14. Before Him
14
BEFORE HIM
Finn
As I head to meet Tate on Sunday morning, I feel like I’m putting on a mask.
It’s not something I want to do with my friend. I detest lying, but there’s no getting around it. When my brother hid his relationship with Layla from his son, back when they were first dating, I advised Nick to stop sneaking around. But this weekend, I was the one sneaking around. But this weekend is over. It’s behind me.
I need to get into the exercise zone ASAP. I spot Tate stretching his quads next to the bench by the entrance to the High Line and jog over to him.
He looks up, business as usual, and gives a curt nod.
I act like nothing has changed since Thursday. Which, I suppose, it hasn’t.
“Surprised you showed up,” he says gruffly. He does nearly everything gruffly, except write airtight contracts. That’s why I like him. He’s straightforward in life and diligent in business.
“Because I’m usually such a no-show,” I deadpan.
He clears his throat, a reminder that I bailed in advance yesterday.
Yeah, I’m not going there. I nod to the running path, which at seven a.m. is already teeming with weekend warriors. “I stretched at home. Let’s do this, old man,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “Fuck you.”
It’s an easy target, but I take it. When your buddy is eight years older than you, you can always rib him for being old.
The trash talk covers up my guilt and so does the exercise.
The morning air is cool, the light catching the edges of buildings, creating a golden glow. We weave through the stream of joggers, hitting a brisk pace quickly.
“So, how was your Friday night?” Tate asks. Since I didn’t run yesterday, it was inevitable he’d ask. Still sucks though. “Better than it’s been over the last couple of years?”
The twisting? It’s a fucking knife right now in my gut.
Tate was there for me when things with Marilyn went south—there in exactly the way I needed, giving me a focus as his workout partner, finding triathlons that raised money for causes from cancer to children’s hospitals, and developing a training schedule for running, biking, and swimming.
Suited his needs too. He’s become addicted to our races. He’d joined our local running club a few months after his daughter’s death, and he’d once told me running was his therapy.
“I have no complaints,” I say, then shift the topic. “Except that you’re a fucking turtle this morning.”
I peel ahead, running faster, needing distance. Maybe in a few more days it’ll be easier, this…lying by omission.
But Tate’s resilient. He hates losing. So he pounds the pavement relentlessly until he catches up. When he does, I make sure I take the reins of the conversation. “What about you? How’s Liz doing with the new hires?”
He talks about his wife’s projects at her company as we go.
This is freedom for me, outpacing other runners as we push further and further out of our comfort zones. My heart races as I outrun the recent years of heartache, maybe even the other night of pleasure too. My lungs burn and my quads scream, but with each passing mile, the unease in me lessens, like I’ve burned off the emotions.
Soon enough, we slow down, nearing the end of our run.
“Big week ahead,” Tate says, his breath coming fast as we veer to an exit on the path. “The paperwork is all done. I’m seriously fucking proud of this deal.”
I clap his shoulder, proud of him too. “You should be,” I say, slowing to a light jog. “You made it all happen.”
A rare smile shifts his lips. The man is stoic so much of the time, rarely letting an emotion through. I understand why. He’s been through hell and doesn’t want to feel pain like that again.
We slow to a walk and head to our usual coffee cart, just off the running path. “Thanks for taking a chance on this old cop,” Tate says, earnestly.
I laugh. “Easiest decision ever.”
“No, I mean it,” he says, sounding more vulnerable. “You were my first client. You took a big chance. I want to do right by you, Finn.”
Ah, hell.
The knife goes deeper, digs farther. “You have, man. You have,” I say, focusing only on this deal.
I don’t want to linger on Friday night, and why I invited Tate’s daughter over. Or why I didn’t cancel before she arrived. I don’t even have a “heat of the moment” excuse. My night with Jules was one hundred percent premeditated.
I know why I invited her, why I didn’t cancel— because I wanted her.
But in the light of day, that reasoning doesn’t hold up. That’s flimsy and trivial compared to a friendship that’s real and true. Best to focus on that.
Tate came to me when he passed the bar. I took a chance on him when I ran my own venture firm, farming out smaller contracts. He proved his mettle. When Nick and I recently merged our firms into Strong Ventures, I told my brother we were now one of Tate’s clients.
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.