17. You Were Right
17
YOU WERE RIGHT
Nick
The next day I’m too busy to think of Layla. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I finish setting up my spacious new place in Gramercy Park, making sure everything meets my specs.
There’s not much for me to do, though, since Finn’s wife insisted I use a friend of hers who’s an interior designer. I didn’t want to argue with Marilyn and piss her off more, so I said yes to using Ginny, even though furniture is not my thing.
Things are not my thing.
But I had nothing to move since I’d rented all my furniture in London, and I do need something to sit on and a bed to crash in.
Ginny found me all that and sent photos to me, and I signed off. Now, she shows me around, telling me all the details about the open-plan kitchen, the couch in the expansive living room, and the minimal artwork on the walls. “I wanted to make sure all eyes were drawn to the natural art,” she says, gesturing to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room that offer a commanding view of the lower half of Manhattan.
“It’s a stunning view,” I say, and I do my damnedest not to think of bending Layla over the back of the couch, curling her hair into my fist, and fucking her hard as she enjoys the hell out of the natural art view too.
Ginny moves around to the couch, patting the back of it, and I hope she’s not reading my thoughts. “And this is made from organic material in a low-impact fashion,” she says.
But can it handle high-impact nights ?
“Thanks, Ginny. Appreciate you sourcing all these things,” I say cordially to the poised designer. She’s a handsome woman, in a news-anchor type of way, with a brunette bob that doesn’t move.
“I’m so glad it’s to your taste, Nick,” she says, and my name sounds awfully personal.
But I try not to read into the way she lingers on one syllable. Maybe she’s just being friendly. Or friendlier, since she’s been a little touchy all along, with her hand on my arm a few times, lots of laughter, and an oh, that’s so funny .
“Everything is great, Ginny,” I say, walking her to the door.
She stands at the exit but doesn’t reach for the handle. She tilts her head, as if waiting for something. Then she laughs and rolls her eyes. “Fine, fine. I’ll do it,” she says.
Do what ?
I smile, a little confused. “My apologies, Ginny. Did I miss something?”
“My number,” she says. “Would you like it?”
“I have it,” I say. I don’t want to be a dick to Marilyn’s friend, so I play dumb. “Since we were talking before I arrived.”
With a laugh, she sets her hand on my arm again. “Feel free to use it, Nick. And it doesn’t even have to be about furniture.”
Then she waits for a response.
I keep everything as polite as can be as I say a simple, “Thanks.”
Then I shut the door, glad to be alone.
Even if I were interested in Ginny and we had chemistry, I didn’t come to New York to date.
Lies. Sweet little lies.
I would date Layla if she weren’t my son’s ex.
Great. Just great.
There I go again with another Layla fail. I’m failing at not thinking of her, so I remind myself why I’m truly back in the city where I grew up. To see my dad and my mom. To spend time with my son. To grow the company and make this newly merged VC firm bigger, better, stronger. To have something to leave my kid with when I leave this world.
I won’t leave him with nothing.
I want him to have everything.
All that is only part of why I’ve resisted looking up Layla online since I learned her real name. The bigger issue is I know myself. Know the rabbit holes I can burrow down. The Internet pages I can get sucked into. I’ve spent enough time watching her videos. I really shouldn’t spend any more time checking her out.
Best for me to move forward. I can get addicted to things that have slipped through my fingers. I’ve done it with companies I’ve lost out on investing in. I’ve done it with chances I’ve missed. I’ve got an obsessive streak ten miles wide. I sure as shit don’t need an obsession with a woman in my life.
As I head to the bedroom suite, I focus on one of my whys for being in New York. I dial David, eager to catch up since we didn’t have much time last night. “How was breakfast?” I ask as I hang up a few more shirts from suitcases.
“Better than an energy bar. Can you do that every day?”
I’m feeling good about my insistence last night at the diner. Then feeling shitty. It served my selfish purposes, not just my parental ones. To steal time with his friend.
Out of mind. Keep her out of your mind.
“I could also teach you to cook,” I say, leaving the bedroom so I can putter around the gleaming new kitchen with its sexy-as-sin stove.
David audibly shudders. “Cooking? What’s that?”
“C’mon. You must have cooked during your wilderness trip,” I point out as I test the burners.
“Does jerky count as cooking?” Before I can answer, David shouts, “Oh fuck!!!”
“What’s going on?” I ask, alarmed from the intensity of his reaction.
“There’s a rat in my apartment. It’s the size of a racoon.”
I don’t think twice. “Move out. I’ve got an extra bedroom.”
He doesn’t need time to think twice either. “I’ll be there tonight.”
The next morning, David’s conked out on the guest room’s bed when I hit the pool a few floors below. After a long workout in the gym, I return to the penthouse and he’s still snoozing.
