Ruthless In A Suit(77)

As the meeting breaks up, Jules says, “Way to show some leadership. I knew you had it with that first big donation, and I'm glad to see you haven’t lost it.”

That first big donation is, of course, Jackson but she doesn’t say. Otherwise it’s a nice reminder that I’ve got this inside me, if I just let it out. I can be assertive. I took down that weasel Brent, after all.

On my way out to my parent’s place for brunch one weekend, I start to realize that good enough doesn’t work anymore. I can always be better. Like at work. Amanda’s emails weren’t good enough. They were fine, and fine doesn't get the job done. No one ever made a difference by being fine. I realize it’s probably how Jackson feels every day at work. It’s why he works so hard—something inside him, whether he was born with it or his father instilled it in him—because he can’t let himself be satisfied with anything but greatness. Jackson works his ass off to get it. Despite everything else, I have to admire that. Maybe I picked up a little of it from him.

“I can’t say that I’m surprised,” Dad says when I’m forced to tell them I’m not seeing Jackson anymore. “That was not exactly a match made in heaven.”

“Hardly,” Mom says.

“At least he was hot,” Sabrina adds. I kick her under the table. “I was being nice!”

“I see guys like him all the time,” Dax says. “They think giving money makes them charitable but it’s just a tax write-off. They actually save money come tax season if they’ve donated a little throughout the year. It’s a scam.”

“It’s ridiculous you all made him seem like a bad guy for giving money away,” I say. “Even if it is for tax purposes. Who cares? Money from people like that is what helps us do what we love. And Jackson works really hard for his money. I don’t see what’s wrong with working hard. Didn’t you guys teach us that, along with doing good?”

Mom looks at Dad a bit guiltily.

Maybe they’re right about some things—even Sabrina—but I feel like they’ve missed something important in Jackson.

“You guys were jerks to him. It was like giving money to a charity is as bad as slapping a baby. And you tried to slam him with that patriarchal crap,” I remind Dax. “He’s not a bad guy. So can we just lay off?”

“Sweetie, we’re sorry,” Dad says. “We just want what’s best for you.”

I know they all mean well, but they don’t have to try to destroy something before I even know what it is. Or was. And what was it?

As I go back to the city, I think about that. What were Jackson and I? Stripped away, we were a guy and a girl who shouldn’t have liked each other but turned out to be crazy about each other. He was sweet to me. He seemed to take joy in spoiling me, not to show off his wealth but to make me happy. So why is that such a bad thing?

I start to feel hopeful until I realize that, oh yeah, he was using me. I curse him for being an asshole and a good actor. Jackson may have liked me well enough to consider using me to get control of his company but that doesn’t mean he cared for me. That’s what matters. That’s what hurts the most.





Jackson





“And so as we head into the final stretch, this makes it our most successful quarter ever.”

There’s clapping and few cheers around the boardroom table. Rachel Sullivan, one of several VPs, just delivered the news that should make me want to celebrate with a nice bottle of scotch. Instead I feel nothing.

“Congratulations, Jackson,” several people say after the meeting. My shoulders are clapped, handshakes are offered, drinks are suggested. Everyone is quite pleased with how the company is progressing. I feel empty.

I stay in the boardroom after everyone has left and look out the large window. I don’t see the other buildings or the people scurrying along below. All I see is Emily. She hasn’t left my mind for more than a moment since she left my house. I’ve tried texting and calling her but she rejects or ignores my every attempt. I can’t say that I blame her.

I have to see her. I can’t keep moving along like this, desperate for her. She has to understand what happened, and in order for her to understand, I have to tell her everything about my family—including the details of my father’s will.

“Sandra, could you send the car around?” I ask as I head back into my office. “And cancel the rest of my appointments.”

I rip off my tie and toss it on my desk. I grab my jacket and head for the elevators.

In the back of the car, we drive around areas of the city I think she might be. We go to the Children’s Education Fund offices and I run inside and ask if she’s working today.