Dad motors on about work ethics, reminding me once again that I shouldn’t ever be late to work, like I was late for meeting him earlier, and then it hits me. Earlier he and Finn were talking about training. All I have to do is ask my dad about running.
When there’s a pause in the conversation, Liz sets down her fork next to her plate of lettuce, then asks, “And how is your risotto?”
That’s not what the carb hater really means. “It’s great,” I say quickly, then look at my dad. “Hey, how’s your triathlon training going? You’re still running every weekend in the park?”
It’s a bit obvious but maybe not too obvious.
“Great. We have another race coming up in a month,” he says.
“Who’s we?” I ask, acting confused. “Oh, that guy you train with? What’s his name?”
He huffs, clearly frustrated with me for forgetting. “Finn Adams. You’ve met him a few times, Julia.”
Score one for me. I led the witness, and the witness is an attorney. “Right. I think…with his wife?” I ask, scrunching my brow.
Liz shakes her head, cutting in with, “They’re not married anymore.”
Thank god. I breathe freely for the first time since I heard that sexy, raspy voice an hour ago.
“Oh, that’s…” But I don’t add too bad because who really knows? And if I say that’s good, I might be at the risk of smiling so hard my cheeks crack.
“Yeah, it’s for the best,” my dad says, then zooms right back to the subject of work, peering closely at my sweater. “Are you wearing those sweaters to work?”
“I look professional, Dad,” I say defensively as I fiddle with the pearl buttons.
He eyes the embroidery on the front of the sweater. “A cherry?”
I tug it closed. “I work with creatives.”
“Just make sure you don’t wear sweatpants to work like all the other young people do,” he says.
Seriously? “I don’t wear sweatpants to work,” I say, and he launches into a riff about how people dress today.
Why is a daring, edgy man like Finn friends with my hard-ass dad? My dad’s not fun. He doesn’t scream good-time buddy. But then, he seemed different in his office when I overheard him talking to Finn. He was relaxed, sarcastic. They needled each other in the way good friends do.
Oh shit.
Does my dad go to those parties too? Are my father and Liz kinky? What if Finn and my father are kink friends? I think I’ll just die right now, because that thought is more terrifying than my father himself, who’s scary on the best of days. A stern, no-nonsense man who has been strict with me ever since he married Liz, who’s strict with herself.
Which means…Finn can’t ever know who I am. He’d never mess around with Tate Marley’s daughter. No one wants to piss off a friend, let alone a friend who’s a former man in blue.
I have less than twenty-four hours to figure out what to do about The Scene.
“Her outfit is nice, Tate,” Liz cuts in, coming to my defense, which rarely happens.
“Thanks, Liz,” I say, appreciative and a little surprised.
“It’s perfectly professional,” she adds, then goes on as an HR executive about office dress codes these days, which is kind of boring, so I return to the drumbeat in my brain.
Of all the men in New York City, why did my father’s best friend have to be the one who lit me on fire? Why did he have to be the one I’m dying to see tomorrow? Why, fucking, why?
I push my risotto around some more, then Liz pauses and shifts gears. “Jules, you’re not eating much?” She’s trying, but she can’t hide the hope in her voice.
She’s tiny and toned and exercises a ton. She never eats dessert, never stays up late, never misses a Pilates class.
I’m curvy with big tits. And yeah, I work out, too, and have the toned arms to prove it. But salad won’t make my boobs or ass smaller.
“I’m not on a diet, Liz. I’m not very hungry,” I say.
Finding out the guy you want is your father’s best friend? That will kill anyone’s appetite.
The second I’m on the subway heading to Chelsea, I tap out a text to Scarlett.
Jules: I am so sorry but something came up and I can’t fill in tomorrow night after all.
I stare at the draft, my thumb hovering. I feel terrible letting her down, but I can’t go anymore. This way, Finn will never know I was the piano player. I’ll just be the naughty girl who disappeared into a summer night with a perfume that drove him so wild he asked for its name. He’ll never know he kissed his best friend’s daughter. It’s nicer that way. If he learns who I am, he might be twisted with guilt about it. Guilt sucks. I can’t let him feel that way. Nor do I want to irrevocably alter his relationship with my dad. But as I re-read the message, another type of guilt pricks at me.
I want to be a woman of my word. I don’t want to leave Scarlett hanging, especially when I’d asked to fill in. So I hit erase and try again.
Jules: Something came up for work. Is there any chance you can still do tomorrow night?
Scarlett: What??? Babe, I’m out of town with my sister. She stole me away for a girls’ weekend.
My chest hollows out, emptying to nothing. Then, it fills up again, topped off with jealousy.
Jules: Don’t think twice, then. I’ll make it work.
I drop my head in my hand as the subway rumbles to Chelsea, dreading tomorrow night.
7
SOMETIMES AN ANKLET IS JUST AN ANKLET
Finn
Something has been nagging at me since yesterday, but I can’t think what it is. As Zach rushes out the door of my—our—West Village brownstone, tearing off to meet his grandmother waiting on the sidewalk, I cycle through possibilities. Did I pack everything he needs for the weekend? Definitely. I even signed him up for another camp next week. Got the confirmation earlier today when we were at the park.
But I don’t think this thing’s about Zach. It’s more like a sense of déjà vu that’s been dogging me since I visited my buddy’s office twenty-four hours ago. More specifically, since I glimpsed a woman ducking into the ladies’ room as I left. No clue why that would stick with me. I barely saw her, but something about her felt familiar.
Best to let it go, especially since Zach’s flying down the steps.
“Slow down, buddy,” I call out. Too late. He’s already jumping off the last step like he has wings.
When Zach hugs Candace like he missed her the most, my heart squeezes painfully. Maybe that’s what I’m missing—years. He’s known her his whole life. She must be more like a parent to him than I am.
She hugs him back fiercely, like a mom would do, which is the role she’s effectively played since Nina died.
But as much as she loves him—to the moon and back—we never fought over custody. From the start, she told me she wanted to share custody with me if I wanted it.
If.
I wanted it all, but I took half. That felt fair.