I shower and get dressed for the day then head to the kitchen to make an omelet. As I’m dropping in mushrooms, he saunters out of his room, holding his phone, stretching his arms, then lifting his nose to the sky. “Smells good.”
“Want me to teach you how to cook an omelet? My dad taught me when I was seven.”
“That’s young.”
“He made me his sous chef.”
“What about Finn?”
“He had to take out the trash,” I say.
“Bennies of being the youngest,” David says, then leans against the kitchen counter as I cook. “You got better chores.”
He returns to his screen. I swear he’s obsessed with that thing. “I need to give Layla a hard time about her date,” he says, offhand.
I tense at the stove. A sharp bolt of jealousy slams into me. But I try to keep my cool as I say, “Oh yeah?”
Inside I’m thinking, who the fuck is she dating already?
David laughs. “She had a date last night with some dude she was into. She was telling me about it at the diner. I have to see if it was as good as she was hoping.”
Oh.
Oh, hell yes.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Even with my back to him, I don’t want to smile or scowl. Don’t want to reveal I was supposed to be the hot date—the man she bought the underthings for. “Cool,” I mutter. I can’t think of a single other word.
When we eat, I don’t ask if she responded. I don’t want to appear interested in her dating life. Because my son and my former lover are tight. If he knew she was supposed to go on a date with some dude , he’ll probably know the next time she goes out with some other dude.
But that guy won’t be me.
On that bitter note, I down some coffee then tell him that, tomorrow, I’m going to teach him to cook.
“If you insist,” he says.
“I do.”
It’ll be fun, and it’ll take my mind off Layla’s dating life.
One more lap .
My lungs burn, my shoulders scream, but I power through another lap, freestyling to the end of the pool in my building, trying to let go of the night that didn’t happen, the woman I can’t have.
I finish my fifty-fifth lap, then smack the concrete edge.
I hoist myself out of the water, scanning for the towel I left on a chair beside my building’s indoor pool. But it’s nowhere to be seen.
I groan.
Fucking Finn.
My phone is missing too. I left it on the table, thinking it’d be safe since I’d reserved the pool area for a solo swim.
I peer around for my older brother, but—no surprise—he’s not here. I should never have told him to meet me on the gym level of the building before our dinner. Rookie mistake, giving him the code.
I head for the locker room to grab another towel when the glass door to the pool swings open. Finn strolls in, looking polished and sharp, my missing towel draped over his arm.
“Dude, you’re going to be late for our dinner,” he calls out.
“I won’t be,” I say. We both know that would never happen. We’re meeting our dad in a couple hours. But first, we’ll catch up on work at my place.
“Cocky,” he says, then tosses the towel into a bin of dirty towels.
He’s such a dick.
I’m not going to grab for the towel and give him the satisfaction. So I stand there dripping wet in only my swimsuit, assessing Finn. His phone’s in his hand. My phone too.
I wiggle my fingers. “I’ll take the phone now.”
He adopts a confused look. “What? These are both mine.”
“They’re not,” I say.
“I have two phones.”
“Why would you have two phones?”
He rolls his green eyes. “One is for testing new apps. Obviously.”
I appreciate his commitment to the prank. Truly, I do. But a brother’s got to do what a brother’s got to do.
I grab my phone easily, even as he protests with a hey now . Then I take his as well.
“What the hell?”
I toss the phones on a table a few feet away. They clatter lightly, but the alternative is them going in the pool with my brother. I have no choice but to throw him in.
Splash!
He resurfaces, annoyed but laughing while soaked in his fancy duds. I grin too. It’s not quite as satisfying as a night with a good woman, but this is definitely the most pleased I’ve been in days.
An hour later, we leave my place together, both dry and dressed. David’s not here. He’s out seeing a friend. I didn’t ask who. On the elevator down, I eye Finn’s new clothes—jeans and a black Henley. “I would have loaned you something,” I deadpan.
He snorts. “As if I’d have taken it.”
Instead, he called a nearby men’s shop, ordered new threads, and had them delivered in thirty minutes.
I’d have done the same. I’d never give him the satisfaction of wearing his clothes, but it’s still fun to offer him mine, even after the fact.
We climb into the black town car waiting at the curb. I tell the driver the address of Antonia’s, Dad’s favorite Italian spot in Queens.
As the car weaves into traffic, Finn deals me an intense look. “So, Marilyn wants to know why you don’t like Ginny,” he says, plastering on an irritated grin, but it’s not me he’s annoyed with.
It’s his wife.
Things with Marilyn have been even more strained since Miami. Finn’s still trying, going to couples therapy every week. But as far as I can tell, Marilyn’s still Marilyn—unhappy with everything.
