Page 107 of Down Bad

“Y-Yes, I know. And I’m truly sorry, Mr. Bellamy. I completely lost track of time this morning.”

He nods slowly, almost to himself. “Unsurprising, of course … Small business owner like you. Lots on your plate.”

There’s a tall floor-plant by his desk, and even it looks like it comes from a rich family of fern I’ve never had the joy of growing or preening. How dare I even dream to touch such a plant?

“Would you like something to drink?” he offers.

I shake my head too quickly. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“You seem parched. Lot of hard work, doing all this yourself, huh?” He takes a slurp of coffee. I suddenly despise the sound of all slurping. He cradles the cup between his long fingers and offers me a shrug. “Anyway, we’ve had a long, lovely relationship, your business and mine. Who am I to be a hard-ass on you for a little tardiness? No one’s perfect, right?”

I think it’s supposed to be a kindness, telling me that.

But all I hear is, despite my hard work, I’m not perfect.

I’m the flawed vendor he puts up with.

“I hope the terms of the contract we signed weren’t too lax.” He says it with a teasing tone, like setting up a punch line. “All the discounts you agreed to aren’t giving you an allowance to be late whenever you want, are they? Was there some fine print I missed in our agreement?” He laughs. “Kidding, kidding, of course.”

For some reason, I think about the night I was cutting thorns off of roses and Diego showed up and attacked me with his lips on my front porch.

I was cutting those roses for Mr. Bellamy.

Because last-minute, he changed his order. I accommodated.

It was just expected that I would. No discussion. No apology.

“I think you might be forgetting how many times I have made extra concessions for you, bent the rules of an agreement in your favor, added premium blooms at half the cost …”

The second all those words slip out, I wish I could shove them all right back into my mouth.

What am I thinking?

“I-I mean, of … of course you h-haven’t forgotten,” I quickly backpedal. “I just meant … I … I do … do a lot for you. And …”

Then I run out of words. And guts. And everything else.

Mr. Bellamy, unfazed, slowly sets down his coffee on the desk next to him. “I shouldn’t have made the joke,” he says. Then he faces me. “Of course, you’ve made many concessions. You change things last minute. So do I, for my clients. Brookfield clients, they expect a lot for their dollar. Every wedding reception I coordinate. Business luncheon. Prestigious awards ceremony … In my world, such concessions made for my clients are bare minimum. No one’s offering participation trophies when I stay up late coordinating a client’s last-minute need for a new DJ and fifty extra seats at their son’s going-away gala before he’s off to Harvard Law.” He leans forward. “Try to appreciate the invaluable business I give you. The world is cutthroat. Brighthouse is knocking on my door every day trying to push you out. I keep choosing you. Your parents knew it well when they were running things. It’s about time reality sets in, Mr. Callahan: I may be the best client your business ever sees.”

How men like him deliver daggers so politely.

Dig into my soul with a well-meaning smile.

Carve me up and deliver me on a plate.

“Y-You’re right,” I state, choked. “Thank you.”

And now I’m thanking him.

I’m thanking the bastard.

He smiles back. “Now how about let’s discuss next weekend’s order before you go? Saves me a trip to Spruce, and it’s about lunch time, so I can treat you to some quality office catering—on the house, of course—as a courtesy to express to you how much I value our relationship.”

I swallow my pride and shake his hand.

I’m swallowing my pride for the whole next hour.

And when it’s all over with, I cannot get out of that building fast enough. After loading the empty boxes back into my car, I’m setting the freeway behind me on fire as I drive off.