“I mean. That jacket was kind of funny. And Tim admitted he was wrong way faster. Before he’d have insisted my name was Samantha Khatri.”
“And this is a chance to make something even better, Samantha,” Brandt chuckled.
Dylan seized on the brief moment of levity. “Look, I can’t promise everything is gonna come up roses, but I want to try. And I promise not to stand you up this time.”
Deep rolled her eyes, but the tension left her shoulders as she uncrossed her arms. “Fine. What are we doing?”
Relief rushed over Dylan. Fighting the urge to jump up and hug her friends, she pushed her chair away from her desk, a sly smile creeping across her face. “How do you two feel about a field trip?”
Dylan drummed her fingers on the keyboard, waiting for inspiration to strike. A small part of her had hoped she would magically run into Mike when she took Deep and Brandt to visit Crescent. But that hadn’t happened, and now she was stuck trying to find words that conveyed why he should answer her call. And she had called.
Once. Then she’d chickened out after the second ring. But today was a new day, and email seemed like a much less scary medium. Or at least it had when she’d promised Tim she would get ahold of him. She reminded herself that at least Tim was excited about an idea that wouldn’t make the business section of the New York Times for all the wrong reasons.
Rolling her head in a circle, Dylan took a deep breath and started typing.
Dear Mike:
I hope this email finds you well.
I am writing because I had the opportunity to speak with Steve Hammond about Crescent, and after careful
Dylan stopped typing, the cursor blinking at her while she laughed the kind of gut laugh that shook the tension out of her neck and made her wish she hadn’t worn a skirt with a restrictive waistband. The only thing that could make this email more boring and less personal was if she attached a spreadsheet with a budget.
Settling back into her chair, she tried again.
Hi Mike,
I tried to call, but I chickened out, so now I’m sending you an email. I talked to Steve and Tim and they are super excited about working with Crescent. They want to discuss specifics and a couple ideas they have this week. Are you around today?
Dylan
She hit send before she lost her nerve. It was still a pretty chicken email, but as far as chicken emails went, at least it was honest. Using the internet to ask for forgiveness seemed gauche. Dylan wanted to apologize to his face without the threat of any of their parents interrupting them. She reasoned that if she could get to his office, she had nowhere to hide even if she lost her nerve.
Leaning back in her chair, she looked up. The office was mostly empty, save for Deep, who was running around with a notebook in a pair of killer stacked heels that said that this particular fashion major had no interest in hearing no. She and Brandt had divided up the monumental task of getting Technocore ready for Crescent’s gala. He was in charge of the museum site, and she was in charge of wrangling manpower. Dylan wasn’t sure how Brandt was faring, but she was certain Deep wouldn’t leave him short of helping hands.
“Next up on the apology tour . . .” Dylan looked over at her phone and wrinkled her nose before picking up the poisoned device. In between Tim’s excited flailing, he had managed to ask Dylan roughly 752 personal questions. For a while, she had not considered him a particularly interested party, and her answers had been mostly generic. But by question number 379 he’d started to wear her down, and by number 561 she’d confessed the whole dental school failure to him and Steve, who was surprisingly good at operating a complex espresso machine. In the end, Tim had decided to funnel his substantial let’s-make-a-call energy into getting Stacy into dental school.
When asked questions about things like how he would do this and who he would call, all Tim had said was, “Don’t worry about it.” He’d then disappeared behind his office door for an hour and a half before reemerging with a grin and a goofy thumbs-up gesture, leaving her little choice but to hope for the best from a man whose idea of the best was always suspect.
She’d absolutely considered sitting outside Stacy’s house until she came out to talk to her, but Dylan sensed that Stacy was not above calling building security if she was mad enough. Luckily, she had a gala table to fill, and Stacy could never say no to a party that required her most glamour-girl attire.
Opening her text chain with Stacy as a wave of nausea washed over her, she began to tap on the screen.
I know you are pissed, and you have every right to be. But I think I found a way to fix this and make it up to you. Want to meet for coffee?
