I can sense Sam's encouragement, feel him silently urging me to be friendly. Or at least cordial. But neutral is all I can muster.
I don't say anything polite, but I don't say anything I'm thinking either. And those things wouldn't be very cordial. So instead, I barely nod at her before making an excuse to get the hell out of there. I say I'm going to go find Dave to bum a cigarette, and I don't know if Sam's reproachful glare is for my rudeness, or my smoking—neither of which he especially approves of, clearly. But neither of which he'll call me out on either, and so I make my hasty retreat.
I find Dave and ask for a smoke. He, of course, obliges, and says he'll come outside and have one with me, which he's been doing pretty often lately. I tell him he doesn't have to, like I always do, and he insists, every time. I wonder if my being attacked in Miami has made him paranoid for me. It's humiliating, but considering it's Dave, it's also kind of sweet.
As I lead him outside, anxious to get out of that stuffy room and into some fresh air, I notice him peek over to where Sam chats with Chelsea, and vaguely I think they've exchanged some cryptic glance, but Sam is already looking away.
I'm riddled with nerves all evening, for so many different reasons I'm not sure I could possibly even identify them all. There are so few people I'm comfortable around—and one of those people makes me just as nervous as he puts me at ease. And the truth is, most of these people are virtually strangers to me, whether I know them or not. Carl and Tina both make efforts to include me in conversation, but it's obvious they're preoccupied with their guys.
And why wouldn't they be? They're happy. Something I can't really understand, something I only barely had a day-long glimpse of in Miami. And besides them, and perhaps Lily, and Dave, I have no one to socialize with.
When I wind up in a group conversation with Chelsea again not forty five minutes later, I decide I've put in enough hours for the night. When Sam's friend Luke accidentally shoulders me as he pushes past where I'm standing to get to the fridge, I have to hold my breath, close my eyes, and count backwards from ten before I'm confident I'm not actually going to plummet into panic in front of everyone. When I open my eyes again and half of them are staring at me like I'm crazy—and rightfully so—I mutter an excuse about being tired and flee to the back porch.
Now that spring has arrived in earnest the backyard is full of party stragglers, just as it was the first time I'd come to one of Andrew's parties. It had been unseasonably warm for February that night, and since then the back porch had usually been fairly empty, save for the random smoker. It had become something of an escape for me when I'd felt uncomfortable—so pretty damn often—until recently.
I'm about to march around the house to my car when I remember I didn't even drive. Trying to function on little more than a couple hours of sleep a night is starting to really mess with my head.
Great. As if I didn't already have the advantage when it comes to crazy.
It's pathetic, but I have to give myself a silent pep talk before I can push myself back inside the house to ask Carl to drive me. Drunken Marshall slurs some borderline suggestive nonsense about my jeans as I pass, and my muscles inexorably tense. I have to mentally remind myself that I am safe here, in this crowded house, with a few friends and many more acquaintances.
I push open the door to the kitchen where I'd left Carl, and like the world is playing a never-ending joke on me, I walk right into Sam. Literally.
I jump back, apologizing. I don't know why it feels like I've done something wrong, and by the look on his face, neither does he. Dave is with him, keys in hand.
"Thought you were leaving," Sam murmurs.
"Um. Yeah, I—"
"I wanted to catch you before you did."
Oh? I stare up at him, my stomach flipping with nerves over what he might have to say, and somehow a million possibilities dart through my mind instantaneously. Though I'm not sure if any of those possibilities is something he'd say in front of Dave.
"You were kind of a bitch to Chelsea."
Okay, definitely not that.
His tone isn't accusing, more like matter of fact. And I suppose it is a matter of fact.
"So?" I ask. What is his point? I'm suddenly extremely annoyed. This is what he chased me out here to say?
Sam sighs defeatedly, running his hand through his hair. He cut it recently. Not short. Just enough to get it out of his eyes. But the last thing I need is a less encumbered view of his eyes.
