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Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

Alex

BY MONDAY, WE'RE back to tense avoidance. My parents haven't told me to leave. I should have known that was an empty threat when they still want my help.

"You look tired, man," my co-worker Tim says.

He's one of six faces in little boxes on my computer screen. All six laugh when I tell Tim to fuck off, and thankfully that's the end of it. They move right on to our weekly standup meeting, where we catch each other up on cases and clients and whatever we're working on. It usually happens in person, but they've made this accommodation for me while I'm in Tripp Lake. I know they aren't thrilled about it.

"And how about the Green account?" Tim says.

Marcia, a young and almost viciously competent member of the team, chimes in with a rundown of our latest big oil client.

"Sounds like a really strong start," Tim says. "I'm glad we've finally got these guys on board. Took a damn long time and a lot of rounds of golf to convince them to choose us."

A round of chuckles. I try to join in, but don't have the heart for it today. All of these huge corporations get wined and dined as we beg for their business — and we're certainly not the only firm doing it. Their execs "work" by letting people like us fight over them and buy them things until they finally choose one of us like we're the last boy looking for a date to the prom. It makes my stomach turn, but I'd never speak up to question it. It's part of the job around here. These companies have more money than some small countries; they don't have to settle for anyone who isn't willing to swoon over them.

That kind of shit only gets worse after they hire us.

"We could really use you down here, Alex," Tim says. "They've asked about you. I don't doubt you're the best man for this job, but they want to meet you. Get your ass out of that crappy town as fast as you can, understand?"

Everyone laughs again, including me, but everyone also knows that's not an empty threat. Tim means it. His patience for my impromptu "vacation" is only going to last so long, and as my senior at this place, he can tell my boss Dave that I'm not worth the trouble anymore and Dave will listen to him. I need to get out of Tripp Lake if I want to keep my job.

"I understand," I say. "I'm working on it, I swear."

"They have you handcuffed to the table, man?" Doug says. "Blink in Morse code if you need help."

Everyone finds this hilarious. I roll my eyes, partly to play along like I'm supposed to and partly because I can't bring myself to laugh at that one. It hits a little too close to home after the most recent argument with my mother. Sometimes it really does feel like they're trying to handcuff me to Tripp Lake. Maybe Ellie was meant to help with that, not that she could have known. Meet a nice girl right here in town and bring my fancy San Francisco job to Tripp Lake. That's probably my parents' dream — they'd have easy access to me any time they liked — but it's sure as hell not my dream.

"Anyway," Tim says, "we really need to hit the ground running on this one. Those new regulations the city passed are going to go into effect next summer, and these guys are not going to be happy if they have to dance around that shit. Alex, I understand your situation is tough, but I need you on this ASAP."

"I understand," I say. "It won't be a problem."

Even as I speak, my stomach twists. It does every time, but it's easier to ignore in San Francisco. It's easier to ignore when I'm sealed off in a conference room in a skyscraper in a sprawling city full of tech companies. Everyone flings around empty promises about responsible and sustainable futures, but the truth is right here in the work that I do. This company, whichever of the big oil guys it is, they want me to comb through the law for loopholes. And then they want me to help them hammer a whole corporation through those loopholes. Sometimes it's being allowed to dump things in the ocean. Sometimes it's clearing old growth forests. Sometimes it's skimping on safety regulations. But it all amounts to the same thing: Some mega-rich corporation doesn't want to play by the rules, and they don't care what happens to people or the environment as a result.

And I help them get away with it.

The blood is on my hands.

I almost can't hear the rest of the meeting. My ears are ringing with accusations, my younger self asking me how I can possibly do something like this. I don't have any answers for him. I went to college for environmental science because I loved being outdoors and wanted to protect places that look like Tripp Lake. I might have hated the town, but that only made me love the wilderness more. Somewhere along the way that innocent desire turned into this. My parents, my peers, my professors — they kept telling me there was no future in the type of work I wanted to do. They kept telling me to "change the system from within." But once I was inside, all I found was more rot. If I propose anything like not skimping on environmental regulations, I'll either get laughed at or fired — or both.

So I sit through the meeting, nodding and smiling along as best I can, and when it's over I log off and open the Green account and start reading about the regulations they have no intention of following.

And then my mother yells for me.

I close my laptop with a sigh. I was about to take a break for lunch, but I know even before she sweeps into the kitchen that that's not happening.

