The Fixes (3 page)
Authors: Owen Matthews
Eric stuffs the plaque in his Herschel bag. He's twenty minutes late nowâand counting.
“So when do you want to do this?” Jordan says.
Eric pauses at the office door. Half wishes he could stay here, hang out with Jordan Grant the rest of the afternoon.
But Eric keeps his poker face. He has places to be. “I dunno, tomorrow night?”
Jordan shakes his head. “Callum Fulchrest's party, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Right. Of course.”
(Eric remembers. Eric got the blast online, just like everyone else. But Eric doesn't really, you know, go to parties. It doesn't fit with his dad's Plan.)
(The Plan apparently includes sending his son through life with a serious case of FOMO.)
“I'll just message you,” Jordan says. “We'll figure it out.”
“Cool,” Eric says.
“I have to go now,” Eric says.
And he walks casually, exactly five paces away from the office door, before he breaks into a full-on sprint.
Eric speeds the G-Wagen across town to Hockley, Hart, and Brentâ
(his dad's old law firm).
On the way there, he berates himself for being so freaking lame. For wasting his time.
How are you going to tutor Jordan Grant when you don't even have time for your internship?
It's a fact. Ericâ
(and his dad)
                             Â
âhave the summer all figured out. Internship Monday through Friday, eight hours a day. On the evenings and weekends, there's college prep to be done. Picking courses. Finding a dorm room. Researching professors.
(“And if you have any time left over,” Eric's dad tells him, “you can get an early start on next semester's required reading.”)
(Yawn.)
It's not the greatest summer in the world. But this is the kind of work you have to put in when you're building your future, right? This is how a Connelly Man lives his life.
Eric has lived nearly eighteen years preparing for life as a Connelly Man. There are certain things a Connelly Man is expected to do:
          Â
1.
   Â
A Connelly Man goes to law school. (Preferably Stanford.)
          Â
2.
   Â
A Connelly Man practices law for a Reputable Number of Years, and then
          Â
3.
   Â
A Connelly Man enters politics.
These are all Very Important Steps.
This is the code Eric lives by.
This is the Plan.
There's one other fundamental tenet to fulfilling your destiny as a Connelly Man. It's arguably the Most Important Tenet. It must NEVER BE BROKEN.
(Are you ready?)
          Â
4.
   Â
A Connelly Man must never,
ever
, under
any circumstances
, TARNISH THE CONNELLY NAME.
Eric's grandfather went to Stanford. He came back to Capilano and built a career in litigation before running for mayor of the town, and winning.
(So he literally ran the town.)
1
Eric's dad went to Stanford. He came back to Capilano and built a career in corporate law before running for the state senate, and winning.
(Eric's dad runs the state.)
Eric will go to Stanford. He will come back to Capilano. He will build a successful law career, and then he'll enter politics. Preferably federal politics.
(“A Connelly in the White House,” Eric's dad likes to say.)
So, you know. No pressure.
(One more aside on the whole “Connelly Man” thing:
   Connelly Men are expected to get married.
    Connelly Men are expected to have families.
      Connelly Men
do not
hook up with guys.
Ever.)
(No Connelly Man ever met Jordan Grant, though.)
I mean, it's not like Eric's dad is, you know, overtly
homophobic
or anything. He doesn't explicitly hate the gays.
He just prefers to tolerate them from a distance. Stays out of their business, if they'll stay out of his. They don't jive with Eric's dad's worldview.
They sure as hell don't jive with his image of the Connelly Man.
And that's why this whole Jordan Grant thing is going to be problematic.
That night, at the Home of the Connelly Menâ
(and women, but there's no glorifying mythology about them)
âEric and his parents are eating dinner.
“First day at the firm,” Eric's dad says. “Did you make the family proud?”
Eric shrugs. “I mean, I think it went okay.”
(In fact, it was kind of boring. Ann, Eric's dad's old assistant, pretty well locked him in the room with a bunch of old files and told him to enter the pertinent details into a computer. There are boxes and boxes of files to be entered. It's going to be a long, tedious summer.)
“Ann said you were late this morning. What happened?”
Eric mutters a silent curse. Pastes his best smile on his face. “I had to pick up my plaque from the school.”
The plaque is resting on the china cabinet, waiting for his dad to notice. “See? Now the name's right and everything.”
“That's great, honey,” Eric's mom says. “We're both so proud of you.”
But the attempted distraction doesn't work. Eric's dad looks the plaque over. Frowns and sets it aside.
“Late for your first day at a job?” he says. “It sends the wrong message. It's careless and unprofessional.”
Eric looks down at his salmon. “I'll be on time tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow's not your first day.”
“I'm sorry,” Eric tells him. “I'll be better. I promise.”
“Your grandfather and I have worked hard to build the Connelly name, Eric. I know you'll do us proud.”
Eric finishes the salmon as quickly as he can. Excuses himself, goes downstairs to his bedroom.
(Brings the plaque with him.)
(Debates throwing the plaque through a window.)
(But he doesn't, of course.)
Eric doesn't do anything but feel guilty.
(As usual.)
I mean, Eric knows his dad's right.
Eric knows if he doesn't bust his ass, he won't LIVE UP TO HIS POTENTIAL.
He won't MEET EXPECTATIONS.
He'll fail.
“Not everyone's cut out to be a Connelly,” his dad's always saying. “But the world needs ditch diggers, too.”
Eric knows he has to show up on time. He knows he has to make a good impression. He's depending on a good letter of reference from Ann to impress the Stanford Law admissions committee, three or four years down the road.
Eric knows.
Eric takes it seriously.
Eric does NOT want to be a ditch digger.
It's justâ
damn it,
sometimes being a Connelly Man is just
really
freaking
HARD.
Whatever. Eric gets over it.
