“X?”
I shake my head. “Yes?”
“You with me, babe? I asked you what you were expecting me to make a toast to.”
I blink. Breathe. Summon my wits. Smile up at you, feigning easy humor I don’t quite feel. “My dress?”
You laugh. “Ah. Your dress. Yes, well... that’s worth a toast too, I’d say.”
Your eyes are warm, friendly. I sometimes do not recognize you as the arrogant, idle, oafish brat you once were, only a few weeks ago. Even from the last time I saw you, you’ve gained bearing, confidence. You’ve found yourself, I think. I set you in motion, but you did the rest.
You lift your flute to mine. “To the sexiest dress in the room.”
I smile, toast, drink.
We are still only a few steps into the ballroom.
“Jonathan. Who is your ravishing guest?” An older man, silver hair with a bit of black at the temples. Your eyes, a different nose and chin. “Introduce me, son.”
“Dad... Jonathan Edward Cartwright the Second, I mean—may I introduce to you Madame X.”
In the confines of my home, where I conduct business, with the painting on the wall to lend credence, my name is apropos, a thing of mystery and power. Here... it just seems awkward.
I shove down all thoughts, summon my cloak of indifference, my armor of cool dignity. “Mr. Cartwright. Well met.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Madame X.” Your father’s eyes do not communicate pleasure, however. There is hostility. An air of ruthless calculation. “You’ve done a wonderful job with my son. I must admit, I was skeptical of the program, even though I signed him up for it. But you’ve done wonders. More than I expected, that’s for damn sure. “
You shift from foot to foot, uncomfortable. “Dad, I don’t think this is the time or place to—”
“Shut up, Jonathan—your betters are speaking.” Your father dismisses you, brusquely, casually, brutally.
You do your best not to flinch, but your expression, which perhaps only I can read so easily, communicates a deep, familiar pain. I see where you learned your mannerisms, and what long-ingrained habits you daily fight to become the man you are becoming.
I feel my claws extend. “I must agree with Jonathan, Mr. Cartwright. This is very much not the time or place to discuss such things. This is a social event, after all, and there are... shall I say... certain clauses dictating knowledge of who I am and what I do. Clauses that by their nature preclude open discussion in a public setting such as this.”
“I see. Well.” Eyes narrow in open hostility now. “I suppose I have you to thank for my son’s abrupt desire to strike out on his own?”
“You do.” I smile and keep my tone friendly, sugar sweet as I pour poison. “He was suffering. His natural talents and skills were being wasted.Youwere wasting your own son’s potential. Intentionally, it seems to me. Any chance at real happiness or success for your son was being throttled by your obvious disdain. I did not intentionally guide him away from you or your company, nor did I advise him on any business matters in any way. That’s not my job. My job was to show him how to be his own person, and that, now that I’ve met you, clearly meant helping him overcome the massive handicap of beingyourson. Jonathan will do amazing things, now that he’s out from under your thumb, Mr. Cartwright. Much to your loss, as well, I should think.”
You choke on champagne. “X, I see some friends of mine over there. Let’s go say hi, huh?”
I allow you to pull me away from your father, who is fuming, red in the face, forehead vein throbbing dangerously. Perhaps the senior Cartwright will suffer a heart attack. I find myself not entirely displeased by the prospect.
You haul me across the room toward a small knot of younger men, all about your age, each one with a woman clinging to a tuxedoed arm, glamorous-looking models dripping in diamonds, all shallow smiles and fake breasts. Before we reach the cluster of your friends, however, you pull me to the side, tothe bar along one wall. You order two beers, tossing back your champagne as you wait. I sip mine, and wait.
You have something to say, and so I allow you time to formulate your words. That you’re thinking before you speak is encouraging.
“No one has ever stood up for me before, X. No one. Not ever, not in anything. Andno onetalks to Dad that way.”
“About time, then.”
You muster a weak smile, then accept the glass of pilsner, downing half of it before turning back to me. “Yeah, I guess so. The point I’m trying to make here is... thanks. I’ve never mattered to that bastard. I never will.”
“You only have to matter to yourself.”
“Yeah, I get that. But I think it’s just basic human nature to want to matter to your own fucking father.”
“I suppose so,” I say. “But self-preservation is also an essential factor of human nature.”
