Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 108242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Wallace nods, but his sister looks baffled.
“Can I admit I don’t understand how those things actually relate?” she asks with a wry smile.
“They clear forests for pastures, grazing and raising crops to feed livestock,” Lennix answers before I can. I love that she cares about these things, that she feels deeply connected to nature and the land even more fundamentally than I do. My concern is largely pragmatic. For her and her tribe, it’s just as much spiritual.
“When those trees are cut down and burned,” Lennix continues, “carbon dioxide is released, which I believe is the main source of global warming. Is that right, Maxim?”
“Right,” I say. “In addition to being what we call ecologically inefficient, basically meaning it costs us more than the benefits it yields.”
“What’s an example?” Vivienne presses. “’Cause I don’t get it.”
“Well, beef, for example, uses about 60 percent of all agricultural land globally but only yields about 5 percent of its protein.”
“So we just stop eating beef?” Kimba asks. “Don’t take my Jack in the Box, Maxim.”
Everyone laughs, including me, because Kimba’s straightforwardness is so authentic and irresistible.
“I don’t tell people they should stop eating meat,” I say. “But eating more chicken than beef is a great start, and buying deforestation-free meats is a huge help, too.”
“Also, methane is produced by cow manure and the stomachs of cattle,” Wallace adds. “That’s a heat-trapping gas, right, Doc?”
“Don’t call me Doc.”
The sharp comment pinpricks the good humor in the room, leaving behind an awkward silence. We were all getting along so well until the good doctor had to put in his two cents. I don’t know if I’ll ever like him the way Lennix wants me to.
“Uh, sorry,” Wallace says, lowering his head and digging back into his meal. “I just heard Lenny calling you that and—”
“Precisely. She’s the only one who calls me that.”
Lennix stretches her eyes at me in a WTF warning. I shrug, brush off her silent rebuke, and pile my plate with more kale than bison.
Soon Lennix’s coffee table is littered with full wine glasses and empty plates. Her friends continue talking, laughing with the familiarity of years together. I’m not the kind of person who feels left out, so it doesn’t bother me that I don’t have much to say or find many natural places to contribute to the conversation. I’m content to observe this looser version of Lennix that her close friends draw out. I’m also having trouble concentrating on their discussion, which ranges from politics, obviously, to fashion and, for some reason, Mary Tyler Moore reruns. I must have missed something, though, because why?
My watch garners most of my attention, sending stock alerts every few minutes. Our deal in Hong Kong will go south if the market keeps fluctuating the way it has been all day.
“That’s some watch, Maxim,” Vivienne says teasingly. “Is that…no way. I’ve never seen one in real life. Is that a Richard Mille?”
I glance from the watch to her excited face and nod.
“Wow.” She gives Lennix a knowing smile. “Wait till I tell the girls back home that your boyfriend’s a baller, Lenn.”
“You know you can’t, right?” Lennix’s expression borders on horrified. “We’re not telling people.”
“What?” My head snaps around, and I meet her eyes head-on. “The hell. What do you mean we’re not telling people?”
“Maxim,” Lennix says almost patiently, like I missed a memo. “We didn’t have much time together before I left, but I’ve been careful that we haven’t been seen in public or around people we can’t trust not to out us.”
“Not to out us? We have nothing to hide. I’m not pretending we’re not together.”
“It’s just not a good look if the press finds out while Owen’s running,” she says, her own frown growing heavier. “I guess we haven’t really talked about it, but I thought you knew… Well, I have certain rules for my team, and I have to follow them, too.”
“What rules?” I demand.
“We have a strict don’t fuck the candidate policy,” Kimba says and sips on her third glass of wine.
“I’m not a candidate. My brother is. Problem solved.”
“You’re candidate-adjacent, though,” Lennix says, “which means you’re close enough that a relationship with someone from the team would distract the press from covering the real issues and, consequently, the public from voting on them.”
“I’m not hiding my relationship.”
“You’re not the only one in this relationship,” she fires back.
“Apparently neither of us is, if appearances are to be believed,” I say with increasing irritation.
“It’s taken us a decade to get our consulting firm off the ground in what is, as you know, a man’s game. If they get past the fact that I’m a woman, then I’m also a person of color. In some circles, that’s two strikes against me before I even open my mouth. I can’t afford some gossip rag undermining my credibility by insinuating I slept my way into this.”