Okay

by Danielle Pearl

  "Too wise for love in high school, eh?"

  My gaze drops to my lap. "We're just friends," I mutter pathetically.

  "Bullshit."

  I don't bother denying it. Because we may just be friends, but my father is right, it is fucking bullshit.

  I rub my face with my palms, and then rake them through my hair, one after the other. All my confidence and anger drains out of me, replaced with frustration and desperation, and I drop my head into my hands.

  "Tell me how to help her," I plead.

  My father stands, and I don't bother looking up as he makes his way around his desk and tentatively places his hand on my shoulder. I don't even flinch.

  "Sammy," he says, and squats down to my eye level, waiting until I meet his gaze.

  I look at him with a childlike helplessness that I despise with every cell in my body. It's a desperate vulnerability that I need fucking resolved. I need Rory's demons either locked up or slain, not just for her, but for me. Because I can fool myself into believing I'll someday be able to get over her, but I know I'll never have even a shadow of peace of mind until I can be sure that she's safe.

  "I promise you, we will help your friend. I will do everything in my significant political and legal power to bury her piece of garbage rapist," he says adamantly, and I believe him. "And I know how difficult this is for you, but I need you to trust me. You need to be patient and listen to what I tell you, and most importantly… don't do anything fucking stupid, Sammy, you hear me? If that girl cares half as much about you as you obviously do her, she needs you to be cool-headed and calm. The last thing she needs is you doing something reckless, son. You get yourself locked up, and where does that leave her?"

  Exactly where she fucking is, just with one less friend who doesn't even talk to her anymore.

  But I don't say it out loud. It would do no good. Because she may not know that I'm still looking out for her, but I do, and so my father is right—I'm more good to Rory if I do things his way, as much as I know how much more gratifying meting out violence for violence would be.

  Because I sure as hell can't say that I didn't enjoy the punishment I doled out in that goddamned alley. The only part that dulled the satisfaction was the knowledge that I would have to stop. That I couldn't just finish it there. The cops were on their way, and there were too many people around. But I won't pretend I haven't considered doing it the right way. Planning, calculating… and executing. Literally.

  But I know the legal recourse is the best option. So I will trust my father—this man I thought I knew and long ago judged, and who, despite his remorse, does not deserve my forgiveness. But I do so knowing that if we fail, if it turns out my father is not quite as influential as he believes himself to be, that there is another way to ensure that motherfucking bastard can never hurt Rory again. And though it will probably irreparably alter the course of my future, it's a risk I'm prepared to take. Because I know the alternative risk—Rory's safety—is not one I'm willing to leave up to chance, or the fucked up whims of a degenerate, sadistic animal.

  Chapter Ten

  We spend the better part of the next hour carefully dissecting Rory's case files, searching for any and every foothold to condemn that motherfucking bastard. Mitch puts the photos of Rory's injuries away in his desk drawer, adamant that I shouldn't look at them. I don't fight him, because I'm not confident that he's wrong, and I'm not sure I can be the calm, cool-headed man Rory needs me to be if I have opportunity to add more laser-printed images of her suffering to my memory. The one from the alley consumes me enough. But I make a mental note that he has them, that if I decide I want to see them, then I will fucking see them.

  I don't feel like we're accomplishing anything more than going through the play by play of Rory's past hell, and if the sickening animosity raging through my insides with each uncovered detail is any indication, then my father was right to keep me from seeing those photos.

  But as impotent as I feel right now, my father appears to be in his element. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his eyebrows rising in peaked interest every now and again as he jots down barely legible notes on his ever-present legal pad. He murmurs to himself, and asks me random questions, though I rarely have the answers. Aside from what I witnessed in Miami, I only know what Rory has told me, and most of that is already laid out in nauseating detail in the files.

  Finally, he gets to Miami. I watch with no small amount of discomfort as he reads through my own statement to the police, then Tucker's, and finally, that motherfucking bastard's. I already read it while my father was going through the report from Cameron Foster's accident.

  It's what I'm looking through now, and this time, I don't hide from the photos. I see his car molded around a tree, looking no more durable than aluminum—like a beer can crushed by some drunkard's fist.

  It's strange to feel grief for someone I never met, and even more so for someone who, if he was alive, would be my primary rival for Rory's love. But I feel vaguely as if I did know him, as if perhaps we might understand one another in some visceral way. Because we are, or were, or are, marked by the same mission—the well-being of one incredible girl, whom we would both kill for, would both die for, and for whom he already did.

  "Okay," my father says suddenly, and I startle and slam the accident file closed and return his gaze. "I've read all of the statements from April twenty-third. Now I need you to tell me what really happened."

  I glare at him, not exactly sure what he's asking. Or accusing. I clear my throat, gesturing to the statement he's just reviewed. "It's like I said in my statement. He attacked her, I pulled him off of her, he swung at me and we fought." I shrug.

  "The three of you were alone in the alley, and then you called out to Tucker…" he says, and I nod.

  "Right, like it says." I try to suppress my growing impatience and silently remind myself that he's just doing his job—the one I asked of him.

