Page 15 of The False Flat

That little black box grew until I was shoved up against the wall, trying to breathe against its boxiness. What kinds of questions are on those cards? I tried to force these three people back into their crisp number shapes, but they wouldn’t go. I’d cope by leaving. This was too much.

“I’ve played before.” Grant’s voice held tenderness; his eyes searched mine. “It’s a conversation starter. Not a big deal. Deanna, hurry up and read one so we can show her they’re harmless.”

My face must’ve given me away, or maybe I was sweating worse than I realized. Damn. I felt it now, the sweat collecting on my scalp, ruining the hard work of my flat iron.

“‘What’s one dream you have but haven’t acted on yet?’” Deanna read.

Was she asking me? Because I could answer that one: Getting out of this house.

“I’ll go first,” Deanna said. “I want to own a bed and breakfast.”

“You’re serious, D? You never—” William started.

“A restaurant?” Grant interrupted. “Your own business? A restaurant is a lot of work. It’s a time suck. You’ll work your life away.”

Deanna had told me this at the store, but she hadn’t told her family. I’d known something they didn’t.

“So what, if it’s her dream? Maybe she wants to put the work in.” I wasn’t sure where the words or the near-hostility behind them had come from, and I paused to make sure I was actually the one who’d said them.

Deanna waved her hands in front of her face. “Maybe.” Her inhale was long and deep. “Now that it’s out there . . . yeah, I’m thinking about it, having a space, a venue, a small restaurant. I think I’d love it. That’s one of the reasons I was drawn to Pen. She’s going for it. It’s inspiring.” Her smile was weak, like she’d been afraid to bring this up until now, when I was here. Her admiration was so unexpected. That someone so put together could be inspired by someone like me, it made me feel—valuable.

“You’re good enough for sure,” Grant continued, glossing over most of what Deanna had said, “but I want you to think this through. Life is more than work. I don’t want you to turn into one of those people who—”

“One of those people?” I asked, too loud and too abrupt, his words rubbing my skin the wrong way. I forgot about leaving. “Some of those people have ambitions, goals. They’re motivated. What’s wrong with that?”

They all turned toward me. I was overreacting, stepping in where I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t stop. Anger seemed to be holding back the tears I’d been keeping at bay all evening.

“There’s nothing wrong with being motivated,” Grant replied slowly, as if approaching a bomb he had to talk out of detonating. “I value the trait. I know my sister, and I know what it takes to own a restaurant, which is what a bed and breakfast would turn into. It’s hard work. She’s a hardworking woman already, but she values family and free time, and it’s hard to do both. I’m not sure she’d be happy with the increased workload.”

Deanna opened her mouth to say something, but my mouth was going again before she spoke. “So you think someone who works hard to get to the top professionally couldn’t possibly value anything else?” I was shaking. He was essentially telling me I was a fool for trying to start my own business, but I’d avoided the topic through dinner because I didn’t want to talk about it. The whole issue was still raw, a walk out onto a limb that might not be strong enough to hold my weight.

Let’s go, Grant. I can take you and your chauvinistic mustache.

“No. I’m saying I think this is something my sister should think about.”

Deanna put her arms up. “Whoa. I appreciate you both trying to figure my life out for me, but this is just an idea.”

A curious expression curled under Grant’s mustache. “Do you love your job, Penelope?”

The question caught me off guard. I was worked up, hackles raised, ready for a fight, and it irritated me that this silly man with his ridiculous mustache remained calm and in control.

“I like my job.” My job was what I had, what I was good at, what I’d been doing my whole life. Those numbers had always been there when no one else was. Work was my whole life; of course I liked it.

“But you don’t love it? Does it make you happy?”

“Grant,” Deanna said. “Leave her alone, and stop being intense. Not everyone has your same life philosophy. People love and want different things, and that’s okay.”

“I’m just asking. And sure, differences should be celebrated. But if something doesn’t make you happy, well, you should question why you’re still doing it.”

Who is this guy? I started to ask him if he loved his job, but he’d already talked about the buildings he’d designed like other people did their children. For him, each room in a house had its own personality like each member of a family. Blah. Blah. Blah.

“There’s so much that goes into them,” he’d said during dinner. “Including pieces of myself. Intellectually and spiritually fulfilling.”

Suddenly I hated this evening, this man, and this game.

“People are different,” I huffed. “And you’d be well served not to be so judgmental and controlling. What if your sister were a man? I bet you’d slap him on the back and break out the damn cigars. If your sister wants to start her own business, then you should support her for her bravery.” I turned to Deanna. “I bet your bed and breakfast would be awesome, Deanna.”

Grant’s eyebrows went up as his jaw went slack. For three solid seconds, the only sound in the room came from eyelids opening and closing. The two, the nine, and the four (he was definitely a four again) merged into one big fifteen and then broke into their respective figures at the sound of clapping. It was William.