"Your father is trying to mow the lawn," she says.

"Sounds like you should stop him."

Her glower deepens. "Alexander."

"I've been working all morning. I can do it later."

"He's in the garage. He's going to keel over in there."

"Then you should go stop him." My voice raises without me meaning to yell. Between her and the Green account, I'm at my limit.

"You know I can't do that," she yells right back.

I don't actually know she can't do that. I don't know that at all. Mowing the lawn is not rocket science. It's not some special skill you need to train for. Put on some damn headphones and get it over with.

That last bit is for me, because without further argument, I drag myself away from my laptop and head into the garage.

"I can do it," my father growls when I try to take the mower from him.

"Dad, come on. Mom sent me out here. You shouldn't be doing stuff like this. Please go back inside."

"I can't do nothing for the rest of my life," he says. "Don't act like you're my doctor."

I heave a sigh. It isn't until my mother appears and yells at the both of us that I am finally allowed to drag the mower outside and get to work. The grass isn't even all that long. Things grow quickly around here, especially this time of year, but I mowed the day I arrived exactly two weeks ago. The grass hasn't grown all that much in such a short time, and longer lawns are actually better for the environment, but telling my parents that will get me about as far as telling my co-workers.

I contemplate the blades as I slice them down, navigating around the trees in the yard. So much has happened since I last cut them. With Dad. With work. With Henry. Especially with Henry. I owe him a text. I actually stop mowing for a moment to set myself a reminder to reach out to him. It's probably pathetic being a grown man and putting "texting" on my calendar like it's an important meeting, but it is important. It's important to me. After how I left Henry's house the other day, I don't want him thinking I forgot about him. He's been the only bright spot in this trip, but there are so many not bright spots that sometimes I find myself too beaten down to reach out like I should.

I make it back inside with enough time to shower off the grass stains and get back to my computer. I still have half a workday to contend with. It's silly that I did it here in my parents' house instead of at the café with Henry, but I have meetings all day. That could have been a problem if the café was busy or had a class running or something. I wouldn't have known until it was too late.

Even so, I regret my choice the moment I'm back at the kitchen table. My father makes a show of banging around the kitchen to look for something, displaying his immense offense at me mowing the lawn. What was I supposed to do? If I didn't mow the lawn, Mom would have been all over me. I had no way of winning in that situation. And both of them are going to continue peppering me with awkward questions about where I was on Friday night the moment they get a chance.

I put my head down and focus on work instead. As disgusting as the Green account is, at least it's a distraction. I end up so deep in the weeds on regulation that I barely notice the time passing until my alarm goes off. I startle, then see the note on my phone: Text.

Right. Yes. That. I was going to do that. I hastily type out a text asking Henry how his day is going. That's friendly, right? It feels understated after what we've done the last couple times we've seen each other, but it's the best I have at the moment.

Sorry, Henry.

He deserves better than this. I've let myself get too caught up in him. That moment when we kissed at the top of a hike felt like the life I've always wanted. The forest, the sun, the peace. Him. Everything slid into place for a moment.

But when I return to San Francisco, that charmed life I'm living with him will shatter. Henry shouldn't have to put up with that. He shouldn't have to suffer because I don't know what I'm doing with my life.

"Hey, man, you alright?"

I blink and realize I zoned out during yet another meeting. My co-worker is squinting at me. It's just the two of us in this particular meeting. I'm supposed to be sharing what I've been digging up on these regulations, where we might find a gap for the oil company to ooze their way through, but I haven't been able to focus on that stuff.

"Sorry," I say. "I got a little distracted."

My co-worker, Brett, looks annoyed. "You look exhausted. You're supposed to be on vacation."

"What kind of vacation includes your ugly mug?" I shoot back.

Thankfully, Brett is happy to go with the usual shit talking, letting me off the hook for a real explanation. Most of us at the firm are like this. Happy to throw cutting jokes back and forth, but tight-lipped about anything real.

"It's like you're working two jobs," he says with a laugh.

He has no freaking idea.

I push the conversation toward the research I've been slacking off on, and fortunately it puts us back on course. Brett doesn't make any more jokes that hit a little too close to home, and I get through the meeting without incident. Getting through the rest of my week, and the rest of my stay in Tripp Lake, however, won't be so easy.

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