LUKE
When my alarm goes off on Sunday morning at nine thirty, I throw my legs over the side of the bed, and force myself to wake up. I had another long shift at the club last night, followed by a long bus ride home. But now I need to look sharp and charm Mr. Keaton Hayworth Jr. into giving me enough detail about his capital structure to write a paper.
My problem can’t possibly be this easy to solve, could it? I don’t trust it.
I drag myself into the shower and then shave carefully. My eyes look bloodshot from lack of sleep, but there’s nothing I can do about that. In my room, I stare into my closet. Next year I have to interview for jobs. I’m going to have to buy at least two suits, some nicer shirts, and shoes.
So just add that to the lengthy list of things I’ll need to save up for.
Now, though, I put on my best oxford shirt and my only pair of khaki pants. Then I study myself in the mirror.
The dude staring back at me looks presentable. There’s nothing about my reflection that says: stripper with a fucked-up family, from the wrong part of town. Although nobody would mistake me for Keaton or one of his rich friends. Someday they will, though. I won’t stop until I have everything I want.
And wherever that is, it won’t be anywhere near Darby, Connecticut. I can’t wait to leave this place behind.
I’m ready to go by the time I hear Keaton step into the shower. I wait at my desk, reading everything I can find about convertible stock and about Hayworth Harper Pharmaceuticals.
“Knock knock,” the company’s young heir says from my doorway. “I was gonna ask if you were ready, but I can see that you are.”
“Yep.” I grab a notebook off my desk. “Let’s do this. You really think he’ll answer my questions?”
“Sure he will. Talking about himself and his business is Dad’s favorite thing in the world.”
I grab a jacket and follow him downstairs. The house is quiet, because most everyone sleeps late on Sundays. We climb into Keaton’s BMW for the second time in two days. And both times I’ve managed not to comment on his choice of vehicle.
Go me.
“So,” I say as we roll toward the waterfront, where all the expensive restaurants in the county are. My credit card will hate me for this. “What is my role here, besides interviewing your dad?”
“Ah,” Keaton says. “Your role is to be someone he doesn’t know well enough to criticize me in front of. That’s all you have to do. Oh, and run up his credit card.”
“I can’t let him pay,” I say. “Not if he’s doing me a favor.”
“Pfft,” Keaton says. “Of course you can. That’s what parents are for.”
“Really? I wouldn’t know.” I regret the comment as soon as it leaves my mouth.
Keaton turns to me immediately with an apologetic glance. “Shit, I’m sorry. That’s what parents should be for, anyway.”
A wave of embarrassment washes over me. I can’t believe Keaton witnessed the shit show that is my family yesterday. “Moving on.”
“It’s just up ahead,” he says. “And we’re on time, for once. Dad will be astonished.”
“You’re usually late?”
“Annika,” he mutters, and then sighs.
“Still feel bad about that?” I’m genuinely curious. I mean, he didn’t seem all that broken up about her on Friday night…
“Kind of,” he grumbles. “We spent a lot of time together. It will take a while to get used to not having her around. And Dad will be bummed.” He shakes his head. “He loves Annika. And he’ll ask me what the hell I did wrong.”
And sure enough, the first thing Keaton’s dad says as the host of this slightly fusty wood-paneled restaurant leads us to his table is, “Keaton! And Luke? Great to see you both. But where is Annika?”
Keaton waits until I’ve shaken hands with his dad and we’re both seated and holding oversized menus printed on parchment. Then he says, “About Annika. She dumped me.”
His dad sits back in his chair suddenly, like a man slapped. As if he’s astonished that a woman would ever reject a Hayworth man. “What ever for?”
“No particular reason,” Keaton says carefully. “She just wants to widen her horizons. Or something.” He tugs at his shirt collar, looking uncomfortable.
“What’s good here?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Everything,” Mr. Hayworth says. “When I’m really hungry, I go for the steak and eggs. The quiche is also excellent.”
The waiter pours coffee all around. Mr. Hayworth orders a mimosa, but I ask for plain orange juice.
“I’ll have the pancakes and bacon,” Keaton says.
“I’d love the eggs Benedict,” I say, passing over my menu.
Mr. Hayworth laughs, and I have no idea why. “That’s what Annika gets,” he says.
My gaze collides with Keaton’s, and then we both look away quickly.
“I’ll have the quiche Lorraine,” Mr. Hayworth says, noticing nothing.
But I still feel a frisson of discomfort. If it weren’t for this interview I so desperately need to ace, I would never have come. My sex life until now has been set up to avoid meeting the parents of the people I’m screwing. And it’s not like I’d start now.
Here we are, though. I feel like a fraud, as usual. I’m playing the role of someone who fits in at Darby College. I’ll keep playing it until someday, hopefully before I die, it feels like I really do belong.
“What’s your major, son?” Mr. Hayworth asks.
“Business, with a finance concentration, sir.” I break a roll in half, and move a pat of butter from the butter dish to my bread plate on the left. These are things I learned three years ago on YouTube when I was trying to get a waiter’s job in a decent restaurant. But they’re things that Keaton was taught from birth.
“I’ve set up a finance internship for Keaton over the summer,” he says. “But it would be great if he could take finance courses next year, too.”
“Wow, sounds like a great summer opportunity.”
I glance up at Keaton, who suddenly gives a lot of attention to buttering his roll. And didn’t he tell me he was applying to some kind of research internship for the summer?
Hmm. If his father doesn’t know that, I’m not going to be the one to break the news. At least now I know Keaton wasn’t fibbing when he said he disliked brunches with his dad.
I clear my throat. “I was really hoping you could tell me about that convertible bonds deal you just did. Specifically, why convertibles?”
“Ah, of course!” Mr. Hayworth says. He’s actually beaming. As if I was asking about his favorite child. And maybe I am. “Pharmaceutical companies love convertibles. The debt comes at a reasonable interest rate, because the buyers are hoping our development products will get FDA approval, which will lead to an equity upside.”
I flip open my notebook and click my pen. “How reasonable is the interest rate?”
“Well, if you take a look at LIBOR spreads in the pharmaceutical industry…”
I start scribbling. And I write down everything he says.
