“Tonight,” she says. “Please? Please.”
She gets up but doesn’t move right away. I stare at the ground until she leaves. I know when she does because she takes her body warmth with her, and it’s just now I realize how cold I am. I look up, and that’s when I see it. Today’s version of the red bra and hidden tattoo.
Her sheer tights have a thin, solid line running down the middle of the back. It starts somewhere under her skirt and ends inside her sweet, schoolgirl, buckled-up Mary Janes. Maybe the stripe extends along the arches of her feet, to her toes. It wasn’t on the front of the tights; I would’ve noticed when she walked up.
I can’t help wondering if she wore them for me . . . and I almost missed them.
9
I want to photograph you.
I thought about your journal for days.
All I can think about is you.
I unlock the door to Rich’s Tribeca apartment. Finn’s definition of obsession has been on repeat in my head since lunch. I’ve clung to many things in my life for comfort, but never a person. And I’ve never had anyone cling to me, or ask about my feelings out of simple curiosity, or tell me I’m talented.
And then there’s Rich.
“Dinner in an hour,” Rich says when I walk into the kitchen. He’s fresh from a run, seated on a stool at the island. With his eyes glued to his phone and his ear buds in, I’m not sure how he knows I’m here.
I dump my things on the counter. “Great,” I mutter. “I was just wondering the best way to waste a few hours of my life.”
He looks up, removing the earphones. “What?”
I begin unbuckling my shoes. “Nothing.”
“What’s that?” he asks, nodding at my shopping bag.
“Stationery.”
His eyes glaze over—as I’d hoped. He knows I have a few ‘notebooks,’ but they don’t mean anything to him. Before meeting Finn this afternoon, I stopped at my favorite local home store for another journal. I’ve been feeling new things the last couple days, things that deserve their own fresh pages.
“How’d the presentation go yesterday?” Rich asks. “Is it going to be a good dinner?”
“It’ll be fine. Daddy sat in, so everyone’s happy.”
“He won’t always be around for those meetings,” Rich says, sensing my sarcasm, even if it doesn’t surface often. “Learn what you can from him.”
I look in the fridge and roll my eyes. “Might want to save the extreme sucking up for when my dad’s actually in the room.”
“I’m not sucking up. I’m trying to get you to see the silver lining. And remind you that he won’t be around forever. I wouldn’t want you to look back and have any regrets about your relationship.”
I grip the door handle. Rich has some goddamn nerve talking to me about regrets. I know that feeling better than anyone. I came to the fridge for water, but I bend over and grab a bottle of Chardonnay I’d shoved into the back corner of the bottom shelf.
Rich eyes me as I uncork it. “I thought I got rid of that.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
Wisely, he doesn’t respond. “Did you wear those to work?”
“What?” I ask, playing dumb as I pour a glass.
“Those tights.”
Rich rarely comments on my wardrobe, but then again, I rarely wear anything other than black, gray or navy. “They’re trendy.”
“Is trendy right for an office environment?”
“Clients like to know we’re cutting edge.”
“Our clients are mostly white men over fifty. I guess they’d notice, though . . .”
Just like with my dad, I try not to get into arguments with Rich. Tonight, though, I’m feeling feisty. Blame it on Finn. Or on the fact that I’ve been halving my pills the last week. Either way, Rich is trying to make me feel bad about the tights, and I’m not going to let him. I sip the wine. “Are you jealous?”
He looks taken aback by my out-of-character question. “I’m just not sure it’s appropriate,” he says slowly. “Is it Benny? Are you trying to fit in with her?”
“My assistant?”
“She’s always wearing stuff that’s borderline sexy. She gets away with it, but it’s not really appropriate. Maybe she’s not the best influence on you.”
If he says appropriate one more time, I might blow. This is generally the time I start to back down. Admittedly, though, I’m a bit curious what’ll happen if I test his limit. “I hadn’t really noticed Benny’s sexy wardrobe,” I say, which is not exactly true. “But I guess you have.”
