38. A Couple of Beers
38
A COUPLE OF BEERS
Nick
I’m in the shower, washing off the chlorine from a quick swim, counting down till David arrives in twenty minutes. I needed to clear my head of the weekend and get in the zone, so I hit the pool the second the Lyft dropped me off.
Now, tipping my hair back under the hot stream, I wash away last night and this morning, honing my focus to the present.
A podcast plays from the speaker as a futurist opines on the intersection between machine intelligence and philanthropy. It’s like a brain cleanse, and it resets my attention.
When I’m out of the shower, I dry off, get dressed, and run a towel over my hair one more time as the episode ends on a hopeful but cautious note about respect for humanity as computers become even more powerful.
Hopeful but cautious .
That sounds like it ought to be my mantra this afternoon.
As I brush my teeth, I flash back on speeches I’ve given, pitches I’ve made. But I grumble out a fuck that after I spit out the toothpaste.
This isn’t a speech for my kid.
It isn’t a pitch for him to go with my funding.
I can’t prep like it’s a meeting.
I just have to speak from the heart.
And I also have to apologize.
As I set the toothbrush down on the counter, I peer in the mirror, nodding decisively. Yeah, that’s the key. I have a lot to say I’m sorry for.
I hear my dad’s gruff voice. When you say you’re sorry, don’t make an excuse. Don’t blame the other person. Don’t “but” or “just” or “I only did it because.” Just own it, like a man.
He’s right.
On that note, I grab my phone and head to the kitchen, checking messages along the way. David’s due here any minute.
But my heart stutters when I see the barrage of texts and missed calls from Layla.
I barely read the first text.
Layla: Nick, I think he knows. He stopped by. He was acting very strange. You have to call me.
My pulse sprints. But I try to slow down, get the facts. I scroll through the rest of the messages with gritted teeth.
But that’s enough. I’ve got the picture.
I stab Layla’s name in my contacts—she’s no longer listed as Friend , she’s in there under her name—and call her.
“What happened?” I ask the second she answers.
In no time, she tells me about a surprise visit from my son. With each successive sentence, the oh shit meter ticks higher.
When she’s done, I blow out a frustrated breath. “Well, I really need to fix this, stat,” I say.
“I did my best to say as little as possible. But I didn’t want to lie any more than I had to.”
Another reason my heart beats for this woman. “Thank you.”
“Nick,” she says, her voice stretched thin. “I’m sorry.”
I shake my head adamantly. “No, I’m sorry. I should have said something to him that night at the diner. Thinking I could forget Miami ever happened was the real mistake.”
I hang up and check the time. David should have arrived five minutes ago. He’s not often late. I don’t want to assume the worst though.
He’s not a guy who usually shuts down. He’s not someone who typically closes in on himself. He wears his big heart on his sleeve.
But he also stresses. And when he reaches a certain point, not only does he stress, sometimes he just… stops .
Shit.
This is the guy who freezes when he’s overwhelmed. And what the fuck did I do to him? I piled on. His girlfriend is banged up with a broken leg, and he just discovered his dad leaving his ex’s home the morning after he had to bail on his passion project.
I call David.
It rings and rings and goes to voicemail.
I pace around my home, tapping out a text. Want me to meet you somewhere? I’ll come to you. Just let me know where you are.
But five minutes later, there’s no reply.
He doesn’t answer when I call again. Or text again.
And again.
And…fuck this.
I know my kid.
I grab my wallet and go.
Thirty minutes later, I’m banging on the door to his building. He gave me a key code when he signed the lease, but I don’t want to barrel in.
I’m just cautious. Hopefully he’ll answer.
My instincts are right when his familiar voice comes over the intercom. “You have the code.”
But his voice is distant, removed.
Of course it is, jackwad . Get the fuck in there and fix this mess you made.
“Thanks, David,” I say, then punch in the code, open the door, and rush up the steps to his third-floor sublet.
I’m lifting my fist to knock when the door swings open. He’s behind it, so I can’t see his face until I step inside. When he shuts it, I’m…devastated.
David’s expression is cold.
That’s not his style at all. He’s funny, emotional, needy, happy, worried.
But never…unfeeling.
Now he is, though, and he retreats to the couch, slumps down, folds his arms across his chest. Then meets my gaze. And fires straight in my heart. “You didn’t need to come all the way here to tell me you’re fucking Layla. I figured it out. I’m not that clueless.”
My heart plummets to the floor, crashing in a heap of missed opportunities and bad decisions. I handled this whole situation horribly. I cross to the couch and sit on the other end. “I’m sorry,” I begin, but that barely covers it. I restart with, “I should have told you sooner.”
With an eye roll, he shrugs. The I don’t give a shit about you kind of shrug. “You told me. Thanks,” he says, then carelessly flips a hand toward the door. “There’s the door.”
This is worse than I expected. “Can’t we talk?”
As if in slow motion, he turns his face to me, then levels me with an are you kidding me stare. “If I wanted to talk, I would have gone to your place like we planned. But I didn’t. So, no, I don’t want to talk. I only answered the door to be polite. Like you taught me to be,” he says, his brown eyes mean. “You also taught me to be honest, to help out, to work hard. How’s all that working out for you?”
Oh, shit.
Talk about a low blow. But I deserve that, so I swallow the shock and stick to my plans. “David, I met her in Miami. I didn’t know she was your friend.”
“And my ex. Don’t forget that,” he adds, lifting a finger to make his point.
“I had no idea till I met her again at the diner.”
“Dude. I get that. I’m literally not confused about a thing now. But my girlfriend is in the hospital with a broken leg, and you want to tell me about your love life. Cool, cool. Why don’t you order another couple of meatball subs for us and some beers, and we’ll have a man to man?”
Ouch.
I don’t know what I expected from today, but it wasn’t this. And for one of the first times in my life, I’m speechless.
David’s not though. He points to the door. “You should go, Dad.”
I don’t fight it.
Sometimes, you don’t get to fix your mistakes. You just have to live with them.
So with one last apology, I leave.