7. Fischer
FISCHER
Divorce is one of those things you never stop paying for. Especially when you let your ex keep a key to the apartment after she moves out. I stare at the fresh, jagged hole in my living room wall and shake my head. Item number twenty-three to do tomorrow—call a locksmith.
In Nicole’s defense, she left a note.
Sorry about the wall. Send me the bill!
Needing an ally in my misery, I text Matthew. There’s no better way to say I’m home than by acting like we’ve been seeing each other every day for the last year—even though we’ve only kept in touch through emails.
She ripped the flat screen out of the stud.
I pocket my phone and take a look around the rest of the apartment to see if there’s any other damage that needs repairing.
But it looks like she just wanted the TV. I have a feeling this is the clumsy work of Hunter, the young cameraman she’s currently seeing. Matthew pings me back with a text.
Matty
In this economy? I’m not surprised.
I laugh. I should go downstairs and see him. I’m eager to lay eyes on him and make sure he’s doing as well as his emails make it sound, but I don’t want to disturb him while he’s working.
Meanwhile, I reacquaint myself with the classic six Nicole and I bought shortly after we got married—our effort at creating a perfect home for our unplanned family of three. It’s awfully quiet these days.
We officially separated two years ago when our son was four. She’d wanted to see other people, and I was off in a war zone for another four-month assignment.
When the divorce was finalized this past November, it was a wake-up call.
Divorce, like war, puts a lot of things in perspective.
Seeing families torn apart by death, famine, inequality and worse had me rearranging my value system.
There I was—forty-one years old, alone, an absentee dad whose work had taken over my life.
It was past time to come home and find a healthier balance.
Now that I’m finally here, my brain, as usual, is a junkyard of unexamined emotions, some with sharper edges than others.
I run a hand through my hair and open my phone to a grocery delivery app. The phone rings shortly after I place my order, and I stare at the incoming caller.
I contemplate sending the call to voicemail, but wind up answering on the fourth ring. “Hey, Dick,” I say to my father.
I’m not being an asshole. It’s actually his name. He’s old. Born back in the days where Dick was an okay thing to call someone.
“Hey, Son,” he says pointedly. “Just checking in.”
“Did Matty call you?”
“We were texting. It came up. You need a drywall guy?”
“I can find one.”
“Are you still planning to hire an assistant?” he asks.
“It’s on the to-do list.”
“Why couldn’t she just get a new TV?” Dick is as baffled as I am.
“She doesn’t like learning new technology,” I say.
“I’m seventy-four years old. Even I can figure out these smart TVs these days.”
“Well, I’ll have you over when I’m setting up the new one, then.”
“When are you seeing Vaughn?” he asks, which, I suspect, is the real reason he’s calling.
“This weekend. And before you ask, I have plans with him, so you two will have to wait your turn.”
“We understand. We understand. I’m glad you’ll get a chance to reconnect with him.”
I try not to laugh. Reconnect? More like re-introduce. I’ll be lucky if my own son recognizes me when my face isn’t boxed into a phone screen.
“But if you want to stop by for dinner…”
I sigh. Loudly.
“Backing off,” he says. “What about I change the subject? You feeling good about being behind an anchor desk?”
After nine years of being an international correspondent, I’ll now be anchoring a show—in prime time, no less. Given the expense of divorce and the ever-rising cost of living in Manhattan, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse, especially with the physical state my previous position left me in.
I was doing great for a while, but over the last year, arthritis has set in on my injured side, and my mobility has suffered accordingly. I’m now forced to walk with a cane, which made it increasingly difficult to work in the field.
Still, my reasons for coming home aren’t strictly related to my leg. I want to settle into the next phase of my life—be the father my son deserves, even if I couldn’t be the husband my wife wanted.
Travel, trauma, and guilt have defined the last several years of my life.
While I can’t claim a soldier’s experience—I haven’t fought or killed anyone—I’ve witnessed tragedies I’ll never be able to erase from my memories.
My deepest hope is that offloading what I’ve learned about the world helps.
The only way I know to do that is through writing—through work.
Whether it’s with an extensively researched article, an opinion piece, or the book I’m nearly done with, getting my feelings out of my head and into words feels like all I can do to piece myself back together, even if it can’t change the world.