“Are you jealous?” he asks. “She has a boyfriend.”
“How do you know?”
“I take an interest in the people I work with,” he says, tilting his head forward. “Don’t you two ever talk about that stuff? You’re together all day.”
“Not really.” Benny may be my assistant, and a very good one, but she’s only a year younger than me. She holds me together, rolls her eyes along with me, keeps me on schedule. We get each other, but we’re different. Several piercings rim the edge of one of her ears, and her tattoos constantly peek out from her skirts, low-cut blouses, and sleeves. We’ve hardly spent a minute together past six o’clock. Our personal lives just don’t come up. “We gossip sometimes, but just about work.”
“That’s fine by me. She’s not a friend I’d choose for you. Anyway, I really don’t think you should wear them to dinner.”
“What?
“The tights.”
I wasn’t going to wear them to dinner, but now I want to, just to piss Rich off. “Why don’t you let me choose my own friends and worry about how I come off to clients? Newsflash—I’m not one of those girls looking to date my dad, you should definitely know that by now.”
“I see. So you’re going to turn this argument into another of your dad’s faults. All I said was those tights are a bit sexy for work.”
After a long, in-your-face gulp of wine, I set down the empty glass and leave.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
I suddenly feel gross and sticky. “Shower.”
“I was going to shower,” he calls.
“I won’t be long.”
“We don’t have time. We’ll have to take one together.”
I start stripping in the bathroom. “Fine.”
Rich and I didn’t sleep together for months after we started dating. I’m not sure it would’ve happened at all if it weren’t for a fifth of tequila. I couldn’t even say why we got together. We went to a series of business dinners with my dad, and when clients left, my dad would insist on an after-dinner drink. Then, a few sips in, Dad would make an excuse to go home. Rich and I were each too polite to leave before the other had finished their drink.
One of those nights, when the conversation was good, we ordered a second drink, and then a third. Tequila happened, and we were a couple. Just like my dad wanted.
After Rich and I shower separately under the same stream of water, I blow dry my hair, glancing at him as he dresses in a suit and tie. Rich is a catch—I know that. He was positioned in front of me for a reason. Smart, thoughtful when he has to be, even-keeled—and all that in a nice package. He takes care of himself, and a solid body and handsome face helps me get in the mood when I need to.
I could cheat on him.
Not with just anyone, but with Finn. Finn does things to me with just a look, and I’m even more tempted by him when he opens his mouth. He read my journal and it didn’t scare him off. If it’d been Rich who’d come across it, he’d have put it back where he found it and never mentioned it again.
“Ten minutes,” Rich says with a spritz of cologne.
I’m patting on liquid foundation. “Thanks, Dad.”
“You’ve made your point,” he says. “I just thought you’d like to know the time since you aren’t dressed yet.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Look,” he says.
Great. I know that “look.” He’s going to say
something I don’t want to hear. “At what?”
He ignores my stunning wit. “You’re in a bad mood, I get it. But since that’s rare, I have to ask.”
My heart leaps into my throat. I should’ve known this was coming, because Rich is right. I am in a bad mood, but I was in a great mood earlier, and any kind of extreme is unusual for me. I’m not temperamental anymore.
I skip ahead to applying eyeliner, the best way I know how to avoid his gaze during this conversation. “Don’t start this,” I say. “Not right before we walk out the door.”
“So I’m right then. Something’s changed. Please tell me you haven’t stopped taking them completely.”
It irritates me that it’s been less than a week and Rich has already noticed. Has being on antidepressants changed me so much that the moment I lower my dosage, I become an entirely different person? A person I don’t even know, because it’s been so long since I’ve been her? “I’m a grown woman,” I say. “I’ll decide for myself.”
“That’s not how it works. We’re a team, you and me—”
“And my dad, and Doctor Dummy.”
“It’s Doctor Lumby.” He gets his phone from his pocket. “The car’s here. I’ll be downstairs, but we can finish this after dinner. And don’t forget . . .”