  My father sighs. "Sam, I need to ask you these questions. Because his lawyer certainly will, and you need to be prepared. But more than that, I need all of the information. If you don't trust me as your father then at least trust me as a professional. Anything you tell me is privileged.

  "You need to understand that you've been accused of a crime, though thankfully you haven't been charged, and I doubt you will, but I need to know everything we are working with to devise the best possible plan of action."

  "Damn it, Mitch! I didn't come to you to defend me against that motherfucking bastard's bullshit accusations! We need to focus on making sure he gets the maximum jail sentence so he can't come after Rory again. That's it!" I don't mean to lose my temper, but my burgeoning exasperation is getting the best of me. My father, however, stays cool and collected, still the best version of himself, and it makes me feel childish in contrast.

  "I understand why you've come here. I've already made you a promise on that front, have I not?" he asks with measured patience.

  I stare at him, incredulous. Does he seriously believe that one morning of apparent remorse and five years of supposed sobriety have erased every broke promise of my childhood?

  He seems to recognize my sentiment without me having to utter a single word, and I watch him deflate before my eyes. His shoulders sag, he rubs his eyes, and he's no longer the seasoned professional in his element. Instead, he's just a man with a lifetime of regrets, and this one opportunity not to make it right, but at least to head in the right direction. And he's still my best option—Rory's best option—and so I swallow my pride back down to keep company with the perpetual weight in my chest and gut.

  "Samuel, listen carefully. Robin Forbes' allegations against you are relevant to your friend's case. The past assaults may very well not be admissible, since the charges were dismissed in exchange for not contesting the Injunction for Protection. So the incident in Miami is everything. And the evidence—Aurora's scrapes and bruises—can also be explained by his version of events. If it comes to a trial, it's going to come down to t
estimony. A jury will either believe Robin Forbes or Aurora Pine, as is often the situation in these cases, and he is presumed innocent unless proven otherwise, beyond a reasonable doubt. The burden is on her.

  "But Aurora has one other card, and that's you. You are the only witness to any of these assaults aside from the victim. But the defense will argue that your relationship with the alleged victim makes you biased. We would have to argue that the fact that you care for the victim does not mean you would lie for her. Your credibility might just be the thing that gets you the outcome you want so badly. And these allegations about your actions that night can destroy that, Sam. If a jury believes you would assault someone for her, then they will believe you would lie for her, and in fact, that you already did, in this statement."

  He presses his open palm to the closed file and pats it once, and I stare at it, very aware of its contents, and how they are only partially true. I feel bile rise in my throat. If my need to exact violent vengeance in that alley has compromised Rory's safety, I could never forgive myself.

  I rub my eyes with my fists and take a deep breath. "Tell me what to do."

  "Just answer my questions. And don't leave anything out."

  I do. I tell my father every single detail from my argument with Rory over Cameron Foster, to every last thing that went down in that alley, including after I delivered Rory to Carl, and returned to find Tucker kicking that motherfucking bastard in the ribs.

  My father asks question after question, coaching me on what to emphasize and what to omit in future statements or testimony. He gives me alternative things to say, and ways to say them.

  He wants to meet with Rory at some point, but I'm not sure how to make that happen. I don't want anyone to know I got my father involved. Not Bits or my mother, because God knows it will only tear open old wounds, and certainly not Rory, who already suffers from enough self-recrimination without hearing that I reached out to the father I despise just to help her.

  I tell him I'll think about it, but as Rory wasn't in the alley at the point in question, I don't really see why he needs to go over her testimony. The only relevant thing he asked me not to mention again is our fight about Cam, because it implies that I am jealous, and that supports that motherfucking bastard's story that I beat him up not to protect Rory, but out of jealousy.

  But I can talk to Rory myself about keeping quiet about our fight, especially since I doubt she would want to speak of it anyway.

  Assuming she and I are even speaking by then.

  Fuck. Everything is so fucked up. I feel emotionally exhausted, completely drained. And the day is far from over.

  My father's intercom buzzes and Sue's voice reminds him that it's twelve thirty. We've been going at this for over two hours.

  "Oh," he says, and then starts closing the open folders and piling them neatly. "I need to get to Fifth for lunch. I think I have what I need, Sam. I'm going to review everything again, and then make some calls, and then we'll touch base." He stands up, dismissing me, and it's a bit startling. One moment we're deep in it, and the next, he's ushering me out.

  I feel unfinished. We haven't really resolved anything, and I got a call from Detective Karanek down in Miami that there's going to be a hearing in a few weeks.

  "Mitch-"

  But he cuts me off, anticipating my concern. "We'll be ready for the motion hearing, Sam, okay? I expect to have the motion emailed to me by the end of the day, and we'll take it from there. Once we know their argument, we can come up with a game plan."

  I exhale my worry. He can't let them dismiss the charges. We can't. I nod.

  He walks out with me to reception, and Sue stands with giant grin plastered across her face, but it falters as soon as she gets a good look at me.

  "Jesus, boy, you look like you've been through the ringer! What'd you do to our boy, Mitchell?" Sue exclaims.

  With that, my father rolls his eyes, and I exhale deeply, composing myself.

