Page 85 of Off the Rim
Now, for the first time since my father inherited everything, he's on his own and making his own decisions. Despite getting joy out of pointing out my father's mommy issues, I'm genuinely curious how he's managing without her. Is it a relief? Or is he feeling the pressure more without someone to make the decisions for him?
Any semblance of small talk dies when our food is brought out.
"I hope it's okay that I took the liberty of ordering for us," I say, as a family-style meal of carbonara, mussels, caprese salad, and breadsticks is set on the table between us. "I've been here a time or two in the last few months, and I promise you've never eaten Italian food this good." I decide to leave out that it was Marcus' stepfather, Greg, that introduced me to this place.
Dad looks skeptical but doesn't argue. He also doesn't move to serve himself. He's probably expecting the servers to do it for him like he's used to. I start first so he understands what to expect. It seems like such a simple concept, and I forget how different the world is outside of the gilded cage that is my family's mansion. The normalcy of the real world is something I've taken for granted since I've been spending so much time with Marcus. I like it so much better here.
"This is very good," my dad concedes after a few bites of his lunch. "But I'm sure the food isn't what brings us here today."
"I dunno. I've been here almost weekly since discovering this place, and I was craving it since we've been gone." It's not a lie, but I'm deflecting, not sure how to start the conversation I want to have. I want to pretend we're normal for a few more minutes.
"That's right," Dad says, wiping his mouth and setting his napkin back on his lap. "You were in LA for an endorsement shoot? How did that go?"
"Really amazing. It's a cool opportunity that I'm thankful to be part of."
The confusion on my dad's face is apparent. Not only does he not know what the endorsement is for, but the concept of an opportunity being something earned, and not expected, is outside of his grasp.
"Would you like to see? We just got a few of the proofs back." Pulling my phone from my pocket, I pull up one of the photos that was shared with us this morning. "They're not edited or anything, but here are some of the shots they plan to go with. You can scroll through. There are five poses in total." I slide my phone across the table, holding my breath.
There's a small intake of breath, and his shoulders go stiff, but he otherwise controls his expression.
Most of the pictures for the campaign are candid shots of Marcus and me playing some one-on-one, wearing some of the branded merchandise. One of the shots they chose is me behind Marcus, trying to steal the ball he's dribbling, one hand thrown out to block me, his head tipped back in laughter. It's clear in all the photos of us playing how competitive we are, but also how much fun we have together.
"This one is my favorite," I say, swallowing as I scroll to the last shot. I remember the moment the picture was taken, and I plan to have this photo blown up and framed to keep it forever. Marcus was spinning the ball on his fingers while we were waiting for the next shots to be set up. I'd been having so much fun all day, thinking about how fucking perfect he is, and I took a moment to shoot my shot. Coming up behind him, I whispered the three words I'm not sure I've ever said to anyone else, including my parents.
I love you.
The photographer just happened to catch the moment while testing the lighting. It's a close-up shot of Marcus holding the ball in one hand and looking over his shoulder at me, a look of surprise meets awe. Our faces are only inches from each other, moments before we kissed. There was so much love in that moment, and the picture captured it perfectly. No one else but us will ever know just how important that moment was, and I love it even more because of it.
Pointing out the sweatband around Marcus' wrist in the picture, I tell my dad about how it's always been a signature thing of his. I sort of adopted it a while ago, which led to some speculation that was later confirmed when we made our official public statement about being together. "Now, fans show up wearing them to show their support. Marcus pitched to the brand to include them as part of the line and donate one hundred percent of the profits to support queer youth programs." Smiling proudly, I say, "Pretty cool, right?"
Dad clears his throat. "Good for you both."
I'm not sure he means it, and I'm not sure he's only saying it because of our agreement. Either way, I'll take it.
We finish our meals, and I decide it’s time to get down to business.
"I have something I'd like to propose to you," I say, pulling a tablet from the messenger bag next to me. "I hope you don't mind a small presentation? It's nothing professional, just a few ideas I've put together that I'd like to see AJames Enterprises consider implementing."
Dad's gaze shoots to mine, a flash of warning. I take it in stride, pretending not to notice as I prop the tablet up in the case and show him what I've been working on. It's not a slideshow or proper presentation, but I have graphs and charts about the economic impact of the company, and how we could change many of our policies and investments to not only benefit others but continue to grow as a company. I show him my ideas for economic and environmental initiatives as well as community outreach and show how the changes could have a positive impact on profits. I decide to save what I'd like to do with those profits and the extra assets, like the protected land trust I know he's sitting on for another time, so I don't overwhelm him.
To his credit, he listens to everything I have to say, even asking questions or making suggestions here and there. I think it's the first time in my life I've ever felt heard.
When it’s over, he takes a few moments of silence to contemplate everything I’ve just proposed. "May I ask a pointed question?"
"Sure."
"Do I have a choice in the matter?"
I consider my father thoughtfully. It was a pointed question. One might even say it was rude or combative, but his directness doesn't feel defensive at all. He knows I hold the cards, and Iknow that if I played them, he would likely survive and keep thriving. AJames Enterprises is too big to fail. They'd take a hit financially, but they can afford it, and any action would likely be tied up in litigation for years before anything came of it. Hell, my dad and Kenneth Richards could probably find their way out of it entirely. But I have a feeling my dad either doesn't want to deal with the trouble, or maybe he's the smallest bit impressed that I'm standing up to him.
"I would like to see us work together on this. AJames Enterprises is a family business, after all, and you've always wanted me to get involved or take over someday. We can work out some of the finer details, but overall, no. One way or another, I plan to modernize and rebuild AJames Enterprises into a company that doesn't rely on illegal and immoral practices and corporate greed. And I'll do what it takes to see my vision come to fruition." I hand him a folder with a contract of terms I'd like him to agree to, giving him until after the NCAA championship to discuss with his lawyer and propose amendments. "My attorney's card is in the folder as well. You can reach out to her if you have any questions."
Despite my straight posture and calm demeanor, I'm freaking out a little inside. I'm waiting for the pushback, the challenge of my audacity. But instead…
"I'm proud of you, son. I know I haven't said that enough about the things you've accomplished so far. I've never seen you as serious or passionate about anything outside of basketball. The research you've done, the way you presented it, your convictions—I'm impressed."
As much as those words pull something from my gut I never realized I wanted or needed so much, I know it's never going to be as easy as that. "But?"
