41. Lily
Lily
Seven days later
I ’m slumped over the toilet in between puking sessions.
Once I’m no longer projecting vomit from my mouth, I attempt to straighten up from where I’m crouching, but another violent wave of nausea hits me.
Oh, God.
I manage to kneel down just in time.
With my hands cupping my tummy, I empty the contents of my stomach.
That Italian sausage pizza I had a couple days ago is doing a number on me.
Was the cheese off? The sausage?
But it was a high rating pizza joint.
Unless it was the take-out lasagna I ate last night?
Message received.
I’m steering clear of Italian food for a while.
I try to get up, but I’m hit by another wave of nausea.
I angle my body and puke my guts out .
I try again to straighten up. This time I manage.
Victory.
I don’t even need to check to know I’m late.
My father is going to be furious.
I need to get out of here. Fast.
I step in front of the mirror and gasp in horror.
Puke stains my shirt and some of it is clumped to my hair.
Fuck.
I brush my teeth twice for good measure.
Once my breath doesn’t taste like rotten milk, I strip out of my soiled clothes, dump them on the floor in a messy pile, and jump into the shower.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m clean, but I don’t feel perked up.
Stepping out of the shower, I tiptoe to the mirror, apprehending the face that will be reflected back at me.
Yikes.
Even with my California tan, there’s a sickly tinge to my skin tone.
To avoid frightening young children, I do a five-minute face. I select a bright shade of hot pink blush to liven up my complexion.
Studying my reflection in the mirror, I sigh.
This will have to do.
Since there’s no time to blow dry my curtain of hair, I pull it back in a ponytail and braid it.
I assess myself in the mirror.
I don’t look like myself. Heck, I don’t feel like myself.
I don’t have the luxury to dwell on it for too long or else my puppet master will rip me a new one.
Go, go, go.
I rush to my bedroom and have a panic attack when I see the time on the clock sitting on the nightstand.
I sprint into my walk-in closet, slip into underwear, grab a purple maxi dress with three-quarter sleeves, and slip it on as I step into a pair of white Hermes sandals.
I exit my bedroom, snatch up my bag and my phone, and run out the door.
As I descend the stairs, I open the taxi app to book a ride.
Thank God, I won’t have to wait too long.
I shoot my father a quick text.
His response is instantaneous.
Puppet Master: I loathe tardiness. Why can’t you be on time? Go-getters show up on time.
I roll my eyes.
Lily: Sorry. Rough morning.
Puppet Master: How rough can it be when I’m footing the bill? You don’t even have to show up for a goddamn job. Excuses will keep you in the same dead-end position as the average American. Being average shouldn’t be your life goal.
I want to hurl my phone against the asphalt. Instead, I grunt in frustration and stomp my feet like a three-year-old. I don’t care if my neighbors witness my meltdown.
Breathe.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
When I reach ten, I fire off a response.
Lily: See you soon.
Puppet Master: Get here before my patience runs out .
I can’t wait to live on the other coast, far, far away from my puppet master.
Since returning to the Big Apple, I’ve been busy contacting different headhunters and temp agencies in Los Angeles.
I also spent time checking out different neighborhoods where I could live.
More than once, I was tempted to text Mikki, Keira, or Dom and ask them for help, but I refrained. I need to do this on my own.
Since LA’s subway system is a joke compared to New York’s, and distances are triple the travel time, I’ll have to buy a car to get around. Gridlock traffic will be a bitch. Being closer to Gage will more than make up for it.
I lift my eyes as a taxi comes to a screeching halt in front of me.
I jump into the back seat as a text message appears on my screen.
Puppet Master: Are you close? I don’t have all day. I have a company to run.
Lily: I texted you two minutes ago. I’m on my way. Please don’t text me again. You’re stressing me out.
I dump my phone at the bottom of my bag. “Fuck!”
The driver meets my gaze through the rearview mirror.
I roll my eyes.
He nods.
I’m about to rub my hands over my face, but catch myself. Smearing my makeup would only get me another verbal lynching from my puppet master.
I wish his business trip to Washington DC had extended even longer.
Sigh.
Since I have to eat––if I can hold anything down––I intend on killing two birds with one stone.
I might not be there by choice since he summoned me, but I sure as hell will leverage this face to face.
The typical lunch or dinner with my father is the same old song and dance––it’s me sitting there, trying hard not to roll my eyes at what comes out of his mouth.
Not today.
By the time the salad is served, I’ll have informed him of my plans to move to LA.