Coffee was not gonna sell her friend on a face-to-face meeting, and Dylan knew it. Before the message even finished sending, she started typing again, knowing she needed to send the second text off before Stacy told her to shove it.
Or, will you be my date to Mike’s fancy gala?
If you hate my proposal, you can throw a drink at me and storm out like a Real Housewife and never speak to me again. And I promise, I will leave you alone forever after that.
Imagining her friend scowling at her phone over a People magazine she’d stolen from her office, Dylan held her breath and hit send on the last sentence.
Whatever you decide, I want you to know that I am sorry. I messed up royally.
Dylan tossed her phone on the desk. It was well past time for her to head home. If she did much more tonight, she’d be the person who sent emails after socially acceptable hours. Everyone hated that person.
Glancing at her inbox, Dylan’s heart stopped cold for three full beats. Closing one eye and looking away from the screen, she clicked.
Dylan,
I’ve cc’d Susan. She’s a numbers person and can do a far better job with all of this. Thanks to Technocore for their support.
Mike
She flinched at the workplace email equivalent of go to hell, then relaxed the muscles in her face. It wasn’t exactly the resoundingly joyful phone call she wanted. But then again, she had called him an optimistic fool, so a barely polite response was probably better than she deserved. If he insisted on being ambushed with an apology, so be it.
Dashing off a quick note to Steve with the woman from Crescent’s contact information, Dylan began packing up for the night. Attempting a haphazard shrug into her coat, she fished her phone out from under a pile of papers that needed refiling after her cleaning spree. Scooping up the phone, Dylan noticed a text from Stacy. Feeling exhaustion creep into her bones, she opened the app.
This better be a damn good apology, or I’m flipping tables and throwing wine.
The floodlight didn’t blind her as she pulled into the driveway. It should have been a sign something was off. The hairs on the back of her neck should have stood up and paid attention. But Dylan was exhausted, and it was already close to nine thirty as she made her way toward the front door. She pounded in the new code and was greeted by the absence of Milo’s howls and Afro-Caribbean drum circles. “Hello?”
Milo came skidding down the hallway, tail wagging so hard it knocked painfully into the walls as he ran. In answer, laughter floated from the kitchen, causing Dylan to freeze. This was polite laughter. Not the raucous mess that usually accompanied her family’s joy. She petted the dog as he jammed his nose into her kneecaps and set her coat on a hook, praying that whatever was under it was not covered in some combination of mud, food, or paint. She could hear her father speaking at the most reasonable volume he had used in years.
“What a funny way to solve the problem.”
“If only she had solved it intentionally.”
Dylan rounded the corner as the room dissolved into laughter, revealing none other than Linda and Patricia Robinson as their guests. Her blood pressure began to rise as she scanned the kitchen for any obvious weapons but found only a half-empty bottle of wine and four people in their midsixties crammed onto barstools. By the time her mother caught sight of her, the mixture of apprehen
sion and curiosity must have solidified on Dylan’s face, because Bernice stopped laughing and lifted her glass to her daughter, drawing the room’s attention to her.
“Hello, dear. Linda and Patricia just stopped by to ask for the Tiger.”
“I’m sorry?” Dylan said, looking around the room.
“Linda was at work complaining about the Tiger in the yard. When her CFO found out who our neighbors were and who made the Tiger, he nearly gave Linda a pay raise to see if he could acquire it.” Patricia cackled at this, smiling at Henry all the while. “It’s the perfect solution to our current stalemate. Mike’s on his way to a conference, so we brought wine and an offer over ourselves.”
“The joke is, Linda will still have to see it every day.” Henry slapped the kitchen table as he took a sip from his glass.
“Only briefly on my way into the office.” Linda laughed, then looked at Dylan’s polite smile. “Did you just get home from work?”
“Yes. She has been burning the late-night oil at that job,” Bernice said, unaware that she had just botched the colloquialism.
