That New York Minute. Abby Gaines
He would quit on Monday, right after he told Tony, in private, what he thought of KBC’s idiotic plan to save money. Garrett wasn’t about to hang around in a firm that thought so little of him it would toss him out on a whim. Always be the first to leave—the philosophy had served him well.
He would walk out of KBC with no regrets. Last night, two bottles of champagne had convinced him the partnership was something he could do on his own terms. This morning had proven him wrong, and that was fine. Like he’d told Rachel yesterday, “Let it go.”
Of course, he’d been aware of the irony of those words. Aware he was drinking in a futile attempt to let go himself. He’d failed, as he did at this time every year, to stem the rising tide of regret. Of bitterness.
Rachel’s situation had seemed blessedly uncomplicated, compared with his own inner turmoil. It was obvious her boyfriend was dumping her; equally obvious she was hanging on for dear life. Begging.
Twice in his life Garrett had begged. Big mistake.
The waiter arrived. He set down two beers and a bowl of nuts, picked up the old glasses and started to leave. Dwight cleared his throat significantly, then lowered his gaze a fraction to indicate a ring of liquid on the table. The waiter muttered an apology as he wiped the table, double-quick.
Garrett took a slug of his second drink of the night, which at last took the edge off the headache he’d been squinting through all day. He just wanted to get through this meeting, or whatever it was, and go home to bed.
His father cleared his throat again, but this time it wasn’t in lieu of a spoken command. “Many happy returns of the day.”
His dad would never say Happy Birthday if he could find a more formal alternative.
“Thanks.” Garrett forced himself to respond reasonably, instead of saying something inflammatory like, What do you care?
A woman carrying a guitar squeezed past their table, followed a moment later by two guys, one of them also lugging a guitar case. Must be the band, headed for the small stage in the far corner.
“Did you. Do anything special?” Dwight asked. He never said um or uh, so any hesitation sounded like a full stop. “Thirty is. A milestone.” He took a quick drink.
Two hesitations in the space of a minute. What was going on?
“I got shortlisted for partner at KBC today,” Garrett said, buying himself time to work out his dad’s agenda.
Why had he said that? What was the point of telling his father about a promotion that he didn’t intend to stick around to get? It wasn’t as if Dad would be impressed.
He braced himself for a lecture about getting a “real job.” Namely, one in the armed forces, one that mattered.
His father surprised him by saying, “Good.” He took another drink of his beer. Not his usual measured pace.
“If I get the partnership—” shut up, Garrett warned himself, stop right there, you’re not doing this “—I’ll be chief creative officer.” Dammit, the alcohol he’d consumed over the past twenty-four hours had loosened his mouth.
Dwight’s glass thudded onto the table. “Chief creative officer?”
This was why Garrett should have stopped.
“What would anyone there know about being an officer?” his father asked. “About discipline and structure?”
“Nothing at all,” Garrett said with heartfelt relief. His father’s rigid adherence to discipline and structure were what had driven them apart, and Garrett’s choice of career had done nothing to fill the gap. Dwight derided the advertising industry as frivolous, billions of dollars spent giving people choices they didn’t need. As far as he was concerned, there was only one way to do anything: his way.
As Dwight leaned forward the four metal stars on his collar denoting his rank, polished to a high gleam, caught the light. “Wouldn’t a job like that involve commanding a team?”
“Leadership is part of it, yes.” Might as well give his father enough rope to hang him.
“You don’t have the right attitude for that,” Dwight said. “You need to blend authority with a genuine interest in your men.”
“I’m definitely not interested in men,” Garrett agreed, using flippancy, guaranteed to drive his father nuts, to mask his annoyance.
Without knowing the first thing about it, Dwight had decided Garrett didn’t deserve the promotion. Garrett was tempted to prove him wrong. To stick around, win the partnership. Then quit, which would give Tony and the other partners a lesson in how not to run a partnership selection.
Not worth the hassle, he decided. There were other agencies he could go to right away. Lots of them.
Dwight was inhaling noisily, his face turning slightly purple. If Garrett had been one of his father’s “men,” he’d have feared imminent court-martial.
“If you want to learn leadership, Garrett, you should get a real job,” Dwight said. “You could make something of yourself.”
Here we go. Garrett drained his glass, glad he hadn’t been naive enough to think they could survive a whole meal. He stood. “See you around, Dad,” he said, confident it was highly unlikely. Madison Avenue might not be far from USUN, the United States Mission to the United Nations, where his father was an adviser, but their paths never intersected.
“Sit down,” Dwight ordered.
Yeah, right. Garrett wasn’t about to start obeying his father’s commands at this late stage. He left the role of the “good son” to his brother, Lucas.
“Please,” Dwight said.
Garrett stared. Dad learned a new word.
When his father pointed at the chair, he sat down again.
Dwight closed his eyes for a moment before he spoke. “I know this is a. Difficult day for you.”
“But not for you?” Garrett asked.
Irony was wasted on his father. “That’s why I wanted to see you.”
His birthday, the anniversary of his mother’s death—not everything he’d told Rachel had been a lie—had been a difficult day every year for the past fifteen years. This was the first time Dwight had acknowledged it. “Are you sick?” Garrett asked.
It would surely be divine retribution for the lies that had Rachel so riled, if his father suddenly confessed to a terminal illness. Not that Garrett felt the least bit guilty about Rachel. He’d done her a favor, telling her a plain truth last night. This morning, she’d got up his nose with her superiority and her dismissal of his abilities. She’d reminded him, in fact, of his father.
Only she’d been far easier to topple than Admiral Dwight Calder. She didn’t have the backing of the U.S. Navy to make her feel infallible.
“I’m not sick,” Dwight said.
Relief rushed through Garrett. He tilted his chair back. “Then why are you here?”
Over on the far side of the room, the band was running a sound check. In another five minutes, there’d be no possibility of conversation.
“It’s time you and I made more of an effort with each other,” his father said.
Garrett’s chair thumped back on to all four legs. “Are you going to tell me this was your idea?” he asked calmly.
“Stephanie suggested it,” Dwight admitted.
“Tell your wife to butt out.” Garrett kept his voice even, masking the upsurge of anger. He didn’t know why Stephanie should pick now, after all this time, to take an interest in his relationship with his father. He didn’t want to know.
A