Chapter 7: Chapter Seven

LOGAN

Rae dissolves into tears and apologizes the moment I close my door behind us. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she mutters, wiping black makeup from beneath her eyes.

“I’m so sorry. I’m usually more—”~Hiccup~“—professional than this.”

“Don’t apologize,” I assure her, taking the most comforting tone I can manage. Consolation isn’t exactly my strong suit.

She takes a few shaky breaths and adjusts her posture so her shoulders are rolled back and her head is tilted upwards. It’s the same pose she took in the conference room. She almost looks confident.

“So,” she says, “you wanted to talk strategy?”

I’m speechless. Did she really just go from sobbing to business in—I check my phone—two minutes?

“Uh, yeah.” ~Come on, Logan. Make something up~.

Ellen knocks and pokes her head in before I can think of anything. “Logan, Mr. Quincy wants to speak to you in his office.”

Dad makes Ellen and everyone but his fellow executives call him Mr. Quincy. I find it repulsive.

I sigh. “Alright. Rae, feel free to log onto my computer. Uh, if you could do some research into what other companies have done in terms of social media content, that would be great. I imagine you want the quiet, so you’re welcome to stay in here as long as you need.”

“Thanks, Logan, but I’ll head back to my cube. Could you just point me in the direction of the restroom on your way out?”

Again, speechless.

“Sure thing,” I say once my brain starts functioning again. I give her directions to the women’s room and follow Ellen into Dad’s office.

It’s set in the corner of our building and quite spacious. The walls are plastered with framed awards and newspaper articles boasting of the company’s success. Eric Quincy is many things. Humble is not one of them.

“Hey, Dad.” I choose to sit in one of the leather armchairs across from his expansive oak desk.

“Logan,” he sighs, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Sure. What’s up?” My stomach is tying itself in knots. Dad’s face is stiff, contorted, weary.

Nervous.

I’ve never seen this expression on him before. He likes to hide his emotions as much as he enjoys displaying his achievements.

He sighs again and opens his mouth, but his ringing phone cuts him off. “It’s Fran. Sorry. Need to take this. I’ll swing by your office this week.”

He doesn’t give me a chance to suggest he tell me later today. “Hey, baby,” he coos into the phone.

I’m certain he used that voice just to push me out of his office, but I won’t lie, it worked pretty fucking well.

As much as I need to know what Dad wanted to tell me, I ~really~ need to be out of earshot of his conversation.

Francesca, also known as Fran, is Dad’s mistress. The whole arrangement is simultaneously cliché and extremely strange.

She’s thirty-one, only a couple of years older than me, and she’s been with Dad for just over two years.

At first, I wanted to hate her. I wanted to blame her for tearing my family apart, for Mom’s addiction, but I couldn’t. She’s nice. She’s polite.

As painful as it is to admit, she’s a good partner for Dad. I mean, she’s sleeping with a married man, but we’ve all got flaws.

The truth is, Mom was already in the throes of her addiction when Dad met Fran. She was already a shell of her former self. She could barely function.

Dad had to hire a home health aide to get her out of bed in the morning. He was grieving Zach too. On top of losing his son, he lost his wife.

So, I get it. He wanted company, someone he wouldn’t have to take care of. Fran gave that to him. It’s fucked up, because he wasn’t there for Mom, but I get it.

I convince myself that Dad probably has to tell me about a fund performing worse than expected or something else that isn’t life-altering as I walk over to Rae’s desk.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. She went home with Michael after breaking up with her ex. Clearly, she’s not into me.

“Hey.” I knock softly on the wall of her cubicle. Her eyes are a little glassy, but the redness has mostly faded.

“It’s been a long fucking day for me, too. I was thinking of going for a short hike after work. You want to come?”

“Um, I’m not really… I’m pretty bad with hiking. I’m not too coordinated.” Her finger is twirling her necklace into a bunch.

“I was going to do the Living Room trail. That’s pretty flat,” I offer.

The Living Room is a beginner-level trail in the eastern part of Salt Lake City. Rock formations at the top resemble furniture, which is the source of its name.

“Um, sure!”

I can’t help but grin because she’s smiling brightly as if she wasn’t crying just ten minutes ago.

“Great. I’m leaving here around five. Does that work for you?” I’ll have to return to the office for a couple of hours after, but it’s worth it to spend time with her.

Her smile fades, and she looks down at her lap. “I might, uh, need to stop by my apartment first. I can’t really walk much in these shoes.”

She giggles nervously. “Oh! Actually, I was going to go home around two—that’s what our contract stipulates—to edit the photos I’ve gotten today. I can meet you back here at five. Does… Would that work?”

“Perfect.”

She breathes a silent sigh of relief when I agree to her plan.

As I head back to my office, I find myself hoping she isn’t always this anxious around me and feeling relieved that excitement for our hike is overpowering my worries about Dad’s news, whatever it is.