“I like Ginny fine. As an interior decorator. Which is what I hired her for,” I say pointedly, but it’s aimed at his nosy wife.
Finn holds up his hands in surrender. “She said you won’t go out with Ginny since she’s older than you.”
“What the fuck?” I demand.
“Yeah, she thinks you only like younger women,” Finn adds.
I bristle, even more annoyed. “Where does that come from? I don’t have a track record of dating younger women. Rose was my age. Millie too,” I say, mentioning my last girlfriend. “Fine, she was three measly years younger. Big deal.”
“Exactly,” he agrees, then he drops his head against the back of the seat. “Nick…”
He sounds so strained. So exhausted.
I shed all my annoyance. “What is it?”
He lifts his face, meeting my gaze. “She’s convinced I’m going to leave her for someone half her age,” he says. “What the hell am I supposed to say to that ?”
“Are you? Is there someone else? Half her age, twice her age, any age?” I ask. If he needs to confess something, I’m glad he’s coming to me. Vault and all.
Finn stares at me sharply. “C’mon. You know me,” he says.
“I do. Just making sure,” I say, then pat his knee.
“The other night, I met up with my friend Tate for dinner. His daughter was there. She’s in her mid-twenties, I guess. Marilyn was there too.”
His voice is heavy, and I know where this is going.
“Did she accuse you of staring at Tate’s daughter the whole night?” I ask.
Finn taps his nose. “Bingo. And, I was not looking at her. I’m disgustingly faithful, and I just want my wife to be happy with me again. Is that so much to ask?”
Poor guy. He tries so hard. “I don’t think it’s too much,” I say.
“I don’t either. So I guess her being mad that you’re not into Ginny is her way of punishing me,” Finn says.
I’m glad he put two and two together himself. But I bite my tongue the rest of the car ride, so I don’t say something like Good luck making her happy .
But Dad doesn’t have my restraint. Over spaghetti and meatballs, he points his fork at Finn. “Is your wife still busting your balls on everything?” he asks. The man doesn’t mince words.
Finn shakes his head. “It’s fine, Pops. Nothing to worry about.”
“You sure?” No wonder he picked tonight to meet us. Mom’s busy with her book club. She’d never let him give Finn the third degree when it comes to romance.
“It’s all good,” Finn insists.
“You need a woman who understands you,” he says, stabbing a meatball.
“Dad, you need to cut back on red meat,” Finn says, shifting gears.
“I didn’t cut back on smoke inhalation for forty years at the firehouse. I don’t need to cut back on meat.”
He takes another bite. Defiantly.
Hard to argue with the salty old bastard so I don’t even try. Nor does Finn. Instead, I wrestle the conversation away from the thorny subject of romance. “Thanks again for connecting me with Jack’s kid. Kyle’s working out well,” I tell my pops.
“Good to hear. Jack appreciates what you did and so do I,” he says gratefully.
“Kyle’s a solid employee, so the appreciation is all mine,” I say.
That takes some of the heat off my brother as we catch up on Jack and Kyle, then the guys from the firehouse. Then Dad says Mom wants to know if we’ve remembered to get our flu shots.
“It’s August,” I point out with a laugh.
“Mom says the flu’s coming early this year,” Dad says, shrugging, acknowledging the request is a typical mom one.
“We’ll get them soon,” Finn says lightly.
On the way home, my brother huffs out a frustrated breath. “Dad’s wrong, isn’t he? About Marilyn?”
Ah, hell. Does he want me to lie? It’s not my place to render a verdict on my brother’s marriage, so I say, “No one truly knows a relationship except the people in it.”
Finn turns to the window, staring for a while at the buildings streaking by, the lights, the road.
When he shifts his gaze back to me, he just nods, perhaps both resolute and resigned as he says, “Yeah, that’s true.”
The car drops him off first, and I give him a clap on the shoulder. “You’re trying, Finn. That’s all you can do. Just keep trying your best.”
He’ll beat himself up for the rest of time if he thinks for one second he didn’t give something his all. Especially something as important as his marriage. “Thanks,” he says, then pushes open the door and tosses me an evil look. “Don’t think I forgot what happened at the pool.”
“I’d never think that,” I say, then he flips me the bird and leaves.
I smile, glad he’s back to himself again.
Once I’m home, I say hi to David, who’s camped out in the guest room watching a show on his laptop. With Cynthia, it seems, judging from the square icon on the corner of the screen that matches a framed photo of her on the nightstand.
“Bedroom looks good,” I say, though he didn’t do much with it. Ginny set it up, navy and white, guest-room style, and that seems to suit David’s temporary needs.
“It’s nice and rat-free,” he remarks.
