“Sienna MacKay. Owner and creative director,” he says, sounding impressed.
“Yes.” I mention nothing more because I hate tooting my own horn. I was born missing whatever brain cells it requires to brag or bask in a spotlight. I prefer to let my work speak for itself. “It’s a slow build,” I tell him, “but we’re getting there.”
“I envy you.” He holds up my card. “Can I keep this?”
“Of course.”
He leans back, slides it into the front pocket of his faded blue jeans, and then reaches for a nacho chip and uses it to scoop some green peppers and sour cream.
“How about you?” I ask. “What do you do?”
“Law school,” he replies flatly.
“Law school. Well done. And you envyme?”
He shakes his head. “Truth is I’m conflicted about it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not what I want to do with my life.”
“Then why are you doing it?” I ask matter-of-factly.
“Because I’m a jellyfish.”
I frown and wipe my mouth with a napkin. “You’ll have to explain that to me.”
“I’m not sure I can,” he replies, “because I can’t even explain it to myself. Ask Kevin. He’ll give you a better answer.”
I glance over at Kevin, who’s scooping ice cubes into a cocktail shaker and hunting around for the right liquor bottle. “He looks busy.”
“Yeah, well ... the truth is I’m fighting to resist my basic impulses.”
I chuckle. “I’m confused. But it sounds intriguing. What might those impulses be?”
He leans forward, rests his arms on the table, and gives me a slightly devious look, but it comes with a hint of a grin. “If it were up to me, I’d go to cooking school and become a chef.”
I draw back slightly. “Wow. That’s not the answer I was expecting.”
He reaches for another nacho. “Eventually I’d open my own restaurant. Something classy. Fine dining. Creative presentations. Works of art on a plate, you know?”
“Idoknow. But why isn’t it up to you?”
He wags his finger at me. “That’s the burning question, right there. I’ve been asking myself that a lot lately, in my own mind, ever since I started an eight thirty a.m. class in corporate tax law, which I despise. I hate it more and more every day, and I’m not sure where it’ll bottom out. Me flunking the exam, probably.”
He sits back, reaches for the butter knife on the table, and pretends to slice his wrist.
I know he’s joking, but still, it’s sad. “So what’s the solution?”
He sets the knife down and takes a deep breath, lets it out. “I don’t want to disappoint my father. And therein lies the conflict. He’s proud of me these days, which wasn’t always the case.”
“Meaning?”
He shrugs his very muscular shoulders. “My grades weren’t good in high school, and what can I say? I hung out with a wild crowd. We skipped a lot of classes, and we liked to party.”
“Yet you got into law school,” I reply.
He glances at his reflection in the dark window. “I’m sure that came as a shock to many. My high school English teacher probably had a coronary.”
