The Boy Who Wore Boat Shoes

18⎜The Meeting

18⎜The Meeting

           “Eric, he’s really not that bad.”

           “Eric, he’s really not. He’s worse!”

           “Scott, shut up, man!”

           “You shut up!”

           “Eric, no matter what these two say, I promise you that he’s just wonderful! He’s the perfect gentleman—unlike these two—and a total sweetheart! You’ll love him!”

           I glanced between the four individuals, only one having not voiced her opinion about the person I was about to meet. She was tracing the edges of her fingers and seemed to be especially distant today, not really focusing on reality. “Ari,” I prompted, “what do you think of him?”

           “Who, Grant?” she questioned, her eyes lifting in order to meet mine. I nodded my head. “Uh…” As she searched for the correct adjective, Kay shot her a stern look, but Ari paid no mind, going right ahead and saying, “Sometimes he’s okay. Other times I can’t be in the same room as him without wanting to stab his eye with a fork.”

           “Just go, Eric!” Kay sighed, pushing me closer to the direction of the large wooden door that separated me from the meeting I was about to have.

           “Walker, this is a bad idea,” Scott told his best friend, “he’s not going to join once he’s met Grant.”

           “Scott, please shut your trap,” Kay said with more than a smidge of sugar encased around her harsh words. Scott stopped talking after that. Houston then patted me on the shoulder reassuringly, and I sighed, knowing what I had to do.

           With a great deal of reluctance, I forced myself to turn the brass knob of the door, pushing it open. I closed my eyes for the briefest of moments, and then reopened them, walking in with as much confidence as could be conjured in my state. When I stepped foot into the large office/conference room, what immediately struck me wasn’t the guy I was supposed to be meeting with, but the smell of aged tobacco mixed with some sort of distinct liquor (scotch, maybe).

           My eyes travelled around the room, taking in the pictures of old guys and how ordered everything was. There were bookshelves lining the walls with dusty books on them that probably hadn’t been touched since the day they were put there, and plaques with the fraternity’s insignia on them everywhere. The floor was covered by a red carpet, and there were no windows in the space. Then, I finally allowed myself to glance up and over to the other person in the room who was the reason that I was actually here in the first place.

           Sitting at the end of a long mahogany table was a guy. Obviously. He had on a navy blazer with a white button-down underneath, and his dirty blonde hair was gelled back. His face retained a rather confident-esc look to it, as if he was superior (to whom, I didn’t know). So, this was the notorious Grant Sterling. He didn’t look as evil or sinister as Scott had made him out to be, and appeared rather calm, taking a leisurely sip out of a glass cup. When he realized that I was done surveying my surroundings, he shot me a smile, and gestured to a seat near him.

           Hesitantly, I deepened myself within the room, walking over to the chair he had pointed out and sat down, only to wait. I wasn’t really sure what I was waiting for, but I knew it was something.

           “Eric Wilson,” Grant finally said, his tone light and casual yet possessing a hint of authority to it, “it’s so great to finally meet you!”