The ensuing back and forth fades away with another sip of my emotional support cocktail.
My father holds court at the head of the table, all margins and projections, oblivious to the child abuse by our mothers shoving us into a candy-coated hellscape.
Wildly different topics of discussion unfold all at once, with everyone taking part.
Except Blake. Because fuck that guy.
We’rePhantom of the Operawithout the chandelier crash—dramatic and polished—ignoring the cracks just beneath the surface.
"The market's primed for aggressive growth," he announces to Chance's father. "Particularly in emerging tech sectors?—"
"Actually," I murmur into my mimosa, "tech's showing signs of correction. Third quarter earnings were down twelve percent across the board and haven’t rebounded in the fourth quarter.”
He doesn't even pause. "—and with the right positioning?—"
Am I really supposed to let the opportunity that wording provides slide?
Fiiiinnnnnneeee.
I better get points for that, Santa, you jolly bastard you.
"Supply chain disruptions in Asia indicate further volatility," I add, keeping my tone light, my answer PG.
See, I’m a good girl. Send me a big dick. Make him pretty. Bonus points if he’s silent.
Chance presses his leg against mine.
You work quick, Santa. I should have been more specific, though. A man with a big dick, not a big dick of the walking variety. He is pretty. And silent. I’ll give you that. Two out of three ain’t bad, but what’s your return policy?
"Healthcare's the real opportunity," Blake chimes in, clearly trying to impress. "Particularly biotech startups?—"
"Regulatory hurdles are increasing," I say to no one in particular. "But hey, if you want to sell your soul?—"
"Precisely why timing is crucial," my father continues like I'm not even here.
Nick's expression softens across the table. "Holly?—"
“It’s fine. Really.” I wave him off with a genuine smile. And surprisingly, it is. Thanks to a few late-night words from Chance.
My father is just like one of those old See 'n Say toys—pull the string, get the same predictable response.
I didn’t have to yank that many times before Nick noticed.
It’s something.
I’ll take it as a win.
And with that, I’m clinging to Chance’s words with the same gusto with which he coveted my peach pouch.
Besides, Chance did say this week was about skiing, booze, and bad decisions.
He definitely was on to something with the drinking.
Soak the dysfunction in a little bit of bubbly. Let chill overnight. Pair with puffed pastries and fresh berries. Problem solved.
Gaze sweeping over our parents one by one, I’m struck by how different they are than us. They live the norms with an effortless ease, like they were made for it—or worse, like they like it there, cocooned in the imbalance of power. Comfortable in the hierarchy, where inequality isn’t a flaw but the natural order of things.
Are they really just thirty years older than us? Because with the mimosa goggles on, the generation gap is less of a gap and more of the goddamned Grand Canyon on steroids:How did these people ever go from posh refinement to bumping uglies?