“So late. Do you need dinner? Let me get you some wine,” Linda said, looking between Bernice and Dylan with concern before hopping off the barstool and making her way around the kitchen as if she had lived in the Delacroix house for years. Watching her find a glass in the kitchen was almost too much. It was like living in an episode of Doctor Who. At any moment the quartet of adults would time travel away from common ground and go back to the long-held tradition of passive-aggressive neighborly bickering.
Unless there was a way to maintain the common ground. The thought twisted around Dylan’s tired mind as Linda poured an immaculately precise glass of wine. Not so much as a drop was left to run down the bottle.
“Here you go, hon.” She passed Dylan her glass, simultaneously draining her own.
“It’s getting late. We should probably get out of your hair,” Patricia said, standing up and finishing her glass as well.
“We’ll walk you out. You know, this was fun—”
“Actually, I have an idea,” Dylan said, shooting her father an apologetic look for cutting him off.
“Oh? What’s that?” Patricia said, smiling at Dylan as if she had all the time in the world for her.
“Well, it’s just that if Linda’s company is interested in Dad’s work, I think there may be a way for y’all to collaborate with Technocore and help Crescent at the same time.” Dylan paused, suddenly unsure of how to phrase her idea without raising suspicion about her and Mike’s not-relationship.
“Yes?” Linda asked, filling the gap in Dylan’s thinking time.
“Technocore is partnering with the museum on the sensory room. Maybe Dad would consider a large-scale digital installation, if your company would be interested in sponsoring it and a couple other things at the museum?” Avoiding the temptation to rock back on her heels, she forced herself toward the door with the hope that everyone would follow. If anyone got too curious, she would just open the door and shoo them out. Including her parents.
“I love this idea! Linda, we have got to make it happen,” Patricia said, clapping her hands together tightly and bouncing in her ballet flats, the movement reminiscent of her former life as a Grambling State cheerleader. Right now, it seemed she sort of felt like Dylan’s personal cheerleader.
“I think it’d be possible. Let me talk to my boss.”
“Great. I can connect you to the team at Technocore who are handling the sensory room installation. Shoot me an email if you all decide it’s for you. Dad, you can just come to the office with me.” Dylan winked, knowing Henry would absolutely clear his schedule for an impromptu Take Your Dad to Work Day.
“I look forward to it,” her father said as she reached for the door handle, mentally congratulating herself on a touchy situation well handled.
“You are so thoughtful. Does Mike know you are basically a walking, talking dealmaker for Crescent?”
All internal congratulations abruptly came to a halt as Dylan paused midmotion to process the question she had hoped to avoid. Fixing a smile on the lower half of her face, she held the door open before wading into an answer. “Nope. I’m hoping it’ll be a bit of a surprise for the gala. Promise you can keep a secret?”
“This is so fun,” Patricia said, overriding the suspicion brewing in Linda’s eyes. Giving her wife a short shove through the door, she winked at Dylan. “I take it we’ll see you all next Friday?”
“Wouldn’t miss it!” Bernice called over Henry’s shoulder. Her expression mirrored the suspicion in Linda’s, and Dylan thought it was a wonder the two hadn’t managed to be friends sooner.
“See you then,” Linda called.
“Good night,” Dylan said, her tone a hair too chipper for the time of evening. Turning away from the door, she left her father to enthusiastically wave and watch as their neighbors darted across the street.
Dylan waited until she heard the front door click. “Am I in The Twilight Zone? The Robinsons were just hanging around the house like old friends.”
“Were they?” her father asked, taking his wine into the living room. He stopped to move a pile of books out of a chair before dropping into it. “I guess they were. They came over just after dinner, so they must have stayed awhile.”
“Dad, it’s like ten,” Dylan said, following him into the room. She lowered herself absentmindedly onto a corner of the couch, half-surprised by her willingness to hang out with her parents post–Robinson interaction.
“Well, we haven’t talked to them in twenty-five years. It was time for a catch-up.” Bernice said this matter-of-factly. “And I dare say we all enjoyed it. Maybe we’ll invite them back sometime.”
