Page 58 of I Love You, I Hate You
“A progressive. Dad’s pretty committed to being a Rockefeller Republican, which is to say he considers himself a fiscal conservative and is sure that he earned everything he’s made completely on his own. He thinks law firms like mine represent whiners trying to steal from people who worked hard.”
“Did he? Earn all this, I mean.”
Owen snorted. “No. My grandpa owned a bank and he grew up solidly middle class. Not rich like this, but certainly not poor. But he thinks because he had to get a job in college that means he came from nothing.”
She nodded, searching for the right words. Old bitterness rose in her, but it wasn’t Owen’s fault his father was rich. “And you have a trust fund, right?”
“I do,” he sighed. “And the fact that he didn’t try and take it away from me when I opened up the firm is probably a sign that he’s at least okay with me trying to right some of his wrongs, even if he finds me obnoxious.”
“And where does your stepmom fall in this political tableau?”
“She sides more with me than with Dad, which is probably a generational thing. She knows enough people with loans to get that our generation has a different financial situation, and she’s smart enough to realize that when you’re born white and middle class, you’ve got privileges others don’t have access to. I wish she’d do more, but she has managed to shift his philanthropy from like, country club improvements to urban music programs, so it’s a start. Not much, but better than nothing.”
“And where does Smorgasbord fit in?”
“What do you mean?”
She rested her forearms on the breakfast bar and cocked her head. She watched his eyes track her movements, dwelling on her neck and the sweep of her hair. “You’re not just trying to right some cosmic wrongs, here. You hate Smorgasbord pretty specifically.”
“I don’t, actually. It’s just the biggest target around. The headquarters are here, which means I can depose higher-ups, and it’s one of the biggest employers in the country. If I focus on them, I can do the most good possible. Or at least, that’s what I’m trying to do. I haven’t been too successful until recently.” He took a deep breath and she shook her head, forestalling him.
“Don’t. What happened in court happened. We don’t need to relitigate it. Honestly, I probably would have done the same thing.”
“You’re off the case, aren’t you?”
“Yes, and not by choice. But I didn’t react well in the moment, and I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said, unexpectedly fierce. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m a showboat, and—you were right to call me out about that.”
“Where does that come from, by the way?”
“What, being a dick?” he asked, and god, she had missed this banter.
“Needing to be the center of attention at all times.”
“Probably my mom,” he said, looking down and tracing a pattern on the countertop. “She’s fairly dramatic.”
“And where is she these days?”
“Teaching at a university in Shanghai. She’s an art professor—mostly sculpture, although she’s done some absolutely mortifying performance art.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Honestly, it could be good, but when you’re fifteen and your mom is doing spoken word poetry about menstruation, it’s . . . not ideal.”
Now it was her turn to snort. “God, that does sound painful.”
“What about you? Embarrassing high school moments from your mom?”
“Actually, everyone loved her, because she was so much younger than the rest of the moms. She was definitely the Cool Mom, even though she desperately wanted to be the mom everyone was scared of. Mostly the embarrassment came from people assuming she was my sister, which sucked. But she always encouraged me to be myself, and even took me to my first feminist protest—a sit-in against the local radio station carrying Howard Stern, because she absolutely hated him,” she chuckled. “I was maybe five.”
Owen ran a hand through his hair and took an unsettlingly deep breath. “I wanted to talk to you about something,” he started, and she shook her head. She wasn’t ready to talk about the job offer and the accompanying vulnerability that would come with that, because it meant Owen knew her well enough to know how desperately unhappy she was at Smorgasbord. He understood that she wanted to do something better, and what’s more, he believed she could. But the apologies they’d just managed were hard enough for her, and she hated having to talk like this—she would rather show him her appreciation than actually say it.
“Not now. Tour is just getting started,” she said. He hesitated and she shook her head. “Please, Owen, not—not yet. Whatever you want to talk about, it can wait.” He frowned but followed her into the next room. Each room was somehow better than the last—tasteful and expensive, but not without warmth. There was a small study, complete with leather chairs and dark blue accents, and a den that had been converted entirely into a fairy princess play land. Owen’s cat snaked in and out of rooms, clearly preferring to stay close to him.
“So what is your stepmom like?”
“Like I said, she’s pretty cool.”