Here goes nothing…
Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at Jean-Georges near Central Park—the three Michelin starred restaurant my father favors these days.
As I follow the ma?tre d’ through the elegant eatery packed with the lunchtime crowd, the different aromas hit my nostrils all at once.
I place a hand on my stomach.
I’m going to be sick.
Holy shit, what’s going on with my stomach today?
I take several deep breaths, praying to God, I don’t have to rush to the bathroom.
That does the trick.
When I regain my composure, I scour the restaurant, searching for my father.
Where is he?
I wouldn’t put it past him if he had left.
“Mr. Edgington requested a private room,” the ma?tre d’ says from over his shoulder as if he could read my thoughts.
Whatever he has to say must be important if it has to happen behind closed doors .
The ma?tre d’ arrives in front of a room, knocks three times, and opens the door. With a hand gesture, he ushers me in.
“Thank you,” I say.
With a curt head bow, he scurries off.
When I enter the room, my father isn’t alone.
Crap.
Two men dressed in impeccable bespoke suits rise to their feet.
“Finally,” my father says. “At this rate, it’ll soon be happy hour.”
Asshole. I force a smile. “I’m sorry I’m late.” I keep it simple. Excuses will only earn me a lecture.
“Lily, do you remember Giuseppe DeMaro?”
My eyes shift to the man with dark brown hair and coffee-colored eyes that stands a foot over my father’s five-feet-nine-inch frame. His wide smile takes over his face.
“You’re Dario DeMaro’s son.”
“Yes,” he says, extending a hand.
I shake it.
“Please call me John––the English version of my Italian name. All my friends do.”
We’re not friends.
“I’m flattered you’d remember me.” He smiles. “A stunning woman like you must meet so many men, far more memorable than me.”
Giuseppe DeMaro is right. Other than his expensive tailored suit, nothing about him stands out. The same applies to his three older brothers. His younger sister is pretty in an artificial way. In my opinion, she’s way too young for collagen lip injections.
I let go of his clammy hand and resist the urge to wipe my hand on my dress.
I can’t find it in me to match his smile, so I don’t even try.
“Your father had donated a large amount to the charity that supports the advancement of black youth from poor neighborhoods in New York’s five boroughs in the technology field,” I say.
“Dad is all about a good tax deduction.”
So is my father. “His interest doesn’t go any deeper?”
“Supporting anything black-related is big on social media, so it makes us look good. Whatever makes us look good, makes us more money. More money, more power. Power is everything.”
My eyebrows hit my forehead. “Why not support a cause your dad believes in?”
“My dad believes in money. Native Americans, whites, blacks, Eskimos, Australian Aboriginals, indigenous people from the Amazon rainforest, purple people with yellow hair.” He shrugs.
“It doesn’t matter as long as that means less money going into Uncle Sam’s pockets,” Giuseppe who would rather be called John says.
Alrighty then.
Gage comes to mind.
The way he helped that transition house was so selfless.
I’m sure he got a whopping tax adduction, but that wasn’t his motivation. His donation had significance. He wanted to do his mom proud.
“That’s why Dad is a hundred percent behind Chandler as the next mayor of New York City,” Giuseppe says. “It’s a great tax deduction that will help get the right man for the job in office.”
I didn’t expect this to be a working lunch.
Not that I had much of an appetite, but the little I had, disappears.
“This conversation is way above Lily’s pay grade,” my puppet master says. “She doesn’t even need to work for a living, which is why she’s a half hour late.”
How condescending.
It’s one thing for him to put me down, but another to do it in front of a stranger.
My retort dies on my lips when there’s a knock at the door.
A waiter appears, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a silver bucket in the other.
“Mr. Edgington you’re in luck,” the waiter says, “I snatched the last bottle of chilled Krug Grande Cuvee Brut.”
He claps. “Excellent! This celebration calls for the best champagne.”
What are we celebrating?
My father checks his seventy-five-thousand-dollar Audemar Piguet watch before returning his attention to the waiter. “Give me twenty minutes or so before opening it. Please set it on the table.”
“I can come back,” the waiter says. “It’s best if this particular champagne is served cold.”
“If it isn’t too much to ask,” my father says.
The waiter smiles. “Not for one of our best customers.”
“Thank you.” My father swings his attention to the other man in the room. “Giuseppe, do you mind stepping out so I can talk to Lily? Go have a drink at the bar. I’ll get the ma?tre d’ to summon you when we’re ready.”
“No problem, Fisher.” Giuseppe-slash-John reaches out and touches my arm.
I flinch at the contact.