Chapter 9
9
Nick
Remorse has consumed me.
That I didn’t kiss her and we didn’t take the time to exchange numbers or surnames frequents the back of my mind. I regret falling asleep next to her without getting every last tidbit.
But more so, I’m beginning to regret the entire weekend altogether. Another birthday passed, graduation came and went. I officially left Stanford behind and passed the bar exam.
I’m a full-fledged practicing attorney, also known as an adult. That’s how my dad refers to me these days. If adulting consists of being buried in the routine everyday of the legal department of Christiansen Wealth Management, then it sucks most days. Is it challenging? Sure, sometimes, but I’m left with generally mundane tasks like reviewing contracts and sitting in on meetings to discuss the expansion of the company. It leaves too much time for my mind to wander back to a girl I met last spring.
Four months later, it’s easier to call her Natalie No-Last-Name to give our encounter some substance. Natalie doesn’t seem enough for something that felt big . . . feels big. I only call her that in my head, of course. But the name is more fitting than I’m comfortable admitting.
Thinking about her isn’t healthy. Dating no longer interests me, like somehow, I had a taste of the good life, and now I can’t be bothered with anything less. Sex is still appealing, but no one holds my attention as Natalie did. I’ve never struggled like this—not with women or dating, finding someone to hook up with or even skipping the foreplay and just fucking. It was never a big deal before.
One night in Catalina ruined the life I was living. Not that I was content, but hell, I had a life at least. Now it feels like I’ve left that back in Catalina.
I try to keep my thoughts regarding Natalie to a minimum and am quick to rid them from my mind and focus on my future. That means being present instead of living in the past.
My job is always a good excuse to get out of the text invitations from girls I’ve hooked up with in the past and women who are interested in me now. All I have to say is, “I have to work in the morning,” and that’s a free pass without further explanation.
They are none the wiser.
But why can’t I seem to connect with someone like I did with Natalie? Surely, there has to be someone who interests me. The few times I went out with other women, I felt as though I was betraying someone who isn’t real, yet who steals my thoughts and consumes my spare time. Sometimes I can still see her so vividly that I’m delusional enough to reach out and touch her, her laughter filling my ears and the way she looked at me as though I was saving her.
From what?
Another shot?
No, it was more than that, but I need to let it go—let her go—once and for all. My phone lights up with a text.
Mom: Dad will be home in ten.
Me: I’ll be down.
This is the weekend we celebrate the man who has provided a life of luxury by means of financial advisement to the wealthiest Angelenos. My mom goes out of her way to throw the biggest and best party for my dad, spending countless hours planning every meticulous detail. So, there’s no missing it, no matter how much work we have to do. The four of us are expected to be here.
This was the perfect event to bring a date, yet not one name other than Natalie-No-Last-Name came to mind. I’m so fucked.
My brother and I delivered his diamond jubilee gift of cufflinks earlier this evening. He’ll wear them tonight, but otherwise, they’ll join the rest in his collection, rotating them out for special occasions. I imagine cufflinks have to be ranked up there with ties as the most boring gift to receive. They remind me of the life I don’t want to lead.
The door opens, and Andrew leans in to judge me with just a glance. “I thought Mom wanted you in the Brooks Brothers tux?” he asks. Being fashionably late isn’t something my brother and I strive for. It’s an effort to blend in. We usually fail because our good looks run in the family, so we tend to stand out. “I was feeling Armani.”
I shrug the jacket down by the hem and then fix my tie standing in front of the mirror.
“You should have shaved.”
Rubbing my jaw, I walk past him into the hallway. “I like to keep Dad guessing.”
“You mean pissed,” he says, chuckling. “Those are two different things.” He closes my door and then catches up with me before we descend the stairs. Andrew might be two years older, but you wouldn’t know it by our height. We’ve measured, and we’re identical down to the millimeter. Not that we’re competitive or anything.
His hair is a few shades lighter than mine, taking more after Cookie’s than Corbin’s. I look more like my father, inheriting his lighter brown eyes and hair color.
If I’m the golden boy, then Andrew is pure platinum. He fails at nothing, and our dad respects the hell out of him. Andrew also has less of an ax to grind. He always wanted to join the business and followed through. He’s built his own prestigious clientele of new money here in LA, impressing not only my dad but also bringing in some major bank for the company. “Yes, they are,” I say, grinning.
He shakes his head as we walk downstairs. “Are you trying to give him a heart attack on his birthday, Nick?”
I, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about financial strategies and the market. I also have no desire to work directly under my father, so joining the legal team—with the intention of one day running it—is the compromise we settled on, which leaves my dad’s sons running the business when he retires. It’s a win all around.
I stop when we land on the marble floor. “Neither a brand of tux nor me not shaving is going to give him a heart attack, stroke, or other fatal condition. It will rankle his feathers at best. I’ll keep his glass of scotch full, and he’ll be fine.”
His jovial expression turns serious, and he asks, “I wanted to talk to you quickly about New York. What are your thoughts?”