He forces himself to focus on the future, the long-term gain for this short-term pain. He shows up to the law firm on time. He inputs the pertinent details like a good worker bee. He smiles and makes conversation with Ann when she checks in on him. He meets expectations.
(It's not fun, but it's progress.)
Friday passes. Eric goes home, goes online, settles in to spend the evening choosing his courses for first semester at college. Picking out his electives. Working out a schedule.
Then his phone buzzes. A message on Kikâ
(The user name says ThaINfamous, but Eric knows it's Jordan Grant.)
Callum Fulchrest's party tonight. U going?
Eric hesitates.
Nah.
Why not? Friday night. Everyone will be there.
(
Not me
, Eric thinks.)
Stuff to do,
Eric writes back.
Have to pick my courses for college. Make a schedule.
College is in, like, September
, Jordan writes.
There's a pause.
Then:
I really think you should come.
So Eric sneaks out.
(Duh.)
It's not the first time he's done it. Besides, it's the first week of summer, and his dad's out of town on some fact-finding mission somewhere. Eric has tons of time to make a schedule later.
He borrows his mom's G-Wagen and drives to Callum Fulchrest's house.
This is wrong, obviously. This is not the way a Connelly Man behaves. Connelly Men don't go to house parties. Too much illicit shit going on and too many smartphones. Eric knows his dad would be furious.
Still, Eric isn't sure if his heart is beating so hard because he's NOT LIVING UP TO HIS POTENTIAL, or because he's sneaking out to see Jordan.
The party is off the chain.
It's like every party you've ever been toâexcept in a bigger house and the people are way better-looking.
Callum Fulchrest lives in a big estate on Marine Drive, the road that winds through the forest and hugs the shoreline west of Capilano. Callum's dad only runs, like, a mining company or something, so his house is on the north side of the street, away from the water. But it's still huge. There's a gate. There are trees. Someone has to buzz you in and then you have to drive up a long driveway just to get to the mansion.
Eric parks the G-Wagen between a couple of Range Rovers. Fixes his hair in the rearview mirror, checks his breath. Stalls a little bit, exhales. Then he climbs from the Benz and walks through Callum's front door.
There are kids everywhere, some Eric recognizes and some that he doesn't. They're dancing in the living room. Making out on the massive curving front staircase. Playing beer pong on Callum's family's antique French Revolutionâera dining room table. Somewhere, someone's bumping A$AP Rocky at a high volume through artfully concealed wireless speakers.
(There's no sign of Jordan Grant anywhere.)
Someone thrusts a drink into Eric's hand. A red Solo cup. A clear liquid. “I'm good,” Eric tells him. “I drove and all.”
The kid takes the cup back. “Suit yourself,” he says,
disappearing into the mix.
“Fag.”
Eric flinches.
(#WordsHurt.)
“Fuck it, one drink,” he starts to tell the kid, but he's talking to air.
Everyone's drinking from a red Solo cup.
Maybe just one drink
, Eric's thinking.
Maybe I'll just make it light
.
(You can probably guess how underage drinking fits into the Connelly Man, you know,
ethos
. Or doesn't fit, as the case may be.)
Eric asks the closest person where she got her drink. She stops dancing and looks at him. “The keg's in the garage,” she says. “Hard liquor in the kitchen.”
“What about the cups?” Eric says.
The girl looks at him like he's a monkey.
“I'll just go to the kitchen,” Eric says.
He does.
He walks into the kitchen. It's jammed with Capilano kids in various states of inebriation. And smack in the middle, holding court like he really
is
the king, stands Jordan
motherfucking
Grant.
Jordan looks good. He's wearing jeans and a fitted linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his forearms. He's holding a red cup and a forty of Fireball. He's pouring shots for a group of Cap High
elite
.
There's Callum Fulchrest. There's Terry Miles. Lexi Tanner. Tristan West.
The A-list.
The beautiful people.
(Only Jordan's miles above them, and everybody knows it.)
They're all circled around Jordan, laughing and having fun, lookingâevery one of themâlike they've never
stressed
about anything for a minute in their lives.
(And let's be honest, they haven't.)
Eric knows he's staring. Knows he probably looks creepy. Can't turn away, though. He's realizing, for the first time in a long time, just how much
fun
he's been missing. He's feeling just a little twinge of maybe, you know,
envy
.
Eric pushes the little twinge from his mind.
It's all worth the sacrifice,
he tells himself.
Someday you'll be a big, important politician and you won't regret missing out on this stuff at all.
He's not sure if he believes it, though. Especially not when Jordan looks up from the row of shot glasses and catches Eric staring.
“Connelly with two
n
's,” he says, breaking into that movie-star grin again.
“Come do a shot.”
Eric blanches. Eric feels the room looking at him.
(Eric hears the kid with the red Solo cup calling him
fag
.)
“Okay,” he says, walking over to the group. “Just one, though, then I'm done.”
Exceptâ
Shots are like potato chips.
(Bet you can't drink just one.)
“Don't fucking worry about it, Connelly. You can just crash on the couch.”
Callum Fulchrest has his arm around Eric now. With his free hand, he's shoving another shot into Eric's hands. Eric's trying to argue, trying to tell Callum how he drove here, how his mom will be pissed if he doesn't bring the Benz back.
Callum isn't taking no for an answer. “Your mom will get over it,” he's telling Eric. “Quit being such a baby.”
Eric looks at the shot. Looks around at the group. Jordan's watching him. Jordan has crazy blue eyes. Jordan's smiling at him with those perfect white teeth like,
Come on
,
what are you waiting for?
Shit.
“I'll just wake up early,” Eric says. “I'll bring the car back tomorrow.”
Callum slaps him hard on the back. “That's what I'm talking about,” he says, thrusting the shot glass at Eric again.
“Down the hatch.”
