Page 10 of Raise The Bar
Callum
“She’s cute.”
This is the twentieth time my mother has said these words to me in the past week, at least. She’s said it about sales clerks, waitresses, and random women we’ve passed on the street. She even said it after I introduced her to my very pregnant neighbor in the elevator of my building. Either my mom has developed an overactive libido where she finds all women attractive, or she’s trying to tell me something.
The she in this instance is the hostess, a leggy redhead, who just showed us to our seats in this very popular gastro pub. My mom isn’t wrong; she is cute. Dark ginger curls that bounce as she walks, ample curves that do the same. She introduced herself as Becky. I didn’t fail to notice how she batted her eyelashes at me when she told me to let her know if we needed anything. There was a time when I would have turned on the charm and flirted back, but today there is zero interest on my part. Zip. Zilch. Nada. And not just for Becky.
“You think so?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the menu. I feel my mother’s eyes on me as I read the small plates options. When did everyone become so obsessed with cauliflower? I’ve got nothing against it, but three cauliflower-based appetizers is too many, in my opinion. The cauliflower mac and cheese does sound good. But so does the lobster roll. And the fish tacos. Why do I find making decisions so difficult lately?
Because you don’t care about anything anymore.
I’m too old for a quarter-life crisis and too young for a mid-life crisis. I had previously chalked my disinterest up to a mild case of seasonal affective disorder, but winter came and went and this inability to make myself care about anything persisted. It’s not just women, or what to order at a restaurant. I’ve been offered to be part of several new startups, some more exciting than others, but I can’t make myself care enough to commit to them.
My first two projects were runaway successes. I’d been fresh out of college when I created a tool that simplifies sharing photos on Instagram. The tech was simple, but with the right marketing, it took off. Beta users loved it. Before I knew it, I had a wait list of more than three million people. It created so much buzz, I found myself on Alphabet’s radar. Yes, Alphabet. As in, the company that owns Google. Don Harrison himself invited me to tour Alphabet headquarters. He was so impressed, he fast tracked the acquisition for a cool one hundred million.
Suddenly I was in demand. Everyone either wanted me to work for them, wanted to work for me, or was desperate to fund my next project. My next innovation would make it easier to share videos on YouTube. Before I wrote a single line of code, I’d raised twenty five million. When I finally brought it to launch, venture capital companies were so afraid of missing out that it reached three hundred and fifty million in the first six months. When Amazon offered me five hundred million for it, I accepted without thinking twice. Forbes magazine named me one of their Thirty Entrepreneurs Under Thirty.
While I haven’t reached billionaire status, I’m still a twenty-eight year old with more money than I know how to spend. And I have no fucking idea what to order for dinner.
“What’s bothering you honey? You’re making the face.”
“What face are you referring to?” I ask, not looking up from the menu.
“The face you make when you’re confused and unhappy about it.”
“Oh that one,” I chuckle, relaxing back in my chair. My mom can read my face as if it were a menu. Maybe because it’s so similar to her own. “I’m just not sure what I’m going to order.”
“You were making the same face earlier, when you got home after seeing your friend Josh.”
I feel myself tense remembering that I was indeed in a foul mood when I got home a couple hours ago.
Maggie.
How is it that I can’t force myself to feel anything for practically everything, yet this one woman who I’ve spent less than an hour with makes me feel entirely too much?
I inhale deeply through my nose and force my face to relax into the calm state my mother has come to expect from me. The face everyone knows. Easy-going, carefree Callum.
“You’ll have to let me know the next time I’m making that face,” I smile teasingly at her. “I’ll be sure to find the nearest mirror. What are you ordering? I’m thinking about getting the lobster roll.”
“Are you happy, sweetheart?”
The question catches me off guard. My eyes fly up from the menu to her face, finding deeply concerned eyes, so much like my own, staring back at me. Her small mouth is set in a slight frown as she chews the inside of her lip, waiting for my answer. She fiddles with her napkin on the table absentmindedly. I haven’t seen her look this uneasy since my stepfather was alive. I don’t like it.
“Of course I’m happy, Mom.” I try to sound as reassuring as possible. She smiles at my words, but looks unconvinced. My mother has not had an easy life and it kills me to see her unhappy. I never knew my father. He’d left the moment she told him she was pregnant. She was eighteen and living at home with her family. Her parents, while not pleased that their oldest child was an unwed teenage mother, supported her as best they could. They were thrilled when they found out I was a boy, as they’d had four daughters and no sons of their own.
I’d been spoiled rotten as a child, not with toys or sweets, but with love and affection. My grandparents adored me and showed me off to everyone they knew. Some of my earliest memories are of my aunts fighting over who got to play with me, like I was a treasured doll they could dress up and take places. My mother, with the support of her parents and sisters, was able to complete her certification as a dental hygienist.
She worked for a few years with an older local dentist. When he retired, a young dentist took over his practice, and that is how Steven came into our lives. Dr. Steven Hilton. Young, handsome, and charming, he swept my mother off her feet before putting us through almost a decade of hell.
He wasn’t so bad in the beginning. I have hazy memories of him taking us to the movies and ball games. I was excited at the prospect of having a dad. At eight years old, I was the only kid in my class who didn’t have one. My grandfather did a great job filling that role for me, but he was almost fifty and couldn’t always keep up with me. So I didn’t get jealous or try to make trouble when they started dating. There were no tantrums, no sullen looks when he entered the room. I didn’t get upset when she went out with him in the evenings or when they spent weekends away. I played the part of the perfect, happy child because I didn’t want to scare him off. I wanted him to stay.
He stayed, alright. They got married two weeks after my ninth birthday. I wore a miniature version of Steven’s suit, my mother in a white, satin gown. We looked like a picture perfect family in all the photos. Everyone liked Steven and said my mother was so lucky to have snagged him. But before long, I realized something was off about him.
He didn’t like me.
He wasn’t cruel or abusive. I wouldn’t even call him unkind. But it was very clear, to me at least, that he did not want me around. I wasn’t his kid and I never would be. I tried everything to please him. I was the perfect kid, never asking for anything. I pretended to be interested in football, a sport I’ve never cared for, just to have something in common with him. Nothing. He put up with me to please my mother, who he genuinely seemed to adore.
They started trying to get pregnant right away. They didn’t announce it, but I was nine, not a moron. I was patted on the head and told to go visit my grandparents enough times during that first year that I figured out what was happening. Or not happening.
