toblameforit | (no subject)

Sherry did, of course, do a background check.

"Andy Wright, age 24, graduated cum laude from Bethlem College in South Dakota with a BA in Creative Writing. No criminal record."

Tony was not impressed.

"Licensed bartender. Works in coffeeshops a great deal, as well. Published several poems in a few magazines around the country."

He shouldn't have been surprised, either, and after the initial shock he wasn't.

"Did you expect me not to? Her work isn't bad, though I think she relies on her allusions a little too heavily."

But now, if he's going to email her, he should probably get that out of the way first thing. He sprawls out in bed with his laptop and starts typing.

Subject: so hi
From: tonys (dcxvi)
To: awright (gmail)

Hey,

Sherry totally did do a background check. :( Sorry. It all checks out, though, so that's good I guess.

Anyway. If you seriously want to talk, I think I seriously need to. But like I said, I don't want to freak you out or anything. So... I dunno.

Coffee sometime?

-Tony

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Another slow nod. It may not be what Tony meant to say, but it makes sense.

Except now he's thinking about Obie and kissing, and—

"He wasn't just after the money."

Her eyebrows go up.

"Obie, I mean. He was..."

"He was after me, too."

"Oh, fuck, Tony."

She puts down the coffee, sitting forward, and reaches out to touch his arm.

He covers her hand lightly with one of his.

"Thanks," he murmurs.

Gently: "I can see why you'd be conflicted on this one."

Wryly: "No shit, right?"

"Was that -- something you knew, before he died?"

He snorts.

"Yep."

And if she doesn't pick up on the rest from the way he says that word... well.

Andy lets out a breath.

"Tony, you really ought to be talking to a professional about this."

"No, God no, because you know what happens then? They take the company away and give it to some bullshit executive who couldn't find his ass with both hands and a map. Shit, we're having enough trouble shoving an eighteen-year-old CEO down their throats without word getting out that I'm crazy."

"You're not crazy, Tony, you're dealing with serious traumatic shit that would be difficult for anyone to deal with."

"My brother thinks he's Sherlock Holmes. You really think anybody's gonna be generous about this?"

"You guys look the same. That doesn't mean your sanity is the same, unless you just haven't told me about how you guys are actually telepathically the same person like in that Spider Robinson book."

He sighs.

"I know, okay? I know. I'm not crazy. Sherry's not crazy either. I wish to fucking God I could just say fuck 'em all and do what I wanted, but I can't, because that place is my responsibility and I'm not letting anybody have an excuse to pull it out from under me."

"Okay," she says, more gently, "okay. But if you give yourself a nervous breakdown because you're not getting help, they'll have that excuse."

Tony smiles crookedly.

"Nah, I'll just get drunk a lot. They didn't bust Dad for being an alcoholic; they won't bust me."

". . . Yes, this is clearly a reasonable and well-thought-out plan of action that won't result in badness ever. Look, take it from a bartender who's been having anxiety attacks since she was eighteen: alcohol is the least helpful coping mechanism you could pick. Aside from possibly heroin. Or fight clubs."

"I'm not saying it's an awesome plan, but it got me through high school."

Andy manfully resists the urge to facepalm.

Tony just laughs.

"Look, if I gave you the name of someone discreet, would you consider talking to her or him? I mean, there is this thing called doctor-client confidentiality."