Page 27 of Think Outside the Boss

He sighs the sigh of unrequited love. “But when?”

“I don’t know, kid. It might never happen, but you can’t lose hope. Try to be her friend regardless. You still want to get to know her, don’t you?”

“I guess,” he mutters.

“Because she’s nice and funny?”

“The nicest.”

“Then you’ll be her friend, because that’s still a great thing to be, and hope her feelings change.”

Silence as he digests this. When he’s done, he jumps off the bench. “Let’s go home.”

“Stomachache cured?”

He rolls his eyes. “I never had one, Dad.”

“Right.” Grinning, I toss our things in a nearby trash can and put a hand on his back, between the wings of his shoulder blades. “She’ll come around.”

But his mind has already moved on, it seems. “What are we doing for Thanksgiving?”

“For Thanksgiving?”

“Maria is going with her family to Canada. Turner is celebrating at his grandfather’s house in Martha’s… somewhere.”

“Vineyard,” I correct.

“Vineyard,” he repeats. “What are we doing, Dad?”

His question stumps me. The previous years we’ve always celebrated with my mother, who flies up from Florida for the holidays. Food and a few games, watching the parade on TV. That had been enough before.

“Grandma isn’t coming this year,” I say. “She’s going to New Orleans with a few friends from her retirement community.” She’d felt guilty about it, but I’d heard in her voice that she wanted to go. I’d told her to do it, and that we’d see her for Christmas instead.

“I know that,” Joshua says. He jumps up on a low ledge and starts to walk in a line, one foot in front of the other. “But what are we doing? We can do anything we want, Dad.”

“I suppose we can. What do you want to do?”

He thinks, holding his arms out for balance. At nine, he’s big enough to think he doesn’t need to hold my hand anymore, but I walk next to him just in case. “Mike’s dad is having a Family Company Day for Thanksgiving.”

“A Family Company Day?”

“Yeah. It’s like a big fair, and he said there will be cotton candy for all the employees and their kids.”

“Where does Mike’s dad work?”

“Coney Island.”

That explains things. “Well, my company isn’t really like that.”

“I don’t know what your company is like,” he complains. “I had to explain it in class a few weeks back and I made stuff up!”

“I buy companies, then I make sure they work, and then sell them on.” I’ve explained this to him before, but I understand that it doesn’t make much sense to a child.

Joshua jumps off the ledge and lands neatly, knees bent. “What are you doing for your company for Thanksgiving?”

How am I having this conversation with my kid, right after having it with Frederica Bilson? I’m not even a holiday person. But as I stare into my son’s wide, bright gaze, I know it’s time to become one. Joshua deserves nothing but the best, but he’s stuck with me, and I’ll just have to buck up.

“Not enough,” I admit. “They’ve been working very hard for me, but I haven’t told them that.”

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