I Regret Everything Read Online Free Page B

He’d say something that could be misconstrued, then I’d respond in some slightly defensive way at which point the exchange usually ended, unless he had swallowed a couple of Scotch and sodas. Then Edward P became pretty voluble, although, to be clear, he stopped after two and, unlike my mother, never threw a single knife at anyone. He worked like a coal stoker in a Dickens novel, played indoor tennis in the winter, sailed in the summer, and seemed devoted to my two half-brothers who were twelve and ten, probably to make up for not being around much when Gully and I were kids. He was carrying a few extra pounds and when I thought about how being a lawyer stressed him out it was hard not to be concerned. When my parents broke up I spent every other weekend with him and one month every summer. At least that was how it worked before I was sent away to school. Now that I was technically an adult, all bets were off.
    â€”So, Dad, I had this idea. You know your ex-wife’s cats?
    â€”Sure, he said, rolling his eyes.
    â€”I can’t live in that zoo anymore. Would it be okay if I moved in with you guys? It would only be until school starts in the fall.
    â€”You can’t make it through the summer?
    â€”Dad, I said. My sinuses.
    â€”Duly noted, he said.
    â€”I’m going to die.
    I realized maybe this was a little tone-deaf considering what I had put him through this past winter.
    â€”What are you doing this summer? he asked, not bothering to answer the question about moving in with family number two.
    â€”Not a lot, I said. I enrolled in a creative writing workshop at Barnard summer school.
    â€”You need to get a job, or an internship sort of thing. You need a plan, Spaulding. A goal. We’ve discussed this.
    â€”I want to be a writer.
    â€”Look, kiddo, any kind of career in the arts is a long shot. There’s a lot of rejection and a person needs to have a thick hide. You have so many great qualities but a thick hide?
    â€”I’m nineteen years old. Don’t crush my dreams.
    â€”In the event you can’t find anything you can intern here at the firm a few days a week, get a feel for the place. You have a good brain, Spall. You’d probably make a fine attorney.
    â€”I’d rather be a lighthouse keeper.
    â€”Then do something you like.
    â€”Are there any jobs where I can read all day?
    â€”If you don’t find one you can run the copy machine here.
    â€”Seriously?
    â€”Do I look like I’m kidding?
    â€”What about moving in with you guys? I promise to keep taking my meds.
    The rain had started up again, splashing against the windows. I gazed around the quiet order of my father’s office, the well-lit paintings of sailboats, the clean desk of a tidy mind.
    â€”Let me talk to Katrina.
    Hurricane Katrina, the wife. I knew that’s what he’d tell me. My father and I were like two bad musicians trying to find the beat. Someone was always a little ahead or behind.
    â€”You’re welcome to stay here until the rain stops.
    Several of his colleagues were waiting for him in the conference room and he excused himself. After he left, I put my feet up on the couch. Because of my shyness, often mistaken for snobbery, meeting anyone I wanted to talk to was hard. My parents did not have writers as friends so I never encountered any. And it would have been challenging to have sought them out since my school was in Montagnola near the Swiss-Italian border, not great if you wanted to expand your horizons although lovely if you were a sheep. If you’re wondering what drove me to stand in Mr. Best’s doorway, there you are.
    What did Mr. Best make of me when I appeared, when I entered the room, when I posed on his office couch? Could he tell how horribly self-conscious I was? Such a crippling case of nerves it felt like kernels of corn popping in my stomach. When I met someone new, I felt like a marionette and instead of being in the conversation