I make it to the front doors of my office building and exhale. I consider turning around and going home, but it’s the second Monday of the month—and the one day my absence doesn’t go unnoticed. I pull on the door handle, stand up a little taller, and begin to move across the porcelain tile floor towards the elevators, trying to ignore the whispered side conversations that stop abruptly when I get too close. I never know what it is they’re saying exactly, but I know they’re talking about me, and I know most of them don’t think Ideserve to be here. I don’t think I do either, but that’s nepotism for you.
Being here reminds me of the pepper and soap experiment I did as a kid. I don’t really remember the point of it, but I do remember my third grade teacher showed it to us. She filled a shallow dish with water and then dumped a bunch of black pepper on top. First, she stuck a clean finger inside, and nothing happened. Then, she covered her hand with soap and repeated the experiment. The minute her soapy finger touched the water, all of the pepper retreated toward the sides of the bowl.
That’s how I feel when I’m here. I’m the pepper. This place is the soap. Or maybe I’m the soap and this place is the pepper. Either way—we don’t mix.
I call the elevator, tapping my foot as I wait.
I’m pleasantly surprised when it opens a moment later and is empty. I step on, and the minute the doors shut, I feel my shoulders relax.
It hasn’t always been this way. When my grandfather was alive, being here felt more comfortable. He always made sure I had a place at the table, but then last December he passed away, and it became harder to be in a place that reminded me so much of the one person in my family who thought I was worth a shit.
I’ve considered walking away. Hell, I even asked the owner of The Local after a particularly shitty day if he’d consider selling me the bar, but I made a promise to myself to always make my grandfather proud. And while no one else seems to want me here, he did, so I’ll keep trying as long as I can bear it.
I step off the elevator and move into my office. It’s framed by large windows that overlook the entire Atlanta skyline. The view is absurd. I have no business calling it mine, but it is the one perk of being a nepo baby I enjoy.
Before I can sit down, my babysitter—or assistant as myfather and brother refer to him—John, knocks and enters the room with a freshly made latte.
“Good morning, Mr. Mitchell,” he says, handing me the paper cup. I take a sip and breathe in the scent of brown sugar and cinnamon. It smells like fucking heaven.
I lied. There are two perks I enjoy—the view and the free lattes, but that’s it.
“I’ve told you to call me Tanner,” I say, taking a seat behind my desk and slouching down in the tall leather chair.
“Right. Um. Okay. Mr. Mitch— I mean Mr. Tan?—”
I put my hand up to stop him. “Just Tanner. No mister necessary.” I swallow down a long sip of my latte.
I’ve had babysitters since I started working here, but John is new. According to Dad, every executive vice president gets an assistant, but I’ve always had the suspicion that mine only exists to report back to my father. I honestly don’t know where my dad finds them, but so far they’ve only been men.
John is the least annoying one yet, so I hope he sticks around longer than the others. He’s the first who hasn’t run to my dad to tattle every small transgression. He’s also only been working here for a few weeks, and I’m sure he’ll be fired soon for the same reason. That, or the fact that he always looks a little disheveled. His dark hair is always a little messy. His shirt is wrinkled and haphazardly tucked in, and his tie is looser than it should be. He always looks like he just fucked someone in the bathroom but didn’t have time to look in the mirror before jetting off to grab me my latte. I should care, but I’m not Mitt Mitchell, so I don’t.
“Oh, um, right. Tanner. Sorry.”
“What time is the meeting with my father and brother?”
He fidgets nervously and pulls out his phone. I watch as his eyes scan the screen, and his face falls.
“I don’t see a meeting on your calendar, sir,” he says.
I check the date on my computer. “Is today not the second Monday of the month?”
“It is,” he confirms.
“Then we have a meeting,” I say. “My brother, Mitch, texted me yesterday, saying that he had a busy morning, and that he would have his assistant call you to set up a time for this afternoon.”
“No one has called, and I’ve been here since eight.”
“You sure?” I click on my inbox and scan the emails for something from my dad or brother. Nothing. My eyes shift to the clock. It’s twelve-thirty.
“I’m sure,” he says.
“Okay, well can you call and see when they want to meet. I don’t need them accusing me of missing another meeting, and I specifically came in today to meet with them.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, turning to leave.
“Oh, and can you grab me something to clean my shoe with? I stepped in a puddle on the way here, and it’s covered in street sludge.”
He nods and exits my office. I send some emails while I wait and then grab my phone.
