Page 60 of Mr. Wrong Number

Jill was good at that. She’d always let my father go on and on without her saying a word because she knew it was futile; I, on the other hand, wasn’t so good with acquiescing. “Well, it pisses me off that everyone does that. He’s like the fucking king and it’s ridiculous. Who gets to say things like ‘only members of a fraternity and out-of-work actors have roommates at your age’ and get away with it?”

“Now, now, Colin, you have to understand.” She drained the last of her wine and set down the crystal glass. “He’s lashing out because he misses his little prince.”

“I think our patriarch made it abundantly clear that I am not that.”

“True.” Jillian snorted. “But you argue with him about everything.”

“I only argue with him about the things that matter to me, and when he intentionally comes at me, I refuse to just sit there and take it.”

My dad was a decent guy. He went to mass every week at St. Thomas, worked hard, took his wife on nice vacations, and told funny jokes on the golf course.

But he and I had been in a perpetual standoff since I was in the eighth grade.

Public school versus private; I’d picked the wrong one at the ripe age of fourteen. After I graduated junior high, he’d wanted me to go to Creighton Prep, but I’d used my mother-son bond to get her on my side and we’d demanded my public education. He caved because he was far too busy to waste time arguingwith my mom, but until the day I graduated, the man never failed to point out the terrible education I was receiving every time I wasn’t able to instantly answer a pop quiz question.

Then it was state university versus Notre Dame; to this day he felt betrayed by my refusal to attend his alma mater (and my grandfather’s alma mater and my grandfather’s father’s alma mater). He’d tried holding back the funds to keep me under his thumb, but when you scored a perfect 36 on your ACT, the scholarships flowed like water. I’d been able to flip him the bird and go away to college at the University of Nebraska with Jack.

But my ultimate sin was not going into law. He and the Becks before him had spent their entire lives working to build a prominent and thriving practice. In his mind, I was going to let their dream die off because I chose to “fiddle” with numbers like a middle-class accounting clerk instead of stepping up and choosing a proper career.

But I just couldn’t. I’d watched my dad and my uncles and my grandpa spend every day of their lives working for power. They didn’t love their work, but they adored what their work gave them. Respectability and influence, wealth and connections.

All I wanted was to be a regular guy who actually enjoyed his job. I loved the challenge of numbers, so why not do that for a living? That crazy way of thinking made me, the guy with a master’s in mathematics, the black sheep of the family.

Honestly, that was why I’d never taken a penny from them after college. I’d worked my ass off to support myself, to buy nice things like the condo and my car, just to prove to the world that my father’s opinion about my career was dead wrong.

I made my own success without the help of the esteemed Thomas Beck.

“Well, it’s fun to watch.” Jillian grabbed her handbag from the floor and said, “I wish you’d come more often.”

My phone rang and I was a little disappointed; it felt good hanging out with my sister, and I didn’t want to be interrupted. She was a lawyer and liked the Beck life, but she’d somehow managed to keep her feet on the ground enough to understand what I was trying to do, too.

I pulled the phone out of my pocket, but when I saw it was Olivia, my mood brightened and I lifted the phone to my ear. “Marshall.”

“Beck.” She cleared her throat. “Um, there’s a bed here.”

I leaned back in my chair and imagined what her reaction must’ve been when it showed up at her door. It’d been a crazy idea, giving her a bed, but she didn’t have one and Ididowe her for that letter. “Where?”

“You know where. In my apartment.”

“And you’re not talking about your raft?”

“You know I’m not.” I heard her trail off and mutter, “Although, come to think of it, I have no idea where that thing went.”

“Focus, Liv.”

“Why is there a bed here that looks exactly like yours?”

“Well, I’m sure it isn’texactlylike mine. Mine was a special order.”

“Do you know anything about the bed in my room? Focus, Beck.”

“Yeah.” Was this supposed to be fun? Because this was fun. I glanced at Jill and she was watching me with a tiny smirk.“Turns out I’m not a huge fan of people napping in my room, so I thought this was the best solution.”

“You bought me a million-dollar bed exactly like yours so I won’t nap in your apartment?”

“You’re not listening, Marshall; it’snotexactly like mine. I’d never drop that kind of coin on someone who could accidentally spill a vat of nacho cheese on it at any given moment.”

I heard her snort out a little laugh. “Okay, so, what does this mean? Do I have to let you nap on it?”

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