"She's sorry. You know? I'm not excusing what she did. It was fucked up, but she knows that, and that's why she apologized," he says. "I'm not saying you need to be her best friend, but maybe just cut her a break?"
Suddenly everything feels irrevocably changed. Sam is taking up for Chelsea and I'm the one who's the bitch, and she's his lifelong friend, and I am an outsider. I swallow the heart-sized lump in my throat and the perpetual ache in my chest intensifies even more. I bite my lip so hard I think it might bleed.
"Sure," I breathe to placate him, dropping my gaze to my chucks as I stifle a yawn.
"Come on, Ror," Sam's voice turns almost pleading and I'm reminded how little I can hide from him. Everything has changed, but also nothing has. The hint of desperation in his words undo me. Sam has forgiven Chelsea, and he cares about me, and my grudge-that's-not-a-grudge is complicating things for him. A wave of guilt washes over me. I've complicated his life enough.
"Yeah, okay," I murmur contritely. "I'll… try."
"Come Sunday," Sam offers, and I blink at him in confusion. "To brunch, remember?"
Oh. Right. "I, uh—"
"Don't think up an excuse. Just come. Chel will be there and you can have a chance to get to know each other a little, and you'll get to meet my cousin, Thea, who you'll be going to school with next year. And you'll have friends there, Carl, and Tuck… me," he says more softly.
I can tell that this means something to him. Me putting in an effort with his family friend. And after all he's done for me, considering I've brought him nothing but headaches and heartache, I can do this for him. I have to.
I agree to meet Sam at his family home Sunday morning, and excuse myself to go ask Carl for that ride. Dave, who's leaving himself for what I can only assume is a booty call considering it's barely ten o'clock, offers me a ride. I politely decline. As friendly as Dave and I have become, I know that alone in a car, only the vaguest moment of doubt would trigger me to panic. No, I'm quite sure there's only one man I could handle being alone in a car with, and he did not offer me a ride.
Chapter Four
I wake up early and head to my mom's basement gym. It was only a little after eleven when I got home last night and I have excess energy I need to burn off. I feel that knot in the pit of my stomach, reminding me that life sucks.
I left Andy's not long after Rory did. I remember that I told her she'd been a bitch to Chelsea. The knot twists more tightly. Her eyes flashed wounded before they found their way to annoyance.
But her thing with Chelsea is what's annoying. Chel fucked up. I know that as well as Rory, but so does Chel. She admitted as much and apologized, and with senior events coming up, them not being able to be in the same room is going to complicate things. Not just for me, but for all of our mutual friends.
Of course, that's not the only reason I practically fucking begged Rory to come over tomorrow. I do think it's a good opportunity for them to be in the same room together and maybe get along for once, but I wouldn't have been so pitifully desperate if just for that.
I just want to see her. I want to be able to see how she's holding up, with fewer people and fewer distractions. And I want her to meet Thea. And maybe get along with Chelsea. Bits has been asking about her also, and I know she'd like to see her. My mom, too. But my motivations are mostly selfish. Because the simple fact is, I begged her to come to brunch because I just want to be around her.
I run nearly twice my normal distance on the treadmill, intent on ridding my body of all this nervous energy. I know
what I have to do—I have ever since we met with the detectives in Miami—and doing it with all of this tension stored up is a dangerous idea. Flying into a rage, even on the phone, while demanding a favor probably wouldn't produce the desired result.
A month ago I would have been confident that I would never reach out to that man again. After all, my last words to him five years ago were pretty damn conclusive.
Get the fuck out of this house, you drunk piece of shit, or I swear to God I will destroy your reputation and your fucking career if it's the last thing I do.
I then proceeded to dial 9 - 1… and he left before I had to make good on my promise.
It's one of those memories that becomes ingrained into your identity. The kind that you don't intermittently recall, but that is constantly with you, even when you aren't actually thinking about it. My mother's smashed nose and the river of blood pouring out from beneath the tear-soaked dishtowel, a terrified ten-year-old Bits crumpled beneath the kitchen table, huddled in a pitiful ball of fear.
