If so, I’m on solid ground. “Downloads and utilization rates are steady, even showing a small increase. We’ve released an initial update, making the questionnaire more user-friendly and adding in a few additional parameters. The coding team is also working on a way to add profile personalization, letting users . . . for lack of a better term . . . ‘decorate’ their profile to give a better sense of who they are to prospective matches. Virtual stickers, backgrounds, effects, and so on.”
Elisa’s chin rests on the back of one hand as she listens to me, her eyes ticking from me to the computer screen on her desk. I suspect she’s looking at either the spreadsheets of data or the actual BlindDate app. She hums thoughtfully.
“Is there something specific you want to know?” I ask, feeling like I’m missing something even though I answered her question efficiently.
“What have you learned during your time at Life Corp?” Elisa asks directly, her eyes suddenly locked on me, pinning me in place.
I swear my stomach drops through my ass, ruining her fancy chair.
Why does it sound as though this has become a dismissal interview moments before I’m escorted off the property? Are the numbers not what she’d hoped either? They’re not bad by any stretch, but ‘good enough’ never truly is enough. Not for me, and not for Elisa. Is that why River isn’t here? If it’s a numbers game, that rests solidly on my shoulders. We’ve always said River’s the idea man and I’m the implementation guy. I guess that’s coming back to haunt me.
I swallow thickly, thinking quickly about what I want to say. If this is going to be my last chance to work with Lady Elisa, I’m going to be honest and tell her everything.
“You’re a mentor to me. In the years that I’ve been at Life Corp, I’ve learned by watching how you do things—your driving force and how it determines your process, analysis, and action. More than once, I’ve overcome a problem or an obstacle simply by applying something I learned from you. Our conversations are nuggets of wisdom that I use every day to make myself a better executive for Life Corp.
“More recently, I’ve learned that it’s not about me and my goal to sit where you are. Or at least, not only about that,” I tell her quietly.
I’m not ashamed of the workaholic habits I’ve cultivated because they’ve gotten me to where I am and my family to where they are. But there’s more to life than I ever considered, and that’s important too, shaping how I work now and how I see myself working in the future.
“It’s about the people around me, about the workers who fill the desks on every floor. It’s about everyone from Steve the security guard to Gina and Tina. Because we all have worth, add value, and can offer important insights. We work together as a team to provide the best experience for our end-users, no matter the app.”
Elisa nods, a faint look of surprise on her face, though her brows don’t lift more than a centimeter. “Can I ask you a personal question, Noah?”
More personal than that? I’m pouring my heart out here!
I nod silently, giving the expected permission.
Elisa leans forward, interlacing her fingers on her desk to stare down her nose at me. “It sounds like that’s a new revelation for you . . . the people around you being important. Would you say that’s true?”
My reputation as a grumpy asshole has never been thrown in my face quite so succinctly.
“Unfortunately, yes. I have tended to keep a select few close—my family, mostly—and leave everyone else on the outside, but I’m growing to trust more.” My brow furrows as the thoughts come to me. “Or more like, I’m starting to see that everyone has important things going on that matter to them too. Growing up, I didn’t have the luxury of thinking of other people that way. It was all I could do to worry about my mom and sister, but now . . . we’re in a better place, I’m in a better place, and it’s time for me to take off those blinders. Does that make sense?”
As I speak, a memory floats through my mind . . .
It’s my birthday . . . one after Dad left but before Mom went back to school.
“Happy birthday, Noah,” Mom says, handing me a box. Arielle is playing at a friend’s house, and it’s just the two of us in our tiny kitchen for now. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here this morning when you got up so I could tell you then, but I had an early shift.”
“I understand, Mom,” I reply, taking the newspaper-wrapped box and looking down at it. It’s been eight months since Dad left, and while he sends a few bucks here and there, it’s never enough and things are rough. Mom’s been working extra shifts trying to cover the gaps while not letting the strain show as she tries to buy food, clothes, water, electricity, and all that.
Maybe Arielle doesn’t notice. But I do.
I’ve been trying to help where I can, being stingy with the peanut butter and jelly when I make lunch to make the jars last longer and skipping the milk in the store-brand macaroni and cheese that we have for dinner.
I take care of Arielle on Saturdays, watching cartoons quietly in the morning and going to the park in the afternoons so Mom can sleep.
And I haven’t told Mom that my tennis shoes are too small and my big toes are pressing against the end . . . again. I keep growing, sizing out of my clothes before they wear out. Unlike Mom’s jeans, which are getting white at the knees because she wears them to work and at home.
And now . . . I can feel the weight of the box, the heavy thump of what’s inside. She noticed. She knew anyway, even though I tried to hide it.
“Open it,” Mom says excitedly. She’s bouncing around with her hands fisted below her chin like a kid on Christmas who can’t wait to see what Santa brought. She’s happier about the gift than I am. Especially since my stomach is filled with stones.
I muster a smile and tear through the newspaper to find the shoe box I expected it to be. Opening the lid, I see a nice pair of black and white Nike sneakers. They’re not Jordans like the kids at school have, but I know these must’ve cost Mom her entire paycheck.
“Do you like them?” Mom squeals. “Try them on.”
I want to. Desperately.
But looking at the exhaustion at the corners of my mother’s eyes, I know that some prices are too high to pay.
“Mom, if you don’t mind, I had a different birthday wish,” I tell her, handing the box back. “Uhm, if the store would let you take those back, I saw a pair at Walmart with red laces that I love. Could we get those instead?”
Mom blinks, her smile falling, and I can see emotions in her eyes. Anger at her situation that she’s in, shame that she’s even considering my offer, and sadness that she’s failed at hiding her struggles from her son.
A little bit of my childhood dies in that instant, but at the same time, something else grows when I see something else in her eyes.
Pride in the man I’m becoming.
I haven’t been that little boy in a very long time. After that, Mom went to school, got a certificate, and we did better. I grew up, went to college, and became successful. But I never moved beyond the fear.
What if that became my life again?
What am I willing to do to prevent that?
How do I protect Mom and Arielle?