Oliver
When I was suddenly elevatedinto my father’s role as CEO of Miles2Go after he was ordered to prison, one of the hardest early lessons I had to learn is that when you’re the boss, you regularly have to do things that make people mad or that they disagree with. And then on top of it, I was regularly choosing the option that my executive assistant advised me to pick, so I had to be the shield between her and people’s opinions of her opinions too.
There’s never an option of making everyone happy.
There’s often no meeting in the middle.
There’s just the knowledge, day after day, that you probably fucked something up while trying to fix something else, and you’re going to hear about it, and then you’re going to lose sleep over it, and there’s only so much stress that can be alleviated by working out your frustrations in the gym.
I fucked up with Daphne last night.
I fucked up hard, and I’m pissed at myself for it, but I’m also rightfully pissed at her.
There’s no good answer, and I don’t have a set of weights and I can’t go for a run or a swim or a bike ride to push it away because I have a schedule to keep if I’m going to see everything I want to see and do everything I want to do and find where I want to live before these two weeks are up.
This road trip is possibly the dumbest idea I’ve ever had, no matter how good it feels to put miles and miles between me and Manhattan, and no matter how good it felt to spread some of my wealth to random people the day before yesterday.
That was always the plan.
To give away as much as possible on my escape to a life of being a normal person.
Though it might never be possible.
Daphne and I are both in bad spots.
I don’t know what Daphne does for a job, but I know when people don’t show up without calling, they get fired, and I’m sure that would suck for her.
Her.
The woman who’s asking forsome figure under a millionto be sent someplace she refuses to say in exchange for her services in helping me get a wardrobe and learning how much you can toss in a donation jar without drawing too much attention to yourself.
And meanwhile, she’s had access to a secret phone where she could be feeding her sister or god only knows who else information about where we are.
She doesn’t tell me good morning or make me coffee when we both get up in the tiny house.
I don’t tell her good morning or share any thoughts on breakfast plans, nor do I ask for her help when I can’t figure out the damn coffee machine.
She uses all of the hot water in the shower and walks out in one of those Miles2Go T-shirts she bought at the gas station Sunday.
The shirt with Cupholder the crab on it.
I refuse to let her see me twitch about it, and I take a cold shower without bitching to her about that too.
Fuck if I’ll let her see she’s annoyed me.
Or that I’m sorry I grabbed her chest.
Even if that’s eating me alive.
I don’t do that.
I don’t manhandle women.
I’m also not an ungrateful asshole, regardless of what she or my parents think.
Yeah, that last jab of hers last night—ungrateful asshole—that landed.
You’ve been given the position of a lifetime, Oliver, and all you do is glare at me as if your father and I have put you in prison instead of him being there. Could you be grateful for something for once?
