“You should say twatwaffle more often. It sounds so distinguished when you do it. Also, you’re not any other CFO. You’re you, and I’m honored that you trusted me to help.” She sighs in utter bliss as she bites into another cheese roll. “It says a lot about your good judgment that you know when to ask for help, and a lot about your luck that I just happened to be there.”
“I don’t want to not be good at the things I’m supposed to be good at.”
She shifts in her chair, frowning at me. “I’ve been teaching high schoolers for about ten years. Every semester, out of all of my students, there are always a handful who walk in with the most amazing talent for painting, or drawing, or sculpting, or studying, but rarely do I see all of those skills together. No one has them all. They’re not supposed to. I don’t have all of those skills, either, and I don’t expect myself to.” She tilts her head. “Anymore. I used to think I could do it all, but I’ve learned to be kind to myself and celebrate my gifts and the things in my control and accept the rest for what they are.”
“I rather doubt I have enough of any of the right skills to do the job.” I need to shut up. I need to shut up, but she makes it so damn easy to admit to my fears.
“Your family believes in you.”
“They believe in what they want to believe in.”
“You know, every semester, I also have a handful of students walk in and tell me they suck at art, and they’re only there because they need an easy A. And every year, every last one of those kids walks out of my classroom at the end of the semester still believing they suck at art, but I have yet to find one who didn’t have a piece they’d made that they were extraordinarily proud of, and several more that are amazing but that they judge too harshly because we’re our own worst critics.”
“They make good art because you’re a good teacher.”
“I’m a terrible teacher. I’m always late turning in grades, I make lesson plans last-minute, and I spend parent-teacher conferences gossiping about old Golden Girls episodes instead of talking about how Kelsey or Aiden got a C in drawing for lack of trying.”
“You don’t give C’s.”
“Guilty. I’m an easy A. All I ask for is effort. But I have given six B’s, and it was all about attitude, and I made sure there was nothing going on at home or in their personal lives first, and I finally realized some people are just shits, which makes me sad, so I don’t like to dwell on it. But you, Hayes, are not a shit. You’re a good man who loves his family but wants them to not badger you to death about getting married. They should trust your instincts.”
I snort. They should not trust my instincts. On investments and math? Yes. On people issues and relationships? No. Been there, done that, have the ex-girlfriend married to my mortal enemy to prove it.
Begonia glares at me again as only Begonia can—in that special way that makes me feel like it’s a glare-hug. There’s no heat in it, no matter how much she tries, and I have every last ounce of her focus aimed at me, which should be uncomfortable but isn’t, because it’s Begonia. “There’s nothing wrong with you, and whatever it is you think you’ve failed at in the past, you didn’t fail. You experienced life. You’ll do a great job as CFO, with great people supporting you, and if this is truly not what you’re meant to do, or if it’s not what you want to do, you’ll figure that out and move on to what makes you happy.”
“You believe that.”
“I do. I believe in everyone.”
“But why? And why do you drop everything to help people even when they don’t deserve it?” I can’t let it go. Maybe I want her to tell me I’m awful so that I’ll quit being unexpectedly attracted to her. Maybe I want to find the chink in her armor so that I can prove to myself that she’s not the goddess I’m beginning to suspect she is. Or maybe I don’t understand how one person can believe in so much goodness even after being married to a twatwaffle who clearly tried to destroy her spark. Whatever it is, I can’t let it go.
“What do you get out of it?” I ask. “I know what I got out of today. I know what your students get out of an easy class, and even out of learning to enjoy some form of art. What do you, Begonia Fairchild, get out of doing so much for everyone else?”
“Joy,” she says quietly. “I get joy out of knowing I’ve brightened the world by brightening someone’s world.”