The Virgin Society Collection

15. No Coincidences

15

NO COINCIDENCES

Nick

Way back in high school statistics class, I learned that in a room of at least twenty-three people, there’s a little more than a fifty percent chance that two of them will have the same birthday.

It’s not entirely a coincidence. It’s a mathematical law that says life is random, the world is unpredictable, and when shit happens, it’s rarely fate. It’s probability, statistics, even inevitability.

There’s a certain sick logic to this latest twist . We orbit in the same circles—tech, money, risk, New York.

But even though I’m a goddamn fucking student of the likelihood of coincidences, I’m still standing here, scratching my head like this just can’t be.

My Lola is his Layla?

The Layla my son’s been building his charity with? Layla, the college girlfriend he’s still tight with? Layla is the one my son texted me about a little while ago and wanted me to meet?

But I don’t need to ask again to be sure. She is clearly his Layla, and I need to deal with reality, stat. I fucked my son’s ex-girlfriend, who’s now his pal. I fucked her several times, including on the phone last week. And I need to manage this situation like it’s a sensitive business deal.

First, with due diligence.

Did he see us hug like lovers? Maybe. But if so, I can recover, starting now. “It’s a pleasure to officially meet you, Layla,” I say, trying to mask the what-the-fuckery in my voice.

Like, why the hell did she keep her real name from me?

She extends a hand, too, and everything about this moment is a terrible lie—one I’m telling in front of my son.

I am a bad, bad daddy.

“Good to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you,” she says, the picture of Upper East Side charm.

I’ve never heard that tone from her before. It’s not even a professional tone. It’s more like a polished one.

Why the hell would you have heard it? You’ve never met her on her turf . You don’t even know who Lola, or Layla, really is .

“And David has told me about you,” I say, the falsehood strangling me.

The truth is I know very little. I was living in San Francisco when David went to college here in New York. He had attended prep school in San Francisco, since Rose had been working there when David was a teen. I stayed there when he went back east, and I was still working in San Francisco when he told me one night on the phone that he was dating his college tutor.

She’s a great girl, super smart and pretty, and I’ve got a huge crush on her… Then a few months later he said, Yeah, Layla and I decided we were better off as friends.

That was it. Fast forward to a week ago, when he accepted my job offer on the condition he could still work on his charity, the one his pal had been helping him launch with the first fundraiser. She’s a badass, and she’s helping me with A Helping Paw.

So, yeah. I knew three things.

But when life hits you with the law of mathematics, you need to deal, not whine. With intros done, David flops down into the booth. “We just ordered. But take a look, and you can get some food too,” he tells me.

Lola—I mean, Layla—takes her seat across from us, sitting primly straight, like she’s posing for a family portrait.

It’s showtime. I sit and peer around for a server to ask for a menu. David laughs, thrusting a Lucite frame at me. “Dad, it’s on your phone.”

Great. Fucking great. I look old and like a tech loser. But I know how QR codes work, thank you very much. I just…wasn’t thinking.

“Right,” I say, then take the frame so I can scan it. But screw it.

I know how menus work, too, and if you’ve been to one diner you’ve been to them all. When the server stops by seconds later, I ask for a house salad and a chicken sandwich.

“Perfect. I’ll add that to the ticket,” she says and then takes off.

It’s the three of us again in the most awkward meeting of a kid’s ex-girlfriend ever.

But David doesn’t seem to notice. Maybe Layla and I are great actors, since my son says, “I kept thinking last week that you should meet Layla, since she has this baller makeup app.”

I know. I watched her videos. I flirted with her on her app. “That so?” I ask, like this is the first I’m learning of her business.

David gestures to Layla, giving her the floor. “Tell him about The Makeover app. He’s a VC. I can’t believe I didn’t think about introducing the two of you sooner, but Daddy Bancroft was in London, and he does tech, not content,” David says, then stops short.

Maybe realizing what he just called me—by my ex-wife’s last name. Like Layla did earlier. “So, this is a thing? You call me Daddy Bancroft?”

“It’s tongue in cheek,” David explains, like he was caught stealing from my wallet. “I only call you that in front of my friends.”

We don’t have the same last name, and that wasn’t my choice. That was the Bancroft family choice when I knocked up Rose, the Park Avenue debutante, fresh out of high school.

“I take it your friends don’t know where the Adam comes from then, David Adam Bancroft.” I say his full name a little more sharply than I intended.

And…shit.

That won’t do.

I’ve got to get a grip on my annoyance. This won’t do me any good with my son. I want him to love working with me. I want his life to be so much easier than mine when I was his age—twenty-one. I never want him to worry about where his next meal is coming from.

I try again, not just tempering my reaction but kicking it to the curb. “But hey, nicknames are cool,” I add, then smile at him before I flash a smile I absolutely don’t feel at Layla.

The woman who lied about her name.

