22
I EXPECTED MY EMOTIONS TO BE EVERYWHERE AFTER SEEING MY FATHER. IN the past, any phone call, any attempt from him to claw his way back into my life, would have me reeling for weeks. Doubting myself. Unable to write.
This time, though, I feel nothing. No—if anything, telling Parker about him makes me feel better.
My sister calls. If my father told her about our meeting, she doesn’t say anything. She tells me about her hotel room in Palermo, how it’s literally on a cliff! And I try my best not to hyperventilate. Finally, I coax Paola into emailing me a detailed itinerary as long as I promise not to call every day.
I’ve gotten past the midpoint in my screenplay, the dramatic revelation that changes things and puts the fun and games into perspective.
There’s drilling in the apartment, as Luke and his team begin installing new flooring, putting in custom cabinets, making mosaics out of marble in the bathrooms. The apartment is starting to transform before my eyes, change, become something different. Every day, there’s a new decision to make—this tile or that, these drapes or those—and I try my best to channel my inner Cali.
The nursery is almost done. I find myself leaning in the doorway long after they’ve left, a pinch in my chest. I might not agree with my sister’s choices, I might not absolutely love her husband, but I will love her child more than I think I can contain in my body.
I feared Parker might be mad at me, after I wasn’t exactly forthcoming from the beginning about my father, but he isn’t. He’s just busy. He leaves for days at a time, back to San Francisco, because of the acquisition.
The first week of August comes to an end, and I can’t help but feel like I did when I was still in school—like the summer has slipped by me.
There’s still almost an entire month left, I tell myself, but it doesn’t seem like enough. Before, I feared I wouldn’t be able to finish my screenplay in time for my deadline. Now, I’m afraid for entirely different reasons.
Thinking Parker was going to be away this weekend, I went ahead and signed up to volunteer to do Street Tree Care through NYC Parks, an organization I learned about through Taryn. We were supposed to go together, but she got sick. I Postmated her chicken soup, then got dressed in some of Penelope’s overalls, with a cropped white T-shirt underneath.
I’m slipping my sneakers on when there’s a knock on my door.
Parker. I throw my arms around him before I can help myself. “I thought you were coming back Monday,” I say into his chest.
He tenses beneath my grip, then holds me close, his fingers running down my sides.
“I decided to come back early.” He looks down at my outfit and smiles. “But I can see you already have plans. Don’t let me keep you.”
I tell him about volunteering.
“Do you think they need an extra set of hands?”
I laugh. “The description was ‘mulch, tools, and supplies will be provided.’ “ He’s wearing a suit. I frown. “Did you wear that on the plane?”
He ignores my question and shrugs. “I’m a fast learner.”
That’s how we end up in the East Village, sitting on the pavement, wearing gloves, with black trash bags beside us. For each square of tree, we clean the waste from the area, weed, and cultivate the soil, to give these trees the best chance of survival. Mulching will be taking place later. We hear about other opportunities to make curbside gardens. They tell us you don’t need a permit to garden in a local tree bed.
“There’s one of these in front of the building,” I tell Parker. “What do you think Richard would think if we filled it with flowers?”
Our doorman has been giving us strange looks ever since the news of our relationship came out.
“I think he would personally rip them out one by one,” Parker says.
I always vaguely knew that trees were good for you, but then we’re told how important they are to the city. When we’re done, Parker’s cheeks and nose are slightly pink from a sunburn, and sweat is sliding through the roots of my hair, but I feel like I’ve done . . . something. Something meaningful.
“I didn’t really think I would enjoy that,” Parker tells me, as we return our gear and say goodbye to the other volunteers. “But it was . . . nice.” He frowns. “I’m used to just writing a check, not actually getting . . .”
“In the weeds?” I supply.
He smiles. “Yes. Yes, literally in the weeds.”
On our walk home, we pass Gramercy Park. My eyes immediately go where they always do—to the town house right on its edge. I frown. There’s a construction crew going in and out. It’s clearly going through a renovation.
There’s a deflation in my chest, a dream being punctured. I move to cross the street, but Parker doesn’t join me. He’s standing by the gate. He pulls a key out of his pocket.
That’s when I remember what he told me during that first dinner. He has a key to Gramercy Park.
I rush to his side, excitement humming through my bones. How many times have I walked this park’s perimeter, looking longingly inside? How many years have I waited for this moment?
The door opens, and Parker smiles as he motions for me to go first.
I don’t need to be told twice. I rush inside and turn in all directions, taking it all in. There’s a statue in the middle and endless empty benches, and I look around as I take each path, marveling at the flowers. We’re alone. There’s no one else inside but us. It’s like, for just a moment, this slice of New York City is ours.
I whirl to face him. “How did you get a key?”
He shrugs. “I rent an apartment on the park for it.”
Of course he does. It’s excessive and ridiculous, but right now, I’m grateful. We sit on a bench and talk, until the top of my hair gets too hot and Parker looks in fear of getting a worse sunburn. Only then do we leave, me looking wistfully back at the park.
We both promptly need showers. We take them, then I meet Parker in his apartment. My damp hair is tied up, I’m wearing sweatpants, and I’ve never felt more comfortable. We watch TV, and, during a commercial break, he pulls me into his lap, and I kiss him like I’m starving, like I’ve been waiting days to feel him.
His fingers weave through my damp hair, and it feels so good, every time he touches me.
“Sometimes I pretend too,” I tell him, brushing against his lips. “I pretend you’re mine.”
“You don’t have to pretend, Elle,” he says. “You have me. I’m here.” Maybe this isn’t wrong, I tell myself. Maybe we can find a way to make this work. Maybe people can change, just like I have, this summer. Maybe money isn’t a good reason not to be with someone.
He kisses me until my head empties of all the reasons we can’t do this, he touches me until I’m breathless, and I smile until my happiness feels like something I can drown in.