“I can fly out, meet the heads, and get the contracts.” With the party in full swing, I move off to the side to finish this conversation in private.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he says, “My schedule can be rearranged, and I can go with you.”
“It’s no big deal, Andrew.”
He laughs. “It’s actually a huge deal.”
“I can handle it.”
Nodding, he says, “I know you can. I also think it’s a great opportunity. One I wish I’d been given.” The noise from the crowd filters into the foyer, and Andrew looks over my shoulder. “It’s getting busy.”
I glance over my shoulder. “These parties always are.”
When I turn back, he says, “Look, Nick, I know you never dreamed of working for the company, but having you there is an asset.”
“By last name alone, but I don’t do anything any other attorney couldn’t do.”
“It’s good having you there. That’s all I wanted to say.” Shoulder to shoulder, he pats my back, then says, “Time to play nice.”
“I’ll do my best.” We start walking again, and I add, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, little brother.”
I just shake my head and laugh.
The house drips with crystals that sparkle like diamonds when reflecting the light from the chandeliers. With bars inside and out, a buffet as long as the Oscars red carpet, and a clear night as if she demanded nothing less of September, this might be the pinnacle to Cookie Christiansen’s party planning.
Trays of champagne circulate, but I’m ready for something stronger, so Andrew and I head for the bar as party guests flow in from the terrace. I order, “Rum and Coke, and a scotch from that bottle you have stored away for the guest of honor.”
With drinks in our hands, Andrew leads the way as we walk outside through the partygoers to find my parents greeting the guests as they arrive.
“Happy Birthday, Dad,” I say, gifting him with a fresh cocktail.
“Thank you, son.” He looks pleased by the drink and gives me a smile. “You always did have great timing.” As we shake hands, he adds, “I see you dressed for the occasion.” I was waiting for the dig to come but thought it would take him a few drinks to get around to it. He’s a traditional guy, so maybe I intended to push a few buttons with the scruff and modern cut suit.
He’d normally dive into a game of verbal volleyball. He loves to be right, but so do Andrew and I. My mom is usually left refereeing. It’s always done in fun and keeps us about our wits. He takes a gulp of his drink, not holding back. Go, Dad. The edges of his shoulders begin to slouch, and he appears more relaxed. “Nick brought the good stuff.”
My mom smiles, a silent message of gratitude aimed at me. Rubbing my dad’s shoulder, she says, “Only the best on this special day.”
Covering her hand with his, he looks at her, and it’s easy to see the love shared between them. Don’t get me wrong, my dad can be an asshole when it comes to business, but never to my mother. “It’s brilliant. You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, Cookie.”
“You know I love to spoil you.”
Glancing at Andrew and then at me, he laughs. “She does. Find yourselves a woman like your mother, sons, and you’ll never go a day without smiling.”
Speaking of . . . While I was at law school, Andrew was stuck in the thick of marriage and kids talk. Part of joining “the family business” entails expanding the actual family by raising future Christiansen execs to keep the line of succession going.
Andrew looks at me. “Was that Mr. and Mrs. Dalery arriving a bit ago?”
Leaning in, my mom whispers, “Dalen Dalery came with her parents. She looks . . .” She pauses and then lowers her voice even more. “Distinctive. She’s really changed since high school, Andrew.”
Distinctive? Wow, if that word doesn’t raise a red flag, I’m not sure what would.
My mom is blind to the fact that Dalen used to be crazy. If she knew that Dalen cheated on my brother back in high school, she’d go all mama bear on her despite the cutesy baked goods name.
He looks over his shoulder like a man on the run, and asks, “How long do we have to stay?”
Since my dad is shaking hands and back to greeting guests again, my mom laughs between us. “Two hours, and then you’re free from all family duties tonight.”
Andrew gives her a hug. “You’re a good cookie, Cookie.”
“Don’t I know it,” she adds.
My brother and I leave them to it and make our way back inside, shaking the hands of people we know and some others who introduce themselves. Eventually, we part ways. He returns to the bar, and I head for the buffet. I don’t get two cubes of Swiss cheese on my plate before I’m cornered. “Hey, Nick.”
Speak of the devil. And holy fucking whoa!
I pop my eyes back in after they bug out. Different is an understatement. Dalen leans in, and air-kisses are exchanged. What? We’re in LA. This is what we do. But I’m still in shock by the drastic change in her . . . “I, uh . . .”
“It’s been years, Nick. How are you?” Her hair, formerly brown, has gone platinum with big curls pinned to the sides of her head. It reminds me of a centerfold from some magazines my uncle gave me when I was sixteen.
Her tits are making quite the grand entrance in the low-cut dress. Keeping my eyes above deck is going to be a testament to my willpower. She wasn’t flat-chested back then, but mountains is the only thing that comes to mind now. Looking around me like I’m hiding my brother back there, she asks, “I haven’t seen Andrew tonight. Is he here?”
