End of story.
He’s my lawyer. He does my deals.
“Should be a busy week as we put the next steps in motion,” he says, as we reach the cart. “And hey, coffee’s on me as a thanks.”
Nope. That’s not happening. “I got this.” It’s a small thing. But there is no way he’s paying for the coffee after I slept with his daughter and bought her panties.
After we order, we head to a bench with our cups and review the week ahead.
We have our friendship. Our athletic goals. Our business partnership.
We don’t need to discuss my after-dark affairs.
Ever.
“And then, with his trusty mutt by his side, Captain Dog and Captain Dude walked off into the sunset, having saved the city one more time,” I say, reading the final page in a graphic novel Zach and I picked up this afternoon at An Open Book.
I’m glad the story is over, because it’s hard reading in the cramped quarters of the tree house.
“Can I have one more story?” he asks, his young voice laced with hope. “I want to know what happens next.” He sits up taller, his green eyes flickering wildly. “Or maybe we can get a dog like Captain Dude has?”
Oh fuck.
Oh hell.
What am I going to do with that request?
Nick warned me this day would come. Someday he will ask for a dog, and you will be so screwed. It was months ago, when Zach was caught up in playing with a Border Collie in Central Park.
I ruffle Zach’s hair, steering away from the tempting topic. I too love dogs. “How about that story, kiddo? But I’ll read it to you when you’re in bed.” I sit up, unfolding from the pretzel shape I’ve been in these last few hours.
I built the tree house so Zach could have what he wants, and fine, to flex my dad muscles. But I didn’t anticipate how much time he would want to spend here or how uncomfortable it would be for a grown man to wedge himself into a tiny tree house.
Already today we’ve made a baking-soda-powered rocket, and we’ve worked our way through a stack of comics. But the light is waning and bed is calling.
And my limbs are groaning as I make my way out of the tree house, Zach scrambling down after me.
Once inside the brownstone, he motors through the kitchen, racing to the fridge and yanking open the door. “I’m still hungry. Can I have more pineapple?”
I refuse to think of Jules. I have pineapple for Zach. That is what I tell myself.
“Of course, buddy,” I say, then I grab the container, scoop some tropical fruit into a bowl, and join him at the counter. My thoughts don’t linger on what I did at this counter yesterday morning, or on the pair of pink panties I ripped off of Jules’s beautiful body, or the fact that they’re in my nightstand drawer.
As Zach eats, we talk about our plans for the next few days and how much he can’t wait to go camping with my dad and mom in a few weeks. They’re taking him to upstate New York on a trip, along with their other grandson. Nick’s son is twenty-two, but David loves the outdoors, so he’s up for family camping.
“We’ll need to stock up on camping supplies,” I say. I’m glad that Zach has embraced my parents as his new grandpa and new grandma. I want him to know as much of his family as possible.
“Like graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate,” he says after swallowing the last bite of the fruit.
“What other camping supplies are there?” I ask.
“A dog,” he says with a glint in his eyes.
“I can already see you take after me in negotiation skills.” I drop a kiss onto his forehead.
After we clean up, we head to the second floor and he gets ready for bed. As he slips under the covers, he peers around his room, questions in his eyes. “Dad, what did you do with this room before me?”
Before him. Sometimes it hardly seems like there was a before him—he’s what I wanted for so long.
“I didn’t have this place before you,” I say, sitting on the side of the bed.
He tilts his head, studying me curiously. “Where did you live then?”
“In a very tall building in the Sixties. With my ex-wife.”
“You got this house for me?”
“Well, yeah. You and me, buddy,” I say, patting his leg.
He smiles, wide and wonderful. “That’s pretty cool,” he says. “I’m glad Grandma and Grandpa found you.”
My heart swells. “Me too. You have no idea how glad,” I say, my throat tightening as I hug him. “I wish I’d known you your whole life.”
But at least I have him now. He’s what matters most to me in the whole world.
Parenting is funny like that. You go from not knowing someone to them being your entire heart.
I say goodnight, the house no longer so empty. I do some work in my office, then eventually head to bed and shut my door. Alone, in the dark, under the covers, I open my texts, allowing myself just one more peek.
Jules: I’ll think of you when I wear these.
My skin goes hot at the message. And I’m imagining her in them, and the things she might be doing as she thinks of me.
15
FREEDOM TO BLURT
Jules
“There. And it’s opened.” My father seems pleased over his end of the Zoom session. Retirement planning isn’t my idea of a relaxing Sunday night, but now it’s done.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, closing out the window on the mutual fund page.
He sighs, looking relieved. “I just want you to be…prepared.”
That word sounds loaded. But no one could really have been prepared for what happened to Willa. Somehow, though, being prepared for my future, being practical, and being responsible is how he honors her.
At least, I think so. I don’t know. We don’t talk about it.
“It’s never too early to start. I wish I’d started saving earlier,” he admits.
“Sure, I get that,” I say. My mutual fund has a paltry five hundred dollars in it, but I suppose it’s something. It can’t hurt to think ahead, even though the future I’m most interested in is this week and the agenda Bridger said he has slated for me. My boss returns from a Los Angeles trip in a few days, and wants me to join him at some of his Webflix meetings to discuss another season of Happy Enough, and to talk more about The Rendezvous.
I don’t let myself drift too long on the hope of working more on The Rendezvous, and instead focus on my dad and his financial advice. “I won’t start too late,” I say.
“Good. It’s one of my biggest regrets,” he adds.
One of. But it’s not his biggest. We all know his biggest regret—that he wasn’t home the night Willa drowned. That she sneaked out. But we don’t talk about that night either.
“Well, thanks for helping me,” I say.
“Anytime, sweetheart.” That’s rare too—the affection underlying in his tone. Then he adds, “I love you.”
I feel awful. How would he feel about me if he knew I’d slept with his best friend?
But I say the words back anyway. “Love you too.”