Chapter Ten #2
with a client, and that I'd see that you get there on time," she
tells him. "So don't you make me look bad."
"Thanks." My father's tone
is strangely grateful and serious, all the banter dissolved into
thin air, and there's an awkwardness that lingers.
I don't know why I'm so
put off by the idea of my father dating. It's been five years,
surely he's been with women since my mother, and has probably even
had real relationships. It's possible, I realize, that he's even in
one now. That the woman he's meeting could be his girlfriend, for
all I know. And even though rationally I know it's none of my
business, I feel a curiosity, no—a suspicion—that's crawling
through my veins, pushing me to find out just what this man is up
to.
Maybe it's because nothing
I've learned about him today has been what I'd been expecting. He's
not who I thought he was. Who I thought he would be. And now I feel
an unsettling need to know more about his life, either to prove to
myself that he's full of shit—that he's still the bastard I knew
him to be—or to confirm that maybe, just possibly, there's an off
chance he might be worth getting to know.
I feel like a pussy for
even thinking it. Like I've been fooling myself into thinking I was
an adult. That in actuality, I'm still just a na?ve little boy, hoping against hope
that his father might be even half the man that in the darkest
corner of my heart, I'd always dreamed he could be.
Sue hugs me goodbye and
makes me promise to come by the office again soon. I feel guilty
agreeing, but I do, because it's the easiest thing to do. She tells
me to take care of myself, and not to let finals or whatever is
stressing me out get to me. That I'm too
handsome to look so damn serious. That
gets a faint smile out of me.
Mitch enters the elevator
with me, and I quietly watch him with renewed interest as we ride
down to the lobby, ignoring the few strangers that get on and off
at the few stops on the way.
We exit together, and I
pull the folded up visitor's sticker from my pocket and chuck it in
a waste bin on our way out.
"Sammy," he says as soon
as we're both through the revolving glass doors.
He says it like he means
to stop me. He probably thought I would just leave now that I've
gotten what I came for. He has no way of knowing that in the past
few minutes, I've decided to follow him. Just to see who he's
meeting for lunch. If it's really a date, or if I was just jumping
to conclusions, because it could just as easily be a business
lunch.
I don't know what he wants
to say, but I don't want to have some big moment. But he is helping
me and he doesn't have to, and I feel an irrational whisper of
guilt. Not for judging the man he was—because I knew that man well,
and he deserved my condemnation. But for never considering that he
could have changed.
I'm not saying he deserves
a second chance, and honestly, I'm not sure I have it in me to give
him one, even if everything he's told me is true. But I could give
him something.
"Thank you, Mitch," I
murmur. The words don't come out easily, and I clear my throat
awkwardly before I continue. "I do appreciate your help with
Rory."
A small smile plays on his
lips, and I'm surprised by how much satisfaction he derives from a
simple thank you from me. He nods, but doesn't offer the simple "you're
welcome" I'm expecting.
"You are right, Sammy, you
know. Most people who fall in love at your age are
na?ve. It's not
real. It's puppy love, and they're in for a rude awakening when
life gets in the way."
I narrow my eyes at him. I
did not ask for his love advice, that's for damn sure, and since he
so adamantly defended his high school love story just a couple of
hours ago, I don't even get where he's coming from.
"But this… you…" he
gestures to me, "this isn't that. Life is clearly already very in
the way, and look at you, you're no puppy." He shakes his head, and
when he looks back at me, the persistence in his eyes unsettles me
even more. "But then, you never were. I didn't allow you to be. You
never really got to be a kid. For God's sake, you were defending
your mother and sister when you were only thirteen." His hand rakes
through his hair and I watch him flood with self-recrimination and
shame.
It keeps me stunned into
silence, unable to utter a single word.
"You need to know this is
real, Sam. You being here right now, when I know very well it's the
last place you ever wanted to have to come for a favor… I see you
when you say you'd go to jail to keep this girl safe, and I know
how serious you are. And you need to know that that is not high
school puppy love. That is real. That is forever." He takes a step
toward me, intent as I've ever seen him.
"Do not convince yourself
it's anything less just because you're young, and do not think for
a second that it comes around twice. Do not make the mistake of
taking it for granted, and do not buy into your own bullshit about
just being her friend."
