2. Frederick
2
FREDERICK
" A nd that's when I knew I should have gone to St. Moritz instead of Aspen," Melanie says.
She executes the perfect fairytale princess laugh and tosses her beautiful dark hair. Half of the men in the restaurant glance in our direction.
"We should have known most of Hollywood would be there hogging all the reservations given the time of year," she continues. "It was so annoying."
"My heart goes out to you," I say with a laugh.
I didn’t want to come to this restaurant in the first place, and I definitely didn’t plan on being on a date. It was another sneak attack by my mother and uncle.
We can’t make the dinner, but Melanie’s great, Mom’s ambush-by-text had said. I’m sure she never planned to be here.
"So," she says, leveling her eyes at me. "I hear you're a lawyer."
"Newly minted, but yes. Thank God I passed. I’m officially Frederick Adams, Esquire."
"My brother says the bar is a bear of a test."
"He's not wrong."
Just the fact that my uncle and mother engineered this date makes it almost impossible for me to want a second with her, let alone a relationship. She’s a pretty enough white woman, and there’s no glaring red flags, but there’s also no real chemistry either.
I wonder what kind of emergency I can fake to get out of the remainder of the lunch. I glance around for inspiration.
"And you're working for a judge?"
"Yes, on the Second Circuit. It’s grueling, but a rite of passage and all that. And it’s fun to write court decisions.”
"I admire that," she says. "You're like my brother. So many of our friends live off their trust funds. I think it's important to make a difference. To work."
I nod. "Yes."
I try not to cringe. I know she means well. The waiter refilling our water glasses has a perfectly neutral face, as I’m sure he’s been conditioned to.
Being useful and earning one's own way is important. But simply having the choice to work or not, that’s a privilege that makes the decision feel tainted, as I'm sure our waiter would agree.
"And what do you do instead of living off the trust fund?" I ask, smiling and sipping my water.
"I'm an influencer."
Of course.
"And I'm creating my own line of cashmere loungewear."
"I can't wait to own a set," I say.
She eyes my 6'1" frame and bats her eyelashes at me. "I hadn't thought of a menswear collection, but if you'll wear them…"
"I promise."
"Well, you're fit at least, you have that going for you," she says, taking a sip of her wine. I notice she's had quite a lot. Something suddenly clicks, and I wonder how she got roped into this lunch.
"Thank you, I think? And what do you mean by having that going for me exactly?"
She looks at her plate, then sighs.
"My mother likes to fix me up with people. Most of them are older. But you're actually smart and nice, and look, well… You're pretty sexy. If you don't mind me saying so."
"Thank you. But let's rewind a sec. Are you saying I'm a match made by your mom?"
She actually blushes.
I laugh and throw my napkin on the table. "You won't believe this." I pull out the text to show her.
Relief floods across her face. "So, I'm not the only one with a crazy family?"
I shake my head. "Do they use your trust fund as leverage?" I ask.
She nods her head furiously. "I actually was in love not too long ago, but I broke it off. If I married him, they said no trust fund, no cashmere loungewear business. His family were farmers from Indiana, and that’s not what they pictured. Sure, I was in love, but maybe I wasn’t that in love. Not enough to give up my life."
"Well, I’m glad you’re doing well now.”
“Yeah, mostly. Mainly just focusing on my business. I go on these dates, but I don’t know. If I find the one, that’s one thing, but I’m in no hurry.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
We finish up, ask for the check, and say goodbye with the understanding that we have no interest in seeing each other again.
I got off easy this time, I think as I walk through the park in the growing dusk. Those meals usually end so much worse.
Even disasters, however, haven't stopped my family from trying to use the trust fund as a cudgel to enforce my behavior when it comes to who I date and what I do. But I won’t let them.
I pause to listen to the sounds of a busker playing an electric piano. I am trying to develop independence.
I recognize Chopin's Nocturne in C minor.
Fitting for the evening , I think. And a thoughtful choice considering most musicians pick whatever will bring in the most cash.
I want to see just who this person is who’s choosing to play classical instead of Top 40.
She is beautiful. A young Black woman, with incredible eyes that appear green in the fading light when she glances up. She's got talent as well.
I sit on a bench a short way off, not close enough to be uncomfortable, but close enough that I can watch her.
For a few minutes, I am blissfully free of the noise in my head and the stress of the day, absorbing the music and the beauty of the evening around me.
When she finishes, a few other people sitting on benches clap. An elderly lady approaches to ask if she knows any Schumann.
My eyebrows raise. It's quite the request.
"Robert or Clara?" comes the response, and I do a double take. This person is a true musician.
The older woman seems to agree with me. "Oh, Robert."
The pianist nods and proceeds with the Etudes Symphoniques, impressing the old woman, who nods in approval as she goes back to her seat.
Who is this? I wonder, watching her play the keyboard as if it were a grand piano. Why can't I go out with someone like this, who’s pretty and talented?
I listen to the entire first movement. When it’s over, I pull a fifty from my wallet and put it in her cup.
"Thank you.” Her voice is soft but full of self-possession.
She spares a quick glance and a smile, and I smile back as she continues playing. The music follows me down the path, my mind returning to the same old problems I've been rehashing for a while now.
How can I convince my family to lay off?
I thought going into the law was a career prestigious enough to convince them to leave me alone. But I had to attend Harvard Law School, like my mom’s father, not Columbia, like I wanted. In the end, I went with my own choice, not hers.
That isn't the worst of it. It always comes back to who I will marry, why I’m not dating, or who I could bring to the big events of the season, because not going is not an option, according to them.
Only it is for me. I just don’t go. My mother can bitch about it, but I’d rather live my own life than be a marionette under her hands.
She thinks I give a shit about the inheritance, but I don’t. ‘Fine, cut me out of the will,’ is my usual line, and she’s the one who starts crying from the threat.
Her threat doesn’t work as leverage when it doesn’t make me budge. But it does get annoying.
Maybe I can pay an actress. I realize there is an entire industry that ‘escorts’ people, but my family would likely see right through that in a moment unless they’re extremely high-end. And for that price, I could hire an actual thespian.
But paying a woman to pose as my wife? Maybe with a prenup and an actual ceremony and all that?
I start thinking through the actual logistics of finding someone. If not an actress, maybe a friend of a friend. Or a public interest lawyer who needs to pay off her loans.
I find myself turning onto a walking path under the branches of old-growth oaks. It’s one of those places where Mom told me not to go after dark, back when Central Park was actually dangerous.
I find my way out.
“Hey,” I say with a nod to the man entering the path in dirty jeans and a brown hoodie. There’s something menacing about his expression.
“Hey, can you help me?” he calls out. I look behind me.
“Okay. What do you need help with?”
I don’t want to spend any extra time with this guy, who gives me the creeps.
He walks slowly toward me, and I’m walking slowly away.
“I’m trying to get directions…” I see the metal glint of a knife before I’m thrown into a chokehold.
“Give me your wallet. I can tell you have money.”
I try my best to break free, but he’s strong. After some strenuous effort, I manage to drop my shoulder and rear back, punching him in the jaw. Startled, he lets go and falls to the ground.
I turn to walk away, assuming I’ve made my point. I’m very wrong.
Arms reach around me again, stopping me from leaving. He punches my ribs. I kick him in the gut and manage to land a good punch to the face when he reels back. He lunges forward with the knife, and I just barely dodge the blow.
God, if my mother hears about this after all the times she told me not to come here at night, I’m never going to hear the end of it. Maybe I’d be better off letting this asshat kill me after all.