Chapter Two
Max
From the seat of her throne—granted, it’s only a humongous desk-and-chair combo strategically placed above the average person’s eye level—my mother swings her gaze between Andrew and me. “To my surprise, the Cartwright Hotel Group is shaking things up. Rebecca Cartwright, the original owner’s granddaughter, has just been promoted and is at the helm now. She’s trying to cater to a different clientele. Wants to focus on expanding its upscale restaurant, booking more weddings, and becoming the place in the District for weekend spa retreats. She has lots of ideas and would like our expertise on how to promote them. Immediately. I need my best people on this, and you two, together, will bring the right combination of charm and know-how to this collaboration.”
I’m the charm. Andrew’s the know-how. Or so everyone thinks.
Fact is, my mother’s a bona fide hustler who can talk her way out of anything. This time, though, her explanation is pure unadulterated non–genetically modified crap. I wish she would just come out and say it: She doesn’t trust me to handle an important client account on my own.
I can’t say that I’m surprised. Unfortunately, this is familiar territory, a by-product of another truism I’ve come to accept: When my brother and I compete—and frankly, we don’t know how to do anything else—he always comes out ahead. Through no actual fucking effort on his part. What’s worse, even when we’re not knowingly competing, Andrew excels. My ex-girlfriend Emily certainly thought so. After spending a day in my older brother’s presence, she decided she was settling for mediocrity by being with me. She came to meet my mother. She left with a new dating manifesto. That was a fun Thanksgiving.
Andrew taps his pen on the legal pad resting in his lap. “We’ve worked with Rebecca before. Sounds great.”
I want to mimic his chipper demeanor, but that would be childish. Also, I’m trying to be a professional here; I gave Mom my word that I would.
A year ago, our mother brought us on as employees of her firm, Atlas Communications, a one-stop shop for marketing, publicity, and branding services located in Alexandria, Virginia. She did so only after we’d mastered the basics elsewhere—me in New York and Andrew in DC and Atlanta. Before then, she’d had no time for entry-level marketing and publicity associates, not even if they were her children. When she approached us about joining the firm, she made the offer on two conditions: First, we had to agree to come as a package deal, on the theory that we’d bring out the best in each other and one day take over the business together. Second, we had to promise that once we stepped through the company’s doors, we would forget that she’d given birth to us.
I get why she’s worried about perceived favoritism, and if I screw up at work, I fully agree that I deserve to suffer the consequences just like anyone else. But no amount of pretending can change the immutable fact that she’s our mother. Plus, the way she treats us here isn’t all that different from the way she treated us as kids. Case in point: She thought nothing of summoning us to the office on a Sunday for a non-emergency. I’m annoyed for this reason alone, and her insistence that my brother and I once again work as a pair stretches my patience beyond its normally abundant limits. “We’re not a set, you know,” I’ve told her. “Or conjoined twins. We can conceivably function on our own if you let us.”
Because here’s the thing: Andrew’s not as perfect as he pretends to be. Most of our great ideas originate with me. I’m not boasting, just stating facts. And if our mother ever untethered me from the robot claiming to be my brother, she’d realize it, too. If the past is any guide, though, that epiphany won’t be happening anytime soon. In her eyes, older necessarily means wiser, and regardless of what I do, Andrew will always have me beat on that score by two years.
“Don’t make that face, Max,” she says as she stares at me over the rims of her hawkish red-framed eyeglasses. “The client has a special task in mind that requires two people to work on separate projects, so I’m sending you both. There’s no need to take any more meaning from my decision than that. I’m catering to the client’s wishes and nothing more.”
Well, this is excellent news. My mind’s already whirring, brainstorming ways I can convince the client that what she wants is me—as her account manager. If I can step out of Andrew’s shadow and impress Rebecca, taking the lead on the Cartwright account would be the next logical step. And if that happens, maybe my mother will finally recognize the value I bring to the firm in my own right.
“If you’re both free,” my mother continues, “she’d love to meet with you next week to explain her plans. And given the volume of work her company sends our way, I suspect I don’t need to stress that you should make yourselves available at her convenience.”
Andrew nods like an obedient puppy. “Of course. We’ll make it happen. Right, Max?”
My mother surveys my face, her eyes narrowing to slits as though she’s expecting me to be difficult. Whyever would she think that?
I adopt an agreeable tone. “Of course.”
She rises from her chair and brings her hands together in a loud clap, essentially dismissing us. “Well, gentlemen, I really appreciate that you came in over the weekend. The client is eager to move forward on this as quickly as possible, so I didn’t want to waste any time.”
I’m tempted to note that she could have briefed us over email, but I just don’t have the energy to be the troublemaker today. Instead, I simply salute her on the way out of the office. “See you tomorrow.”
I’m almost at the elevators when Andrew jogs up behind me. “Hey, M. Hang on a minute.”
I slow my steps. “What’s up?”
When he reaches me, he plants his legs wide and pushes up the sleeves of his beige cashmere sweater. I’m in a fucking hoodie. I’m also itching to point out the pilling on the left side of his sweater, likely caused by his favorite designer messenger bag rubbing against it, but that’s the kind of minor shit that would fuck with his day and I’m trying not to be a jerk.
Andrew cocks his head as he studies me. Then he says, “Listen, I know the client might want us to work on different projects, but we’ll still brainstorm together, right? I think that’ll be a good thing for whatever final product we present.”
Ideally, we’d do the exact opposite of what he’s suggesting. I want to work on my own and show the client that, between Andrew and me, I’m the better bet. How else am I going to set myself apart from him?
We eye each other in silence as he waits for my answer, until the ding of the arriving elevator breaks the awkward spell. Before I step on, I say, “I figure that’ll depend on what the client wants, and we’ll know that soon enough. You coming?”
He takes a step back. “No, I’m going to answer a few emails before I go.” Smiling smugly, he taps a finger against his temple. “Might as well get some work done since I’m already here.” Unable to help himself, he adds, “That’s not your first instinct, though, is it? Being industrious.”
I ignore the jab. Be the better man, Max. “I’m going to shoot some hoops. Sure you don’t want to join me?”