Page 14 of True Colors

I check my phone when it buzzes right before I step into the elevator.

Ria: What’s for dinner? Theo wants to pick up wine.

I smile.

Ria, my younger sister, is doing a PhD in organizational psychology at Stanford. She lives in Palo Alto with one of my closest friends, Theo Adams, an investigative journalist at the San Francisco Chronicle.

Theo and I met at NYU, and the first time he saw Ria—she was eighteen then—he was done for. I tried the protective big-brother act for about two minutes, but even then, it was obvious that these two were made from the same rare material.

Now, a decade later, they’re married, stable, annoyingly good communicators, dual-income-with-a-dog people. They’re one of the most well-balanced couples I know.

Me: Flank steak with chimichurri sauce. Ask him to buy a good Argentinian Malbec or a Loire Valley Cab Franc.

The elevator hums upward.

I grin and add: Tell Theo that any wine under fifty dollars is gonna be crap.

A lie. Just meant to poke the bear.

Theo insists he’s “frugal.” I say “cheap.” Tomato, to-mah-to.

A moment later:

Ria: Theo says you’re a snob, and he’s going to buy something under thirty to make his point.

I snort and pocket my phone just as the elevator doors open onto my floor.

I leave my bag in my home office and head to the bedroom. I take a quick shower, partly to wash the day away and partly to clear my head.

The apartment has an open floor plan with two bedrooms, one office, and a large dining, living, plus kitchen area.

I click on the television. I like the company, the sound in an empty house.

The screen blinks to life on the same channel I left it on the previous night.

ESPN.

Giants vs. Dodgers. Oracle Park.

Perfect.

I head to the fridge to get dinner going.

Cooking centers me. You can’t bullshit a pan. You can’t fast-talk a sauce into emulsifying. You’ve got to do the work, or the food won’t taste right.

I pull out the flank steak I marinated last night in garlic, lime, cilantro, and a hint of smoked paprika, so it reaches room temperature by the time Ria and Theo are here.

I pour a cup of red wine vinegar into a bowl and add dried oregano. I set some parsley, chili, garlic, and olive oil on the counter.

As I peel the garlic, my mind doesn’t stay on the game in front of me but wanders back to work.

I didn’t expect this role to feel so different from being a Senior Vice President, as I was for the past year and a half at my previous rotation.

I’ve run divisions before. I’ve managed teams bigger than HelixSphere. I’ve been in rooms making decisions worth hundreds of millions. But I’ve never been the CEO, the one with whom the buck stops. There is no one above me in that building. There is no buffer, no safety net.

Dad wanted me to run HelixSphere to show him what I’ve learned in the past eight years since I started working for him. I started right after college, and after three years of entry-level jobs at three companies, I got my first managerial role, which is when I started my executive MBA. Those were the longest two years of my life. Working and studying is a tough gig. Some of my classmates joked that the EMBA is the divorce education because it sucks the life out of you.

I chop the parsley next. I add the garlic and parsley to the red wine vinegar and mix with a fork. I taste it, add salt to season, and set it aside.