Page 3 of Colt

“Just make sure they don’t burn,” she bites out.

I feel bad knowing that my biggest fear is ending up like my mother. She’s a good person who’s worked hard her whole life. She showed up to every recital, volunteered to be room parent every year, and has made three square meals for us day in and day out over the past two decades.

But because she gave up her career to raise us, she doesn’t have things like her own 401(k) or savings. She’s totally dependent on my dad.

Are the two of them happy together? Not really. But I also don’t think she wants to leave him. If she did, though… I mean, could she, with no income of her own?

The thought of being trapped like that keeps me up at night.

Which is why I initially wanted a job in private equity, even though I’m a creative at heart. I majored in visual arts and marketing in undergrad, and I even started my own brand and website business, the Creative Cactus, a few years ago. I took on a handful of pretty cool clients each semester. The work is fun, and the money is good. Good enough to cover rent at least.

Randolph chuckled earlier today when I brought up my business. “The website design thing.” He flapped his hand in a vague gesture that made me search for a rogue fly or gnat. “I remember that from your résumé. I mean, that’s not an actual job, but it’s cute.”

I kept my smile pasted on my face, doing my best to absorb the blow without even blinking.

My parents haven’t put it that bluntly, but they’d agree with Randolph’s assessment of the Creative Cactus. Dad’s worked for the same wealth management company his entire career, and his job comes with great benefits: health insurance, matching 401(k) contributions, and stock options. Not to mention a steady paycheck. He and Mom believe a job isn’t a real job unless it comes with perks like those, ones that lead to a stable lifestyle.

Which I understand. I want a nice life for myself too. I’ve been trying to get a “real” job for months now. But the guy who was supposed to hire me today only saw me as a piece of ass. Is that just how corporate America works, though? Was Mom right? Am I naive to expect otherwise?

I sometimes wonder what would happen if I made the Creative Cactus my full-time gig. Yeah, I don’t get any stock options, and health insurance is something I’d have to figure out on my own. But the income from my business has been stable so long as I’m consistently taking on projects. I’ve been lucky; word-of-mouth recommendations mean that I typically have a healthy waiting list of clients.

But that might not always be the case. Everyone’s always told me that creative lines of work like mine are inherently unstable, and I guess I’ve internalized the message that it’s impossible to make a real living in a field like brand creation and management.

Besides, do I really want to work by myself for the foreseeable future? I make decent money but not nearly enough to hire help. I’d have to do everything myself—accounting, networking, social media. Plus my own marketing if the pipeline of potential clients runs dry.

What about my lifestyle if I chose that path? Could I even get approved to extend my apartment lease if I’m self-employed? The current lease is up January 1. My parents cosigned my current lease, and even though I pay the rent myself, I don’t want to have to depend on them at all going forward.

It goes without saying that I’d rather die than move back home. No offense to my family, whom I love dearly. But I flew the nest, and I have no plans to come back for…obvious reasons.

I’m proud of Creative Cactus. But I’m just not convinced I could turn it into the kind of stable, exciting, lucrative career I’ve always wanted.

I’m not convinced it could provide the kind of freedom I’m looking for. Freedom my mom doesn’t have.

I do want a family someday. But a husband, kids…that stuff will come later, after I’ve figured out my career and saved up a nice little nest egg. I’m only twenty-four, for crying out loud. Like the majority of my business school classmates, I don’t plan on settling down until I’m well into my thirties.

There’s no rush to find “the one.” Although it would be nice to get laid every once in a while by someone who knows how it’s done.

Once the meatballs are cooked, the water starts to boil. I add a tablespoon of kosher salt to the pot, then pour in the pasta. I give that a stir while Mom sets the table.

Dad is still pouting, but he does join us when we all sit down to eat. Mom keeps her eyes on her plate while Dad pushes the food around on his, letting out an annoyed huff after he takes a bite of the offending meatballs.

They are freaking delicious, and I say so. My brothers agree, but my dad remains silent.

Less than ten minutes after we sat down to eat, Dad is getting up and putting his plate in the sink. Then he heads back to the couch. My brothers are not far behind. They do have the grace to thank Mom for cooking, even as they immediately start to moan and groan about how tired they are from the week.

Mom sighs. “Y’all head upstairs, then, and get some rest. I’ll clean up.”

I glance at Dad. He’s in the recliner now, popping out the footrest for his feet.

The anger in my chest swells. It feels like heartburn. On the eve of Mom’s birthday, he’s still not willing to help out. Still not willing to give her a much-needed break by taking over dish duty himself.

“Lainey,” Dad says, “I wanna hear more about this interview—why you didn’t like the people.”

There’s a reason—many reasons—he’s asking that question. I inherited being more of an “indoor person” from him. While my schoolmates visited family and friends on ranches across Texas when we were younger, I was more than happy to hang in my room and sketch on my tablet. I’d read books, listen to angsty Ed Sheeran songs, and bedazzle random shit because I’m crafty and it was fun.

I thought I’d get along with people who worked in an office environment. Obviously Dad thought that too. Now I’m not so sure.

“Lainey can talk after she helps me clean up.” Mom rises, grabbing her plate. “Mind clearing the table? I’ll start loading the dishwasher.”