“What?” I prompt just to get him out of here.
“Don’t forget your coat. I’m saying that as your boyfriend who doesn’t want you to be cold, not as the overbearing father figure you make me out to be.”
In the reflection, I watch him disappear. Guilt gnaws at my gut. Despite his faults, Rich does care about me. And he takes care of me. Mentally, emotionally, he makes sure I’m okay from day to day. He keeps his distance for the most part, accepting that my decrease in sex drive comes with the territory.
It’s a big job, handling me. I should be grateful Rich is up for it. Instead, I’ve been unnecessarily bitchy to him for no reason.
No, that’s not true—there is a reason. He knows it, I know it, my dad knows it.
I knew there would be mood swings, and that they’d eventually give me away to Rich, my dad, or my doctor. It’s not as if I was going to keep this from them forever, but they would’ve talked me out of it. They’ve done it before.
But it’s time. Thanks to a handsy pigeon, I only have a quarter of my prescription left, even though Doctor Lumby thinks I just refilled it. This last week, the air has been colder on my skin. People’s features have been sharper. Finn’s acceptance of my embarrassing desire for passion makes my heart swell whenever I think of it.
Next month would make ten years of being on antidepressants. I’m determined not to see that anniversary, though. I’ll be better this time.
I’ll be an improved version of the girl I was before.
10
I can’t think of much worse than client dinners. At least in meetings, I have work to discuss. At these after-hours engagements, I’m expected to talk about anything but work. My dad’s method for signing clients is to impress the shit out of them with ideas at the office, then close over expensive food and liquor.
Which is what we’re heading into now. The host leads us to our usual table. My dad gets my chair for me. “You look nice tonight,” he says.
Not that it’s so rare to get compliments from my dad, but I’m immediately suspicious. Did Rich already mention the argument over the tights to my dad? Is this their way of thanking me for not wearing them? I look at Rich, whose nose is buried in the wine menu, pretending he didn’t hear.
“Flying solo tonight, George?” Grayson Dietrich asks once we’re all seated.
“Unfortunately.” Dad unfolds his napkin to put it in his lap. “After my wife passed, I was never quite able to move on.”
My throat closes for a few seconds, long enough to suppress my intake of air without killing me. What my dad says is true. He’s never even attempted to date since the accident. But I still don’t like when he uses my mom’s death as an icebreaker, and tonight the sting is especially painful. I’ve been thinking of her more this past week, ever since the pigeons. I wouldn’t call myself a spiritual person, but it’s as if she’s around.
Mrs. Dietrich touches her collarbone with both hands. “Oh, George. I’m so sorry. When was that?”
He clears his throat. “Almost ten years ago.”
“Ten?” She shakes her head at her husband. “Would you go that long without dating if you lost me?”
“Of course, dear.”
“And this was your mother, Halston?” she asks.
I try not to fidget. I don’t want attention on me. “Yes.”
Rich passes me the wine list. “Why don’t you pick one out?” He turns to Grayson. “George tells me you’re a Knicks fan.”
Gratefully, I take the menu. Rich doesn’t like me to drink ever since last year’s incident, so saving me from this conversation is an olive branch. Suddenly, I’m glad I opted for plain black tights and a more conservative outfit. On some level, I guess I know Rich is usually looking out for me.
I go to squeeze his hand as thanks, but my dad reaches across and snatches the list from me. “Why don’t you get yourself a coffee instead?” he asks, halting the table conversation. He turns his glare on Rich. “Don’t you think that’s best?”
My face warms as I’m reduced to a twelve-year-old in front of a man who’s here to decide whether to trust us with his million-dollar-plus advertising budget.
“Yes, sir,” Rich says. He smiles uneasily at Grayson, nodding in my direction. “This one drinks coffee like water.”
“I used to be that way,” Mrs. Dietrich says. “I’m too old to have caffeine this late, though. Let’s call the waiter over.”