“Ideally, less than twenty-five years from now,” Henry said.
“Well, I’m glad you all are growing up.” Dylan had forgotten her dad was a lightweight. Half a glass of wine, and he was probably feeling a happy buzz right now. The thought of her parents getting drunk with the Robinsons was too much, so she shoved it aside, sipping her cabernet.
“Besides, I hear Mike might be joining our family.”
If the wine had been anything other than delicious, Bernice’s words would have triggered her gag reflex. Of course Neale had told. She’d half expected her to. What she hadn’t expected was for her mother to completely ignore the boundary. A small piece of Dylan began reconstructing the wall she had neglected to erect when she’d walked in the door. Caught off guard by her parents’ normal behavior, she had nearly forgotten who they were. She did not feel like being ridiculed for this one. Was it unreasonable for her to want something other than an emotional disaster zone from her parents tonight?
Shaking her head, she said, “So much for sisterly secrets.”
“Oh, come on. You know Neale is a narc,” Bernice said, not unkindly.
“Well, if I didn’t before, I do now.” The smug look on her mother’s face faltered as Dylan took a drink of her wine with her feet flat on the floor, ready to bolt before her parents could start on whatever invasive line of questioning they were moving toward.
“For the record, your mom and I like Mike. Always have. Much better than that slick . . .” Henry let his words trail off into his wineglass at Bernice’s glare.
“Dylan, don’t be mad.”
“Mom, you two are privacy-invasion monsters. The anger ship done been sailed.” She tried to put jokes behind her words, but Bernice wasn’t fooled. She raised an eyebrow at her daughter and looked about ready to say something when her father jumped in.
“Fair point. This is your business. But we claim parental supervisorial port authority.” Henry laughed at his half-baked metaphor.
“What your father is trying to say is that while it is hard for us, we can respect your privacy as you work out whatever is going on with the boy across the street.” Bernice waved a hand at the front window before shifting the moment away from the levity Henry had managed to infuse. “But we do want to talk about Nicolas.”
>
Dylan snapped, “Mom, honestly. Knowing everything else that is happening right now, do you think he is on my mind?”
“Is he top of your mind? No. But that man is treating you poorly, and he never needs to be top of anyone’s mind again.”
A feeling of vertigo came over Dylan as her mother’s truth settled itself more firmly in her mind.
“You have always been so independent. Even when you were small, you’d get up early, and I mean very early”—Bernice laughed at the memory in this small digression, then continued—“just to iron your clothes and make sure your lunch was appropriately packed. If your sisters left their things out, you’d iron theirs too.”
“You were seven going on forty-five,” Henry jumped in, warmth radiating from his smile.
“What we are getting at is that, for better or worse, your father and I tend not to worry about you taking care of yourself, because you always have. Until this trip home, we worried about you having fun.” Bernice’s words were wrapped in a rare kindness, so unexpected Dylan was unsure how to react. A small part of her thought she could relax, while the larger part shouted that little voice down.
“It can be hard when you have a child whose orientation is so different from your own. And parenting adults has its own special set of challenges.” Bernice paused, letting her head roll gently to one side, studying Dylan as she searched for the words she wanted. When she found them, she righted her posture before starting again. “Often, we aren’t sure what to do with you grown girls. Since our personal ethos is to be left alone, we left you alone for too long.”
“You never really needed a parent to begin with. It seemed like the natural thing to do,” Henry added, stretching out his legs and wiggling his toes on the rug. “But it doesn’t mean we don’t care about you and aren’t following your life as closely as you will let us. All three of you girls need different things. Neale requires an almost constant audience. Billie dips in and out of our safety net. But you’d rather operate without guardrails, and we want to respect that.”
“And that respect will pick up again tomorrow. Tonight, we are parenting,” Bernice jumped in, her tone losing its ethereal quality. “We love you. We don’t want this hanging over your head. Will you please put a proper end to Nicolas’s behavior tonight?”
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