“I’m an atheist, so I don’t pray,” Steven said, peeling out and cutting off a taxi, then nervously slamming on the brakes so that the taxi almost rear-ended him. “But it is fascinating how, historically, people have resorted to prayer as a way to feel in control of a completely chaotic universe.”
“Oh...well, I just meant—”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bore. I recently wrote a book on early Jainism but you probably wouldn’t find it very interesting. So who’s your funding coming from? Google? It seems like they’re buying up everything.”
“No, actually—”
“Apple?”
“No, um...it’s a VC firm called BluCapital.”
“Like Blu-ray? I’ve heard of Blu-ray.”
“No, it’s...it’s something else. I don’t want to jinx it anyway.” Emily could tell David wanted the topic to end. Whenever they traveled back East, people Steven’s age were always ravenously interested in his work for a start-up. Half of David’s stepmother’s friends thought he worked for Amazon, and the only reason he didn’t correct them was that he didn’t feel like explaining what he actually did.
“So what happens when you do the IPO?”
David fiddled with the zipper on his backpack. “We’ll hopefully make some money.”
“I’m sorry, but what is your company called again?”
“Zoogli.”
“Right, right. And what does Zoolie do again?”
“Zoogli, and we—well, we are the liaison between mobile tracking SDKs and the mobile app developers. We help to aggregate spend in a way that is more accessible for the developer. Our slogan is, So easy, even a marketer can get it.”
“Oh, so you make apps? I have this flashlight app on my phone, it’s outstanding.”
“Oh, no, we don’t make apps.”
“So you...how would you say it...promote the apps?”
“No, not exactly.” David cleared his throat. “We are the liaison between the people who make the apps, and the people who track how many installs the apps get when the apps are being promoted.”
“But you don’t promote the apps?”
“No, we don’t.”
“Oh, so you’re the guys who...track the installs the app gets when the app is being promoted?”
“No, we’re the liaison between them and the app developers.”
“Oh, okay. Well, hopefully, the IPO will happen soon.” He looked back at Emily in the rearview mirror. “Em, what are you wearing?”
“Oh, they’re just compression socks because of the flight. I don’t want to get blood clots.” She took off her sweatpants and compression hose. She had unflattering red marks around her knees. “Are Lauren and Jason at the house?”
“Yes. You know, sweetie, it would really be nice if your boss were a little more understanding about the time you need to plan a wedding out here. Your mother had to do most of it herself and she’s driving herself crazy with it. How is it that Lauren and Jason had no trouble getting a week off for your wedding, and you practically had to beg for it?”
Emily took several deep breaths, as one therapist suggested she do when she felt filled with rage. “Well, Dad, Jason is the pretend CEO of a company that doesn’t exist and Lauren is a writer for a magazine that barely exists. You’d be surprised at how lenient bosses are with vacation days when your job isn’t real.”
“Jason and Lauren are taking risks. You aren’t happy where you are—why not do something of your own? Your mother keeps saying you’re wasting your creativity over at TearDrop.”
“ClearDrop. And I’m not meant to create my own company. Why does everyone in the world think they’re equipped to start a company? I like my job security. The work’s boring, but I get to do my own fun stuff on weekends. David and I just want to make enough money to live comfortably, and enjoy our life together.” She looked at David, who nodded in solidarity. Every time she mentioned her future with David, she felt the urge to make sure he was on the same page. Even though they were getting married in a week, she still worried about the age-old problem of “What are we?” Sometimes she worried that if she referred to him as her fiancé, he would say, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, I didn’t realize we were doing labels.” There was no legitimate reason to worry about this, but there was no legitimate reason to worry about any of the things she worried about.
“Obviously, I’m thrilled that you have established such a stable life for yourself,” Steven said, almost sideswiping a bread truck. “But what about your creativity? What if your crafting was your job, and you got to come home whenever you wanted? Whatever happened to that cute little craft blog you were making?”
“A bunch of teenagers started commenting on it and said I looked like a naked mole rat in my profile picture. So I had a mini nervous breakdown and deactivated it. And besides, it never got enough traffic to make me any money.”
“Well, after David’s company goes public—”
“It’s actually not my company,” David said. “It’s my boss Robert’s company.”
“My mistake. But as I was saying, once Zookie goes public—wait, David, did I get the name right?”
“Yep.”
“Then you can focus on something that actually utilizes the stronger areas of your mind. Then you can both come home more often, see your niece and nephew...”
“Did Mom ask you to say this?”
“I do not recall,” Steven said, as if giving a deposition.
“Well, off the record, if Mom brings up the fact that I haven’t visited home in a while, and how she’s had to do everything for the wedding, let her know that’s a byproduct of me having a real job. If she wants to pick on anyone for not coming home enough, tell her to yell at Lauren and Jason. They both live in the city. They don’t even need to take a plane.”
Steven nodded. The car’s front tires squeaked as he absentmindedly drove into the curb.
* * *
Emily looked out the window at the house where she grew up. It was a pale blue colonial on a winding road lined with oak trees. The street would have been picturesque if people from other neighborhoods didn’t use the vacant wooded lot on the corner to dump their old TVs and mattresses. When she was eleven, she had sworn she saw two deer humping on one of the discarded mattresses, but her mother had dismissed the story as a ploy for attention, and briefly diagnosed her as histrionic.
“Ah, your mother is home,” Steven said, pulling into the driveway. In the carport she saw her mother’s Subaru Impreza, maroon like her trademark shade of lipstick. Her brother Jason’s used red Corvette—his first postdivorce purchase—was parked nearby as was a white Nissan Altima, which she assumed her sister, Lauren, had rented. It had to be a rental, since Lauren had sold her car to reduce her carbon footprint, and if she ever wound up buying another car, it was unlikely that it would be free of pro-choice or anti-meat bumper stickers. The last bumper sticker Emily recalled her sister having was a black one with white lettering, reading Got Privilege?
David and Steven lugged the bags inside, declining Emily’s mostly empty offer to help. She carried her wedding dress, still in the white garment bag. In the car, she had checked it every few minutes to make sure it hadn’t ripped, but every time she checked it, she worried that the zipper had ripped the lace, so she eventually stopped checking.
“Here