“One of my favorite perks of this place.”
“Thanks again,” he says, then to the screen, he tells Cynthia he’ll be right back. He mutes himself and closes the laptop halfway. “I’ll look for a sublet this week, Dad.”
“No rush. Whatever works for you. Stay as long as you want,” I offer. It’s not his style, but damn, does it feel good to make the offer. To have the space and the means to make his life easier.
“I know,” he says with an almost embarrassed grin. “But my dad taught me to stand on my own two feet.”
Ah, hell. Way to make my heart thump with pride too. Like I have a choice but to cross to the bed and ruffle his hair. “You’re doing great, kiddo. Let me know how I can help.”
“I will,” he says, then fidgets with the laptop, clearly eager to get back to his girl. I ignore the slight pang of envy I feel that he can FaceTime her, focusing instead on how relaxed and calm he seems with her. I hope this blooming relationship continues to make him feel good.
I head toward the door. “Good night.”
“Night, Dad,” he says. That’s much better—Dad.
But just so there isn’t any confusion…
“No more Daddy Bancroft,” I say as I leave, voice stern.
“Yes, sir,” he says, and I don’t mind the sir one bit in this situation, because it’s a fitting response to a parental order. He better not call me that nickname again.
I get that he thinks it’s funny, and maybe it is to him. But not to me. Rose’s parents barely let me see my own kid when I was in college, right after he was born. I didn’t have much choice in the matter. I had more choices when I married her after college, but his name was his name then.
Now? I have choices. And David needs to know my choice is to be Dad, only Dad to him.
Alone in my bedroom suite, I take a shower then get ready for bed. As I’m brushing my teeth, my phone buzzes with a text. I set the toothbrush in the holder and check the screen.
My pulse surges the second I see the name.
Fucking annoying reaction.
I don’t want to be stupidly excited over a text.
I should ignore it.
I flip the phone over without opening the message, then head to bed, pull down the covers and grab my eReader.
I click on a book I downloaded the other night—a digital economics professor’s theories on how the elite will or won’t survive the future. But one page into the admittedly riveting opening, and I’m powerless to resist the device in the bathroom.
Tossing the covers off, I trudge back to the bathroom counter, grab the phone, and shake my head, annoyed I gave in so easily.
Besides, the text is probably nothing. It’s probably housekeeping stuff about the fundraiser planning this week. I shouldn’t even care so much, want so much. I open it in case it’s something I should deal with.
Her new name blinks up at me, with a double dose of irony. I changed her from Lola to Friend the night I met her at the diner.
It’s both a reminder and a precaution.
Friend: I meant to reach out yesterday, but I wasn’t sure if I should. But since I’ll see you this week for the fundraiser planning, I wanted to let you know that even though David asked how my date was, and even though he told me he mentioned it to you, he doesn’t know the date was supposed to have been with you. In case you were wondering.
My gut was right. It’s all housekeeping stuff. Housekeeping us . And the trouble is, she’s cleaning up the mess. That’s not fair or right, but I don’t see another way around the problem. But I can offer her one thing to help ease the load: gratitude.
Nick: I apologize that you had to deal with that. I wish I could have taken that one for the team.
Friend: Thank you for saying that, but it was fine. David and I are used to talking about dating. So it wasn’t unexpected.
I could end the convo at that, but I can’t quite let go. Yes, there’s more I want to know, but I also crave this connection with her. Clutching the phone, I head back to bed, flop down, and ask a question I don’t truly need the answer to.
Nick: What did you tell him?
Friend: That the guy canceled.
Nick: Ouch.
Friend: It was the easiest answer.
Nick: That guy sounds like a dick.
Friend: He missed what would have been an excellent date.
I grip the phone more tightly.
Just shut it down, man .
I should end the exchange here. There’s no need to keep it going. Truly, I should set the phone on the nightstand, return to the futurist’s theories, and stay in a cerebral state till I fall asleep. But that date I missed would have been damn good. I had big plans to catch up with her, learn more about who she is, the friendships she values. I planned to tell her more about my life, and then I wanted to bring her here. Right fucking here.
I am not in a cerebral state whatsoever as I tap out a reply.
Nick: He knows. Trust me, he knows.
I wait too long for a response that never comes, then I turn off my phone for the night. In bed, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling. In just a few days, she’ll be here, visiting, finalizing plans for the fundraiser. How the hell am I going to survive being in my home with my son and his irresistible friend?
No idea.
In the morning, I find a reply. In the form of a photo. It’s a shot of a black satin something. Then a note. Dear god. I groan for several seconds as I stare shamelessly at the image, then read the delicious words.
Friend: You were right.
I love that I was right. And I hate that I was right.