to the side, by the edge of the deck. “Hello?”

“Yes, hi. Is this Brady Hawthorne?” a man’s voice replies.

“This is he.”

“Brady, hi. This is John Stellaris, from Gildersleeve Marketing Group. We met a few weeks ago?”

“Of course. Nice to hear from you, John.”

“I discussed it with the partners and we’d like to invite you down to New York for a second interview.”

“That’s great. Thank you. When would you like to schedule that for?”

“Well, unfortunately one of the members of our team is out on vacation through the end of the month. Lucky bastard’s on a yacht trip in the Mediterranean. He’s back on Monday the 30th. Think you can do a little later that week? Maybe that Friday, the 4th?”

“Sure. I can clear my calendar.”

“Great. Thanks, man. Sorry for the delay. Summer’s a tough time to get everyone in a room together.”

I try to offer a hearty chuckle, but it comes off sounding a bit like Santa Claus sayingho, ho, ho.In my peripheral vision, I see Gretchen’s dad look up at me. I clear my throat and say, “No worries. I understand.”

“So, you’ll come to our midtown office on Madison Avenue. Say 9:00 a.m.?”

“Perfect,” I reply. “Anything I should bring?”

“Nothing I can think of right now. I’ll reach out if I think of something, though.”

“Sounds good. Thank you, John.”

“Yup. I’ll see you then.”

“Looking forward to it.”

He hangs up without saying goodbye.

“Everything okay?” Mr. Andrews asks.

“Yeah. I’m sorry,” I say, sliding my phone back into my pocket. “That was actually a call about an interview.”

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