Still not looking at me, he slowly nods.
In all the years I’ve worked for Ford Chance, not once have I ever seen him like this, so . . . dejected. There isn’t an ounce of his usual charismatic confidence, and it’s incredibly concerning. He’s a rock, someone I can lean on, and right now, he seems to be missing the strength that makes him the amazing man he is.
“Where is this coming from?”
His jaw tics with tension as he studies the fire in front of us. I’m afraid he’s not going to answer and I’m going to have to pressure him, but finally, “My siblings hate me.”
“What? No, why would you—”
“They practically told me they hate me.” He sets the poker down. “They told me I’m a shitty brother, that I don’t understand them, I don’t listen. That I’m a workaholic, that I only scratch the surface when it comes to them, that I really don’t care about them . . .”
“They said all of that?” I ask, completely shocked.
“Yes.” He leans back in his chair. “I’ve only wanted to protect them.” He smooths his hand over his eyes, and my heart lurches in my chest. I could not imagine what that kind of confessional blame would feel like. If Beau said those things to me, the hurt would bring me to my knees.
“Ford, you do protect them.”
He shakes his head. “I isolate them. I suppress them.”
“You don’t suppress them. Their accomplishments and successes aren’t on you; that is not your responsibility.”
“And they’re right, I don’t think I even know them, but even worse . . .” He looks at me. “I don’t think I know myself or this company.”
Oh man, they really did a number on him. Sure, he might have issues with his siblings, and yes, he seems quite lost at the moment, not just with his brother and sister but with the company, with himself. For the past month I’ve felt that he’s been withdrawn, confused at times, second-guessing himself, and I’m not sure if it’s from the impending reunion with his family or if he’s been stressed with the party, but I can’t stand by and listen to him talk about himself in such a negative way, not when he’s one of the best men I’ve ever known.
He’s thoughtful, intense, driven, but so caring, especially with me. He watches out for me, helps me, guides me, makes me feel like I’m important.
I need to do the same for him.
“Ford, if anyone knows this company, it’s you. You live and breathe it.”
He shakes his head. “I know the business side of it. I know the accounting, the numbers, the logistics. But when it comes to the heart of the company, the heart of myself, the heart of my family, I’m disconnected. Hell, I can’t even come up with a new logo for a company I’ve known my entire life.”
I sit back and try to understand where he’s coming from.
He’s clearly had a rough day. Having the truth, even if it’s a semitruth, thrown at you, is tough to swallow. And I have a feeling this is going to haunt him. It’s going to throw him off, and he’s not going to accomplish everything he wants to accomplish while we’re here, especially the store branding.
But the fact that he doesn’t think he knows himself or the store—or his siblings, for that matter—makes me feel sad for him. That sense of disconnect can’t possibly settle well, especially not with Ford.
That needs to change. Right now, Ford needs to be reminded of the kind of person he is, and I very well might be the one to do that.
“Then let’s find out who you are,” I say.
He glances up from the fire. “What?”
I put on a smile. “Let’s find out who you are. If you think you don’t know yourself, you don’t know the company, what better place to look for yourself than the very place you grew up, where Watchful Wanderers originated? And while we do that, we can connect on another level with the company. Who knows, maybe it will spark an idea for the rebrand.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” he asks, his voice flat.
“I think it’s time we get earthy, Ford.”
“Earthy?” He raises a brow, and I hold my breath, hoping he might be coming back to me.
“Yeah, earthy. When was the last time you went into one of the stores and just . . . bought things to play with?”
He scratches the side of his cheek. “Probably never.”
“Never?” I ask, shocked.
“Yeah, never.”
“Well, that needs to change.” I glance around his hotel room and spot a pad of paper and pen. I quickly grab it and then sit back down. Pen poised, I say, “Okay, what should we do?”
He sits up. “Uh, what do you mean?”
“We need to make a bucket list.”
“A bucket list? How is that going to help?” He shifts up and turns toward me.
It’s working: he’s starting to come out of his funk—slowly, but he’s coming out of it.
“Well, if we make a bucket list of things to do, maybe along the way you’ll not only start to find yourself, but you’ll also start to understand the company on another level, the ground level, the customer level. And from there . . . maybe the perfect rebranding will come to you.”
He scratches the side of his jaw as he contemplates my idea. “What would this list entail?”
“Why, all the things you haven’t done, of course.” I smile. “And don’t worry, I’ll be right by your side to capture it all in my permanent memory bank, so whenever you need to be brought down a level, I can remind you of the time you went fly-fishing and ended up catching your own crotch.”
That grants me a smile.
He lifts his chin. “I have more finesse than that.”
“How would I know? I only know you in a suit and tie behind a desk. It’s time to get down with nature, Ford Chance.”
“Earthy.”
I nod. “Yes, earthy.”
He stands from his seat and starts to pace. Yup, this is exactly what he needed. Pleased with myself, I watch his wonderful mind start to churn with ideas. “Maybe we go to the store and walk down each aisle to assess what we think I should do.”
“That could work. We could also make a short list right now and add things to it when we’re at the store. But at least you would have a starting point, so you’re not overwhelmed.”
“That’s a good idea.” He continues to pace. “But we do need to make time for me to clean out my room at my parents’ house.”
“Clean it out?” I ask, an idea coming to mind. “That’s perfect.”
“What’s perfect?” he asks, his brow pinched.
“That’s exactly where we’ll start: in your childhood room. What better way to find yourself than to revisit your childhood. We can create the bucket list and then move forward from there.”
“Yeah, I guess that might be a good place to start.” He looks at me. “But there’s no way you’re helping with that.”
I stand from my chair. “Oh, I’m helping you clean out your childhood room. That would be an absolute dream come true.” I rub my hands together. “I can only imagine the little golden nuggets of blackmail I’ll find. Maybe old letters to childhood girlfriends. Maybe an embarrassing photo or two. Maybe a collection of stamps or coins, or something you never told anyone about but you cherish. I need to see all of these things.”