“He’s around.” I almost feel bad for selling him out. Almost. But let’s get real . . . pun intended, which makes me think of Natalie, Dalen has no interest in me. It’s always been about my brother. It always will be until he’s married with kids. And I can’t say she’ll even get the hint then. Since she’s not in a hurry to leave, I step back from the table, out of the way of other guests trying to get to the cheese, to force my eyes to look at anything other than her chest. I ask, “Still living in LA?”
“In Hollywood, actually. I have an apartment near Sunset. Great views of the Hills and close to everything.” She moves around me, touching my wrist as if she’s afraid I’ll leave. “I hear you’re in law school. I never took you for the lawyer type when you were younger.” She pops a grape in her mouth.
“What can I say? I like to surprise people and graduated last May. I’m working with my brother and dad now.” With impeccable timing, I spy my friend cutting through the party and know my night is about to change. For the better.
Harrison barrels up, hand raised ready to smack down on mine. “Dude, bring it in.”
I lay a fiver down, and we bump shoulders after that. “You made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Cookie’s parties are always worth the stop-by.” When he casually looks to my side, he does a double take. “Holy—Dalen?”
Either she’s changed more than her physical appearance or she’s gotten better at hiding her crazy because sounding sweet as a kitten, she says, “Hi, Harrison. Look at you all grown.”
I’m not sure he physically bites his tongue, but he definitely holds it. Harrison is an honorary Christiansen. You mess with one of us, you mess with all. He says, “Wow, you look . . .” He’s wise to think twice about his words before sharing them. She waits, shifting in discomfort with every exaggerated second that ticks by. “Great.”
She beams, his compliment feeding the need she apparently has to please. “Thanks, Harrison.” She pinches his cheek. “You always were a sweetheart.” Moving to the other side of us, she rubs my bicep. “It was good catching up. And if you see Andrew, will you let him know I’m here?”
“Absolutely. Have a good night.”
As soon as she’s out of earshot, Harrison says, “Holy shit, that’s quite a look.”
“Yeah, it is.” But I don’t want to spend my time talking about Dalen. “I promised my mom we’d stay for another hour.”
“We can go upstairs to burn some time?” See? Harrison gets me. He also has to deal with the same rules in his family, so he’s learned to work around them. “And yes, I did greet your parents. Cookie’s in her element, isn’t she?”
I laugh. “Ah, yes. These things don’t stress her. They invigorate her.” I shake my head. She has endless energy. “Grab some food, and we’ll head up.”
“On it.”
We hang out in my room as we always did—me taking the recliner and him settling on the couch. It’s an ugly-ass chair, but it’s so damn comfortable that I can’t get rid of it. I kick the footrest up. It feels like we’re teenagers again when we hang out like this. I miss it. And I know he regrets not going to Stanford. His dad is even more of a hard-ass than my dad. Without the benefit of having Cookie to soften the blow. “Maybe it’s time to approach your dad again.”
Harrison finishes his appetizer plate and grabs the plate of desserts to polish off next. “He won’t budge. I need two years of actively selling real estate under my belt in some other office before he’ll bring me into his. The first two years are garbage, and he’d rather not smell the stench of my humiliation, as he puts it so kindly.”
“That sucks.”
After taking a drink, he lowers his glass with little left inside it. “How do things stand with you and your dad?”
“Good as long as I’m fulfilling his plan.” The thought has me finishing my drink as well. “I’m flying to New York next week. Andrew says it’s a good opportunity.”
He studies me, searching for the cracks in my story to decipher how I really feel about it. “Why you?”
“It’s a company we’re in talks with to buy. They want to meet one of us, and Dad thought it would be a good job for me since I’ll also be delivering the contracts.”
“Ah, I see. A takeover.”
Kicking back, I set my glass down on a table beside me. “No, first, we’ll ask nicely.”
He chuckles and starts munching on a mini piece of cheesecake. “How kind of you.”
“I haven’t mentioned it since there aren’t a lot of details and it might fall through, but my dad and Andrew want to be in New York. They want the address and the presence. If all goes well, talk of moving me out there has been tossed around.”
His eyes narrow just enough to notice as he seems to mull over what I said. “Is this something you want?”
“I’d miss surfing.”
Taking a bite of cookie, he chews, and then asks, “And your best friend?”
“Let’s not go that far,” I reply, teasing. “Of course, man. It’s not a done deal, but they’d make it worth my while to pursue.”
“There’s a lot of valuable real estate in New York.”
That’s my friend. Nodding, I add, “Sure is, and I like the way you think.”
He gets up, snooping through stuff that’s been sitting around since I was a preteen. Holding an MVP trophy from my junior year in high school, he asks, “Isn’t New York where Tatum and Natalie were from?”
“Sure is,” I repeat my earlier answer, suddenly wondering what the chances are that I would see her again. One in eight-plus million. Guess that settles it.
What’s the point in hoping when the odds aren’t in my favor?
My head is finally getting the message, but now I’m dealing with my stupid heart. And that hasn’t received the memo.