Without my usual armor my antidepressants provide, embarrassment hits me harder than it normally might. It shifts to sadness. For my strained relationship with my dad and Rich. For missing my mom more than usual. For ten goddamn years. I put on my best smile. Anything less will irritate my dad. “Excuse me,” I say, standing. “Ladies’ room.”
I sit in a stall and take a deep breath. I don’t want to be here. Already, this dinner feels like it’s been going on all night. I’m getting restless. I’m anxious that I’m anxious, worried my dad will notice and that Rich will out me. George Fox put me on antidepressants, and he’ll decide when I stop taking them. At least, according to him.
I hope that Rich orders me coffee so it’s waiting for me when I return. But I need something right now to take the edge off. Something to dispel the gloom creeping in. I get my phone from my handbag and check to see if Finn ever posted the second photo—and to my delight, he has. I’m on the screen, sucking coffee off my two fingers, and it has forty-seven likes—even more than the one before it and in much less time.
I still can’t believe he captured that. And took the time to edit it. And post it. With a caption of mine that he picked out. Is he looking at the photo right now too? Does it excite him? Is he thinking of me like I am him?
I smile all the way back to the table and through dinner as well—or, at least until Rich makes me switch to decaf.
* * *
In the town car on the way home, Rich is quiet. That’s not unusual, but tonight he’s not volleying e-mails or checking on an international client or tracking his beloved stocks.
“I’m sorry your dad went ballistic about the wine,” he says finally.
An apology isn’t what I expected, so it takes me a moment to respond. To an onlooker, it would’ve sounded like a normal exchange, but the three of us know it wasn’t. Taking the wine list from me was a reminder that he still doesn’t trust me.
“It’s all right,” I say. “I’m used to it.”
“It’s been over a year, and you haven’t had more than a glass since. I’ve noticed, Halston, even though you think I give you a hard time. It isn’t fair that your dad hasn’t let it go yet—and that I haven’t, either.”
I’m not sure it isn’t fair. I did fuck up. I disappointed them both. But a re
minder isn’t helpful. It puts me on edge, and the edge is what I’ve been trying—what I’ve been firmly suggested—to dull.
“I mean, we should be grateful for coffee, right?” he asks. “It’s harmless. Unless you start doing that enema thing.” He chuckles. “Have you heard of those? Coffee enemas? I wouldn’t be surprised if I caught you hooked up to an espresso IV one day.”
It’s dark enough that I can’t see the nuances of his face. Why is he talking about coffee enemas? “Sure. I guess.”
“I’m just a little worried, Halston. If you’ve changed your dosage without consulting a doctor, well . . .” He blows out a breath and shifts to face me in the seat. “You can’t just do that.”
I look out the window at all the people having fun on a Thursday night—most of them around my age. I’d like to be out there with them, not trapped in here for a Rich lecture. “I told you, I’m an adult. I can do what I want.”
“That doesn’t mean you should. I don’t think you’re ready to go off them—neither does your dad, or Doctor Lumby.”
“Doctor Lumby does what he thinks is easiest for all of us, and that’s keeping me agreeable.”
“What’s wrong with easy? Why do you want to make things hard?”
I lace my hands in my lap, squeezing them together. “You’re right. Feeling things is hard. Being moody, having PMS, and voicing my opinions, it’s a burden for everyone.”
“That’s not fair.”
“If I stop taking meds, I won’t be nice, easygoing, doormat Halston.”
“I didn’t say you have to stay on them, but if you really, honestly feel you need to stop, then at least get professional help.”
“I don’t trust Doctor Lumby.” I never really have, but until my recent perspective shift, it didn’t seem to matter. My dad footed the bill, I got to talk to someone candidly a couple times a month, and in exchange, everyone left me alone. Until Finn. He hasn’t left me alone. He’s dug a little deeper without making me feel like I’m under interrogation. “I missed my appointment last week on purpose,” I admit. “It wasn’t because of work like I told you.”
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