Everything changed that day. All the years my mother threw herself into the line of fire to protect me had fueled me, and I knew my role had evolved into something else. I was only thirteen, but I was finally bigger than her. Stronger. And it was no longer her job to protect me. Or that's how I saw it anyway.
But now… now. Though it kills me to admit it, I need him. Rory needs him. And for her I can swallow my pride. I can compartmentalize my personal opinion of the man, store it away on the same shelf I've stored my love for Rory, as a means to an end.
I take a long shower after my workout. I know I'm stalling, but I also know I won't procrastinate forever. Today is the deadline I gave myself, and today is the day I will do what I swore I would. Seeing Rory last night—her haunted eyes, no doubt reflecting the exhaustion of weeks of terror-filled, sleepless nights—has only further solidified my resolve. I will not let what happened in Miami destroy all the progress she's made. I will not allow her demons to consume her. And in order to make sure of it, the first thing I need to do, is make sure the worst demon—that motherfucking bastard—does not get away with attacking her again.
I wait another hour, until my mom and Bits have gone out for their weekly girl's afternoon of whatever-icures at the spa. They've both been happy lately. After everything they've both been through, I don't want to cause them any stress, and I don't know how this is going to go—if it will be civil and to the point, or get heated and loud. After all, it has been five years.
My mom is all excited about some theater tickets she has for tonight, and I suspect she's going on a date, though I haven't questioned her about it. She's been spending weekend nights in the city more frequently, and I wonder if she's seeing someone. While I don't especially want to think about my mother dating, she's been alone for so long, and she deserves to find happiness wherever she can. So I won't mess up her good mood by allowing her to overhear whatever occurs on this call.
I dial his number, my stomach a pathetic ball of unsettled knots, and I silently chastise myself for it. He doesn't deserve my nerves, but here they are all the same.
The second ring. I wonder if this is even still his cell phone number. His office number is prominently listed, but no one will be answering on a Saturday.
He picks up on the fourth ring, and I force myself to ignore the instinct to end the call and smash the phone against the wall. If I do have anger issues, there's no mystery as to from whom I inherited them.
"Hello?" His voice is just as I remember it. Professional, a hint of the arrogance he may have earned in his professional career as a high-powered defense attorney, but certainly not in his home life. My mouth opens, but I don't respond.
"Hello?" He asks again. His tone is detached, almost bored. He has no idea who's calling, and he's already written it off as not worth his time. Or maybe he thinks the call dropped and that's why I haven't replied. But I have to, or he will hang up, and I won't achieve what I've set out to achieve.
"Mitch." I've never called him by his name. Not once. But I can't bring myself to say "Dad". It's been years since I've accepted that he doesn't deserve the title. That he may be the man who fathered me, but I don't have a "Dad" at all.
There are a few moments of charged silence. I can hear him breathing, and I know that although my voice has surely changed since I was thirteen, that although I've only said one word, and a name I've never called him before at that, that he knows exactly who's calling. I don't say anything else. It's his turn to talk, and I can wait.
"Sammy?" He calls me by my childhood nickname. As if we've just come home from a Pee Wee Football game or something. As if no time, no life altering events, have passed at all.
It bothers me. I don't know how I expected him to greet me, how he could possibly acknowledge all that warrants acknowledgment in a greeting, but it pisses me off all the same.
"It's me," I confirm. I suppose my tone doesn't reflect anything significant either. It is calm, practiced. I want to keep this conversation as simple and professional as possible.
I hear my father's deep exhale through the phone. I can practically hear him trying to come up with what to say next when there are so many years worth of unsaid things lingering through the line. But I don't need to say any of those things, and I don't need to hear them. Everything I had to say I said the night I forced him from his own home. This isn't about us; this isn't about me.
