Page 26 of The Grumpy Billionaire
I doubted the Rhode Island School of Design offered that particular major—it was one of the top art and design schools in the nation. Nevertheless, if Bowie was serious about wanting to pursue art, I was all for it.
“I see. And do you have an art portfolio to submit?”
He gave me a wide grin, lifted the paper napkin from his lap, and used it to wipe some red sauce from his lips. Holding the smeared napkin out dramatically, he said, “Ta da. My portfolio. Modern art.”
I gave him a tolerant smirk. “Glad to see you’re taking your future so seriously. How about you, Baxter?”
He managed to stop laughing at his twin’s antics long enough to give me a dopey look and a, “Dunno. I guess I’ll go wherever Dad pays somebody off.”
“That willnotbe happening,” I assured him. “Have you applied anywhere at all yet?”
His laughter died off and morphed into a scowl. “College is stupid. I’d make a better living as a plumber.”
“Then apply to be an apprentice with a plumber. I’d like to see you fill out a few college applications as well so you’ll have some options. Both of you are very smart, and you can be successful at whatever you decide to do. But you do have to decide. No one’s going to do it for you.”
“Mom and Dad don’t care what we do,” Bax informed me.
“Why would you say that?” I asked.
Bowie answered for him. “Because it’s true. All mom cares about is shopping and going out with her disco dancer-cise friends, and Dad’s too busy shaking hands and kissing babies to even talk to us.”
Our father was running for re-election. A lifelong politician, he considered a second-term as Governor his crowning achievement. We’d been dragged along to public appearances and campaign events our whole lives as he worked his way up the political food chain, but this time, he was doing it alone.
The most recent polls showed him basically even with his opponent, which no doubt had him worried.
“When the election is over he’ll be around more,” I assured my brothers.
“I don’t care,” Bowie said.
“Me either,” Baxter agreed. “Mom was right. He’s a DINO.”
“What’s a dino? Dinosaur?”
“Dad in name only,” Bowie clarified.
After dinner, I went to my room to make a phone call. Obviously, I couldn’t talk to my little brothers about the Reid situation—or anything serious. They had enough on their plates.
I definitely couldn’t discuss Reid with my mother—or his mom, Cheryl, as nice as she was—for obvious reasons.
Sadly, my prolonged absence after graduation had distanced me from my high school girlfriends. We’d done the so-excited-you’re-back-in-town lunches over the past month, but we weren’t on heart-to-heart level anymore.
I needed to talk to Heidi.
Heidi Haynes, Kenley Carpenter, and I had worked together in a tiny market in Georgia where we’d each taken our first reporting jobs after college. Though we were from vastly different hometowns and backgrounds, our shared career dreams and small-market-TV-poverty had bonded us closely.
We’d supported each other through a lot. We understood each other.
And Heidi would understand what I was dealing with now. She’d had her own disastrous first love.
Not that my relationship with Reid had been disastrous—it was more theaftermaththat had required a hazmat team.
Now that Heidi had found her forever-guy she might not be able to commiserate as much, but I knew she’d really listen.
“Oh Mare, I’m so glad to hear from you,” she enthused over the phone. “How’s Providence? How’s your mob story coming? I got your email about it—sounds so cool. We don’t have anything like that in Nashville.”
Heidi had left Georgia shortly before I did, finally breaking away from her Blackhawk-chopper-helicopter parents and overcoming a rather unfortunate nervous stomach issue to land her dream job anchoring news in the country music capital.
“My mob story sleeps with the fishes, I’m afraid,” I told her, still feeling sour over it.