If she lied about that, what else would she lie about? That I was her first?

A dark cloud settles over me. My shoulders tense. I clench my fists.

Then, my son’s phone buzzes again. He grabs it, checks the screen. “Cyn’s having a rough night. I’ll be right back.”

“Of course.” I scoot out, let him go, and sit back down across from…the woman I don’t know at all.

She stares at me like I’m a snake.

I feel like one.

I tilt my head, curve my lips, and say, “Hi, Lola . Oh wait. I meant… Layla .” Then I flash her an asshole grin.

She doesn’t bite. She’s cool. Cooler than me even. When she speaks, she’s as poised as she was moments ago. “Hi, Daddy .”

Ouch.

Fine, fine. I didn’t tell her I had a kid. I grit my teeth, annoyed she’s right to fling that omission at me. Time to own it. “Yes, I have a kid,” I say, shoulders square, chin up. I’m proud of my son. I can’t make my relationship with him seem like a shameful secret.

Like Rose’s parents did

Like…I did in Miami.

“I shouldn’t have tried to hide it from you,” I say.

The intensity in her expression tells me she’s adding up details, like the phone call I covered up that morning. “I guess he’s who called you in your room,” she says, nailing me with my outright lie.

“That was David. Not my brother,” I admit.

“Why didn’t you just tell me then?”

Why? Because I didn’t know her, and I wasn’t in the mood. But she lied too, so I toss her fib right back at her. “Why didn’t you tell me your real name?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a son?” she says, pressing again.

“It didn’t come up,” I say, defensive. Because it’s easier to be annoyed than to explain I planned to tell her tomorrow night at Hugo’s. When I planned to tell her, too, that I’ve moved back to Manhattan. But I didn’t want to overwhelm her or scare her off. I don’t want to put my cards on the table—that I was worried I’d send her running. If I let on, she’ll know how much I was looking forward to seeing her tomorrow and asking her out for another date, then another, then another. I focus on Miami instead. “Your name came up though. A lot, ” I say.

She folds her arms across her chest. “You’re really annoyed I didn’t tell you my legal name? When I gave you my business name? At a business conference?”

I’m not in the mood for logic right now. Not when my pulse surges annoyingly fast around her. “Were you planning on never seeing me again? Is that why you didn’t tell me your name? Because you didn’t want to see me again?”

“No,” she snaps.

I’ve got a million more questions, but out of the corner of my eye, I spot our server heading straight for us.

Seconds later, she arrives with a sad-looking salad. “Here’s your salad, sir,” she says.

Why am I always a sir? But I can’t very well call the waitress ma’am or I’m the dick.

“Thanks,” I say, reading her name tag. “ Taylor .”

“You’re welcome,” she says, then turns on her heels.

Once she’s out of earshot, Layla pounces. “And how can you say I didn’t want to see you again when we’ve been texting non?—”

But we’re not alone. David’s back, so there’s no way we’re finishing this conversation now. I let him into the booth as he says, “Cynthia had to park in the far corner in her lot, so I stayed on the phone with her while she walked into her apartment.”

I pat him on the shoulder. “Good man,” I say, then I pick up my fork and stab a piece of wilted lettuce. I take a bite. It sucks.

A minute later, the server is back with the rest of the food, and once we tuck in, David draws a deep breath, then says, “So, Layla, like I said earlier, I asked my dad to help with the auction, and I’m stoked he’s up for it. We can all put our heads together on it for the next few weeks. Plus, I’m going to be working at his firm. Not doing money stuff though. I’ll be doing the marketing, since that’s more my speed, and it’ll help with my side hustle.” Then he backpedals. “Well, trying it out for a few months.”

Layla’s brow knits.

“Longer, I hope. I plan to convince you,” I say to David, patting his shoulder again. This is the relationship I should focus on anyway—the one with my kid.

Layla lifts her fork to take a bite of her pasta. But she’s staring at David as if he no longer adds up. “In London? You’re going to London?”

David laughs. “Dude, no,” he says to her. Then, it’s as if his thoughts just snagged on her last comment. He tilts his head, like he’s replaying what she just said. Maybe catching her slip. “Did I tell you he lived in London?”

C’mon, Layla. You’ve got this.

With a sweet smile, she says, “Yes. When you said he was going to help out, you mentioned he lived there,” Layla says, breezily making it sound like no big deal that she knew that detail about where her friend’s dad lived.

I hope her cover-up is only obvious to me.

David must buy it easily, since he just shrugs, like cool . Then, he corrects her with, “Nope. I’m not going to London. Daddy Bancroft relocated here.”

Layla’s fork wobbles in her hand, but she steadies it before David catches on. “Sounds fun. No more really big ocean in the way.”

Ouch.

She’s pissed at me. It’s not evident in her tone, but it’s one hundred percent clear from her word choice— really big ocean.

I fucked up.