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“Charlie would never—” Jean and Mugsy spoke at the same time, breaking off to look at each other like two cats grudgingly accepting the other’s existence while reserving the right to brawl later.

“All I know is, I put a lot of sweat equity into making this weekend happen,” Smithson said, folding a boast into a complaint. “I did not sign on to have my name associated with a public disaster.”

“But it’s not your name, is it, Captain Narcissism?” Jean scowled at him. “And why do you sound like that?”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

“Like all of a sudden you’re Little Lord Fauntleroy instead of Neanderthal bro.”

Now that she mentioned it, Smithson’s voice had changed. It was less booming bass and more crisp syllables, and he hadn’t chortled at his own jokes in several minutes.

“For your information, I went to Wharton. Part of my job is meeting people where they are.” Smithson gestured at the office, and Charlie’s dad, in a way that did not feel complimentary.

“Code-switching,” Emma said.

Jean was still studying Smithson like a specimen under glass. “What else were you pretending about, Little Smitty?”

Charlie tried to see what she was seeing. Was that not a natural tan?

The friend with the curls looked up from her phone. “Um, it looks like he’s writing a book.”

“Him?” Jean scoffed. “No way. That’s so many words.”

“I use the term ‘write’ loosely,” her friend clarified. “I’m sure he’s paying a ghostwriter.”

“Uh, no,” Smithson retorted. “And if I did, it would be because I’m too busy for that low-level shit. Let someone else run spell-check.”

“Hold on,” Jean’s friend said. “Here’s the description. The Pabst Smear: How to Build Your Brand by Tearing Down Your Rivals. A Negative Marketing Case Study by Smithson Oliver Barrett.”

“The Pap Smear?” Mrs. Pike whispered.

“Pabst, like the beer,” Mugsy corrected. “What do you mean by negative marketing?”

“Why are you asking me?” Smithson looked over both shoulders, like there might be someone standing behind him.

“Because your name is on it,” Mugsy reminded him.

Smithson shook his head. “Sounds fake.”

“Are you questioning my sources?” There was a dangerous glint in Hildy’s eyes.

“Where did you find that? The deal hasn’t even been announced.” Smithson sounded more annoyed than contrite.

“I know someone who works for your publisher.” She turned to Jean, mouthing, “Sorority sister,” behind her hand.

“Okay, you want the truth?” Smithson acted like they’d badgered him into confessing, but it was evident even to Charlie that he was happy to spill. “This is my last consulting gig anyway, so whatevs. Yes, I’m going to be the next Tony Robbins. The book is just the first step.”

“I don’t understand.” Mr. Pike still looked hopeful, as if he believed Smithson could spin the situation in a nondisastrous light.

“Listen.” Smithson spread his hands in a be reasonable gesture. “We’re both entrepreneurs. Men of the world. We know how it goes. Sometimes you’re up, and sometimes you’re down. And Pike’s was going down. Nothing to be done about it.”

“Funny you didn’t mention that in your pitch. The one explaining why I should pay you a small fortune to help us rebrand.” Charlie’s dad was gripping his fancy letter opener so tightly, Mrs. Pike tugged it out of his hand.

“At least this way you go out with a bang,” Smithson said. “Beer is about celebrating the good times.”

“A party planner would have been cheaper,” Mrs. Pike muttered.

“I tell you what. I’ll mention you in my acknowledgments.” Smithson winked at Charlie’s dad, like he was doing him a favor.

“So you came here and pretended to help but you were really working against us.” Charlie waited for someone to tell him he’d gotten it wrong, but no one pushed back—except Smithson.

“That’s a very simplistic analysis.” His smile was pure condescension.

“In my book, I describe it as a fusion of political strategy and marketing innovation. Think about it. Everyone talks about building buzz, but where does that energy come from? It’s not like there’s an unlimited supply.

When resources are scarce, you have to take what you need. ”

“By running a smear campaign,” Jean said. “Like leaking that story about their business being in trouble. And then what, people buy Barrett’s Best instead?”

Charlie spared a moment to admire her quick thinking. Sharp as a tack, his Jean.

“I don’t expect you to understand. Mr. K here knows what I’m talking about.”

“We have nothing in common,” Philip Koenig replied, with devastating coolness.

“Dishonorable is as dishonorable does,” Sergeant Cowboy said.

“Papa is a man of honor,” Emma informed them. She gave her father a significant look. “He keeps his promises.”

“You are correct as always, my darling.” Mr. Koenig lowered his head. “I intended to wait until tomorrow to make the announcement, but I feel I should tell you now. I am stepping down.”

Charlie’s dad looked like he’d just learned the truth about Santa Claus. “What do you mean, Phil?”

“We’re breaking up the Koenig empire.”

Emma made a tsking sound.

“Corporation, not empire. And I am merely a man.” He half bowed to Mr. Pike. “I realize this is not what you wished to hear.”

A shriek pierced the air. Charlie’s first thought was that his father had lost it and was going to start sobbing into his commemorative pint glass. Then he noticed Smithson jumping onto the nearest chair.

“Snake!” Smithson balanced precariously on the seat, pointing at the floor. “It touched my shoe!”

Charlie crouched to retrieve his poor harmless pet. “There you are, Emma!” he crooned. “You had quite an adventure, didn’t you?”

“What is wrong with you?” Smithson made a gagging noise.

Mr. Pike stood. “How dare you speak to my son that way? Charlie is a good man.”

Was that how his father saw him, even though Charlie had no interest in making or selling beer? The thought was almost as startling as the pitch of Smithson’s screams.

“See how far that gets you in life.” Smithson hopped down from the chair, patting his head like a bird settling its feathers. If birds used hair gel.

Charlie raised Snake Emma so she was at eye level with Smithson. Her tongue flicked as she hissed.

“I’ll send you my bill,” Smithson yelped, before fleeing into the night.

“What a turd,” Sergeant Cowboy said.

“My sentiments exactly,” Mr. Koenig agreed. Even Charlie’s father looked disgusted.

It seemed like a happy ending—bad guy vanquished, snake found, his beloved by his side—but as usual, Charlie hadn’t taken the business implications into account.

“What now?” His father leaned his elbows on the desk, cradling his head in both hands. “How am I supposed to face this crowd? I can’t pretend everything’s hunky-dory after we’ve been publicly humiliated.”

Charlie switched Snake Emma to his opposite hand so he could pat his father on the back.

It wasn’t the bruising between-the-shoulder-blades pounding his dad favored; Charlie’s style was more of a there, there .

And that was okay. He didn’t have to be the same as anyone else, because Jean liked him the way he was.

“Maybe you shouldn’t pretend anymore, Dad.”