Now, with a voice in prime time news, I’ll be able to reach more people.
“I’m looking forward to the job itself. Being recognized more often…
not sure how I feel about that.” I’m an extremely private person, and I’m already recognized more often than I like.
I’m not an A-list celebrity by any means, but in this town, my left-leaning network is popular.
Having groceries delivered is one way I can maintain some privacy, but like Dick reminded me, having an assistant to help me manage my social media and run errands would give me the time and space to work on my writing on the days I can’t see Vaughn.
“I hope you’re still able to take some time for yourself.”
“Believe me, I plan to do that, too,” I tell him, and he does not need to know the details.
“You’ll let us know if you need anything? We’re always here if you need help with Vaughn.”
“I got it,” I tell Dick, trying not to snap with annoyance. I get that my return to town is going to severely cut into their time with their grandson since they’ve been acting as my parental proxy while I’ve been away, but they’ll need to lower their expectations, at least for the time being.
“And we’d love to have you for dinner soon,” Dick adds, as if he’s just remembering he hasn’t seen me in months.
I offer him a non-committal hum. “Maybe Matty and I can come out sometime. Once I touch base with him, I’ll see when he’s free.”
“You’re welcome to come alone, you know?”
I don’t like going alone. As the adopted one, I find Dick and Donna’s singular attention awkward.
I know they care about me. Love me, even.
But it’s complicated. I was their only son for thirteen years, and they adopted me as an infant, but I was a major asshole once the twins were born, burning bridges left and right.
My long-suffering adopted parents have since been like a two-person bridge building crew while I stand on my side and watch them in curiosity without lifting a finger to help, unable to understand the point of all their effort.
These weekly check ins, which I guess will be on the phone now that I’m home, are all the attention I need. “I’ll check my calendar.”
Dick chuckles. “I’ll let you go, then. I’m sure you have a lot of work to do getting settled in.”
I do, or at least—I can find some. I let him end the call.
Matty hasn’t texted me again, and I assume he’s busy.
Since Nicole and I separated, my brother became my closest friend again, even after all the time away and the ways our lives have grown apart, but my old college roommate Gibson is the only option to distract me tonight since Matthew’s working.
Gibson Hayes owns The Eastmoor where I live and was the one who gave me and Nicole the heads up when the apartment became available. When he isn’t out making million dollar real estate deals in New York, he’s managing another asset of his—a club only a privileged few know about.
I freshen up before heading out. It’s nine-thirty when I leave the building to make my way a few blocks up, which means I’ll finally see Matty.
I’m nervously looking forward to it. Like I told him in probably eighty percent of my emails—I miss him.
He glances up with a practiced smile when I leave the vestibule and make the right turn into the lobby, but his expression immediately changes into a look I don’t know if I can describe. Part confusion, part relief, part…fondness?
He stands, and I give myself a second to take him in.
He looks great, but I don’t know why I’m surprised. His dark, wavy hair is tamed away from his face, giving him an air of professionalism. But his stormy blue eyes speak to his untamed spirit. His rose gold skin glows with radiant youth, and I can’t help my growing smile. “Hey, Matty.”
His responding grin lights up his too handsome face. “Come here,” he says, engulfing me in a hug I gladly return.
My heart jolts, like an engine roaring to life.
He’s solid and warm and real. The heat of his chest against mine grounds me in a sense of home.
I immediately feel welcome and wanted. The two things Dick tried to convey and what I’ve longed for most. The way I feel about my brother is complicated, but being with him is the easiest thing in the world.
“So fucking good to see you,” I tell him.
He squeezes me tighter. “You, too.”
My eyes close, and I rearrange my grip, noting the contours of his back beneath his suit.
“You smell like you have big plans,” he says.
“Is it too much?” I ask.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You look great,” I tell him.
“So do you.”
We’re still hugging, and I’m not sure he got that good of a look at me, but I’ll take the compliment. Eventually, we separate slightly, and he assesses me like he’s studying me for a portrait. “Welcome home,” he says.
My grin flickers again. “Thanks.”
“We should find some time to catch up.”
“I’d be offended if we didn’t,” I say.
His hands fall to my upper arms, and I mimic the movement, reluctant to let go of him. To say I’m starved for his touch would be a severe understatement.