"Samm—"
"Look, Mitch…" I cut him off. I don't want to give him the chance to say something that might set me off. And truthfully, anything he might say could set me off. "I'm calling for a specific reason," I explain. I know he's both relieved to escape a dramatic exchange—he's always been better at business than family—and disappointed that I'm not calling because I've forgiven him. But I doubt he actually believed even for a moment that that's why I was calling.
My father waits. I rack my brain to find a way to ask for a favor without humbling myself to a man who has earned no humility from me. I won't kiss his ass, I can't even be respectful, but I have to achieve the outcome I need. So I just come out with it.
"All right, the way I see it is this. I need you to do something for me. I didn't want to call you. For obvious reasons. But you're in a unique position to help with something important enough for me to have called. And after everything you've—"
But he cuts off my rant. "After everything I've put you and your mother through, you think I owe you," he finishes for me. Yes. That's exactly what I fucking think.
"And Bits," I remind him. He never laid a hand on Bits, but that doesn't mean his abuse didn't traumatize her, too.
My father sighs. "Okay, Sammy, let's hear it."
****
I wake up early again on Sunday. I'm still tired enough to fall back asleep, but I don't. Last night was the first time I dreamt of my father in a long time. But that isn't what's unsettled me.
I used to dream about him when I was younger, and even for a couple of years after he left. It was always a pleasant scene that he interrupted by getting drunk, and flying off the handle. Sometimes he would just yell and throw things, other times he'd hit my mother or me. But last night…
Last night I dreamt of a family day at the beach. We were in East Hampton, where we used to spend summers before the divorce. But he didn't drink. He didn't blow up over some innocuous occurrence, some harmless words. The switch didn't flip, and he was the dad I remembered from the good times. Because there were good times. In fact, there were more good times than bad. But it's not the frequency of good times versus bad times that matters. It's the magnitude of the bad times, the damage done. And they were fucking colossal.
I decide to text Tucker and see if he wants to hit the gym with me. We always lifted together regularly during football season, and though it's more sporadic now, he's definitely still my ideal spotter. Dave is too chatty during workouts, and when you're trapped beneath a hundred pounds of weights, you don't want to be stuck with a talker.
I know Tuck won't be up for a while still, so I go for a run outside first. Spring has really arrived, and it's already pretty warm despite the early hour. I've barely run a mile by the time my shirt is soaked through with sweat, so I pull it off and stuff it into the waistband of my running shorts, letting it dangle.
The neighborhood is usually quiet, but at this time on a Sunday, it's completely deserted. Our house is off enough from main roads and there are no sidewalks. It's almost rural for a suburb, but it is a facade. Every house is no more than three blocks from a four-lane street, and five from town. Port Woodmere is a standard upscale suburban town, as far as I know. High-end boutiques and big brand stores, nail salons on each street, and elegant restaurants. Even the diner we often eat lunch at is more of a cafe than an actual diner. It's actually called The Diner. It's not even meant to be ironic.
It's not that I don't appreciate my hometown. I realize I'm lucky to have grown up here in Port Woodmere, with its celebrated school district and every amenity imaginable. It's just not the real world. Not by a long-shot, and I've just been feeling more and more like it's time to get out. To meet new people, and experience new things. And there's no place better to do that than Manhattan, and although it isn't exactly far, that's part of the beauty of it.
I pick up speed as I approach my sprinting mile. August can't get here fast enough. Honestly, though I'm a bit reluctant to leave Mom and Bits at home just the two of them, I can't fucking wait to move into the city. I'll be able to get home weekends, and they come into the city plenty anyway. But I like knowing it's barely a forty-five minute drive back home, less on the Long Island Rail Road. That if they need me I can be here in under an hour.
But I need a change of scenery.
And fine, I have enough self-awareness to know that if Rory wasn't going to be a short subway ride away, I might not be so eager. But she is.
I'm going with Thea in a couple of weeks to go see where we'll be sharing an apartment. Thea's mom is my mom's sister, and they've always been close. Last year, when my aunt and uncle had considered getting divorced—they called it a trial separation—my Uncle Kelly bought an apartment on the Upper West Side.
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