I leave my father on the porch with a glass of lemonade, and I walk down onto the lawn as Gemma continues. “So, where are you on our offer? Is that number going to work for you?”
“It’s generous,” I say, trying to center myself, “but I don’t think it will work.”
“No? Hmmm. Okay, throw it out there. What are you thinking?”
“I’m not thinking anything,” I say. “I don’t want to do a deal.”
I think I hear Gemma gasp faintly on her end of the line before she asks, “Really… Why not?”
I round the corner of the house and begin to meander up the driveway.
“It doesn’t feel right, Gemma. You always told me to tune in to my instincts, to listen to my vessel. Well, my vessel is saying no.”
“Okay.” I can tell she is trying to think of a way to argue against her own historical advice. “But this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I mean, you’ve already developed the perfect brand concept. That’s more than manifestation—that’s fate.”
I near the top of the driveway, where the first of our signs is affixed to a pine tree.KNOW THYSELF.
“It’s not a brand concept,” I say. “It’s just who he is. And it feels wrong to trade on his prophecies for profit. My dad isn’t a product.”
“That’s exactly the point,” says Gemma, with new energy. “Your father is an absolute gem, but you need to think bigger than what you’re currently doing. He won’t be around forever, Cricket.”
She says it as if it is just an inconvenient truth we will need to work around, as if I’m not aware of my father’s mortality, as if I don’t stare it in the face every single day.
“This is a way to immortalize him,” she presses. “To build a legacy.”
“He already has a legacy.”
“But you need toscale,” says Gemma. “Name your number.”
I pass the second of our signs.NOTHING IN EXCESS.
“Gemma, there’s no number,” I say. And to make sure she gets the message this time, I add: “I’ve thought long and hard about ‘What would my best self do?’ And the answer is: she wouldn’t sell out.”
For a moment, Gemma is silent. When she speaks again, her tone is chillier. “Cricket, I’m moving forward with this project, and I want to be crystal clear: if we’re not collaborators, then we’re competitors.”
“Okay.”
When I don’t say anything else, Gemma adds, “This is going to be huge, and you’ll regret not getting on board. I’m sure of it.”
She hangs up just as I arrive at the third and final sign. Hung on a birch tree that arcs over the driveway, it reads:CERTAINTY BRINGS TROUBLE.
“Who was that on the telephone?” my father asks as I return to the porch.
“Just a solicitation.”
“Everyone’s selling something,” he says.
We sit for a while as the calm of late morning slowly builds into the warmth of midday. I am proud of myself, and it’s a feeling I’mnot used to. However, turning down Gemma’s offer means I have to address our finances more urgently. Things are getting dire, and the donation box is not providing enough for us to coast on much longer. But for a moment, I bask in the pleasantness of knowing I have done the right thing.
I know I should call Carl and Paula to share my update, but my first instinct is to tell Max. We have texted a few times since our evening at the Locust Inn, and I know he is eager to hear how my conversation with Gemma went. My pulse quickens as I place the call, and when he doesn’t pick up, I feel a pang of disappointment that makes me realize just how much I like him. With Dylan, even at the very beginning, I never cared if or when he responded to me. His presence in my life was entirely neutral. But this is different. It seems like there is a momentum building—or at least, I hope there is. I send Max a text that is meant to sound breezy—Tennis later?—and quickly move on.
First, I call Carl, whose calm tone of voice conceals his deep relief. He congratulates me on making a good decision, for both myself and my father. Next, I talk to Paula, who delights in the details I relay to her. “What would my best self do?!” Paula hoots. “You gave her a taste of her own medicine.”
When I hang up, I am disappointed to find that Max hasn’t responded to my text. I tell myself not to be a crazy person. It has only been thirty-seven minutes since I sent it. I’m not allowed to be truly disappointed for at least another few hours, so I busy myself. I scrub the bathtubs, make lunch, take my father on a walk up and down the driveway, then up and down again. We read some poems from the big anthology, and just as he settles in for his afternoon nap, my phone finally pings. When I see Max’s name, my heart flips with excitement. But then I see his response.
Bad news…
I brace myself for any number of devastations:I forgot that I have a girlfriend,I’ve left the country, or just simply,I’ve decided that I hate you.