I stare at him,
open-mouthed. That is literally the last thing I'd expected to hear
out of him.
Until this morning, I
thought my parents were the poster children for avoiding
high-school relationships, and now here he is, telling me what I
already know about Rory and me.
But who the fuck is he to
give relationship advice? This man beat his wife repeatedly, chose
alcohol over her, and even broke her fucking nose. And now, despite
the fact that he swore his undying love for her barely an hour ago,
he's about to go meet another woman. Fucking asshat.
"Not sure you should be
giving out relationship advice," I grit out.
He nods, like he
completely expected my snark. "Exactly. And nobody understands just
what it is you have to lose more than I do. But you love this girl,
Sammy, and I think you know it. And I'd bet my entire practice that
she loves you just as much, and if there's anything good that can
come from my mistakes, it's that I can tell you this:
"Don't doubt it. Don't
second guess it. You know. If you're scared, that's okay,
you should be. Love is scary. But not as scary as living without
the one person who makes your life worth living. So whatever stupidity
makes you think that you're just
friends, resolve it. Tell her how you
feel. Because I may deserve my fate, but you don't."
My father is
unrecognizable to me. Passionate, frazzled, with no sign of the
poised professional from upstairs in his office. I swallow the lump
in my throat and try to ignore the weight in my chest, crushing my
heart and telling me that I am looking at my own future. That no
matter how successful I become professionally, without Rory, this
is who I will be. A sad cautionary tale of lost love. And I'm
equally to blame for my fate as my father is for his. Because
though there isn't a single part of me that would ever hurt Rory,
my inability to control my anger, and my propensity to throw fists,
blew our relationship up in smoke before it ever had a real
chance.
I want to scream. I want
to rip out my own hair. I want to throw more fists.
Because it's too fucking
late.
My father's advice can't
help me. Because I've told her how I feel—I've tried. But he's
wrong about one key thing, and I just about tell him I'll accept
that bet and take the law practice he's always loved so damn much.
Because I know now that Rory doesn't love me just as much as I do
her. And there's nothing I can do with this advice. There's no help
for me now. And part of me wants to hit the man in front of me even
now, just for his role in making me what I am—in making me a man
who throws punches first and asks questions never—a man Rory could
never truly love.
My father gets ahold of
himself, combing his fingers through his hair and patting it back
into place. He apologizes for overstepping, but tells me to think
about what he said.
"Sure," I tell him, and
then before he can say another word, I turn and walk
away.
I don't go far though. I
make my way behind a food cart and turn to see what direction he
heads in. He crosses Madison and heads toward Fifth Avenue as he'd
said, and I make to follow him, staying half a block behind at all
times.
He checks his watch
repeatedly, obviously nervous about his punctuality, and it's out
of character for someone with his arrogance. I rarely remember him
ever being late to anything, but if he was, his bloated sense of
self-esteem prevented him from concerning himself with the value of
other people's time.
He turns north on Fifth
and picks up his pace, and I have to dart around other pedestrians
just to keep up. His fingers rake through his hair repeatedly, and
I can practically feel his stress in my own muscles. Whoever this
woman is, he obviously cares about her. And it's not business,
either. Even some important client wouldn't have him on edge like
this—he's pompous enough to know that professionally, he's worth
waiting for.
When Mitch gets caught at
a red light, I hold back behind some smokers under an awning by
some random storefront. He's practically bouncing in place waiting
for the light to change and I note that wherever he's headed must
be on the East side of the avenue, or he would cross rather than
wait, considering the impatience obviously coursing through
him.
But he doesn't stand out.
Not among the hundred or so men and women just like
him—professionals in expensive suits, all in a rush on their way
somewhere they believe to be more important than the destinations
of everyone else around them. The entire square block reeks of
self-importance and over-indulgent egos. This is Mitchell Caplan's
world and he fits right in. It's only his apprehension that's out
of character, and it fuels my curiosity even more.
I glance down at my own
watch, the Tag my Grandma Lena, Mitch's mom, gave me for my bar
mitzvah barely a month before I kicked her son out of our lives.