  "You mind your business, nosy wench," he teases her, and she shakes her head.

  "Right, my business, like that lunch appointment you'll be late for if you don't get moving," she retorts.

  My father nods as I push the call button for the elevator.

  "Did she call?" he asks Sue, and I turn to face them.

  She?

  I realize my father has female clients and colleagues, but something about the way he asked if she called felt personal, and I suspect my father is heading out on a date.

  "Mmhmm. Told her you were with a client, and that I'd see that you get there on time," she tells him. "So don't you make me look bad."

  "Thanks." My father's tone is strangely grateful and serious, all the banter dissolved into thin air, and there's an awkwardness that lingers.

  I don't know why I'm so put off by the idea of my father dating. It's been five years, surely he's been with women since my mother, and has probably even had real relationships. It's possible, I realize, that he's even in one now. That the woman he's meeting could be his girlfriend, for all I know. And even though rationally I know it's none of my business, I feel a curiosity, no—a suspicion—that's crawling through my veins, pushing me to find out just what this man is up to.

  Maybe it's because nothing I've learned about him today has been what I'd been expecting. He's not who I thought he was. Who I thought he would be. And now I feel an unsettling need to know more about his life, either to prove to myself that he's full of shit—that he's still the bastard I knew him to be—or to confirm that maybe, just possibly, there's an off chance he might be worth getting to know.

  I feel like a pussy for even thinking it. Like I've been fooling myself into thinking I was an adult. That in actuality, I'm still just a naïve little boy, hoping against hope that his father might be even half the man that in the darkest corner of my heart, I'd always dreamed he could be.

  Sue hugs me goodbye and makes me promise to come by the office again soon. I feel guilty agreeing, but I do, because it's the easiest thing to do. She tells me to take care of myself, and not to let finals or whatever is stressing me out get to me. That I'm too handsome to look so damn serious. That gets a faint smile out of me.

  Mitch enters the elevator with me, and I quietly watch him with renewed interest as we ride down to the lobby, ignoring the few strangers that get on and off at the few stops on the way.

  We exit together, and I pull the folded up visitor's sticker from my pocket and chuck it in a waste bin on our way out.

  "Sammy," he says as soon as we're both through the revolving glass doors.

  He says it like he means to stop me. He probably thought I would just leave now that I've gotten what I came for. He has no way of knowing that in the past few minutes, I've decided to follow him. Just to see who he's meeting for lunch. If it's really a date, or if I was just jumping to conclusions, because it could just as easily be a business lunch.

  I don't know what he wants to say, but I don't want to have some big moment. But he is helping me and he doesn't have to, and I feel an irrational whisper of guilt. Not for judging the man he was—because I knew that man well, and he deserved my condemnation. But for never considering that he could have changed.

  I'm not saying he deserves a second chance, and honestly, I'm not sure I have it in me to give him one, even if everything he's told me is true. But I could give him something.

  "Thank you, Mitch," I murmur. The words don't come out easily, and I clear my throat awkwardly before I continue. "I do appreciate your help with Rory."

  A small smile plays on his lips, and I'm surprised by how much satisfaction he derives from a simple thank you from me. He nods, but doesn't offer the simple "you're welcome" I'm expecting.

  "You are right, Sammy, you know. Most people who fall in love at your age are naïve. It's not real. It's puppy love, and they're in for a rude awakening when life gets in the way."

  I narrow my eyes at him. I did not ask for his love advice, that's for damn sure, and since he so adamantly defended h
is high school love story just a couple of hours ago, I don't even get where he's coming from.

  "But this… you…" he gestures to me, "this isn't that. Life is clearly already very in the way, and look at you, you're no puppy." He shakes his head, and when he looks back at me, the persistence in his eyes unsettles me even more. "But then, you never were. I didn't allow you to be. You never really got to be a kid. For God's sake, you were defending your mother and sister when you were only thirteen." His hand rakes through his hair and I watch him flood with self-recrimination and shame.

  It keeps me stunned into silence, unable to utter a single word.

  "You need to know this is real, Sam. You being here right now, when I know very well it's the last place you ever wanted to have to come for a favor… I see you when you say you'd go to jail to keep this girl safe, and I know how serious you are. And you need to know that that is not high school puppy love. That is real. That is forever." He takes a step toward me, intent as I've ever seen him.

  "Do not convince yourself it's anything less just because you're young, and do not think for a second that it comes around twice. Do not make the mistake of taking it for granted, and do not buy into your own bullshit about just being her friend."

  I stare at him, open-mouthed. That is literally the last thing I'd expected to hear out of him.

  Until this morning, I thought my parents were the poster children for avoiding high-school relationships, and now here he is, telling me what I already know about Rory and me.

  But who the fuck is he to give relationship advice? This man beat his wife repeatedly, chose alcohol over her, and even broke her fucking nose. And now, despite the fact that he swore his undying love for her barely an hour ago, he's about to go meet another woman. Fucking asshat.

  "Not sure you should be giving out relationship advice," I grit out.

  He nods, like he completely expected my snark. "Exactly. And nobody understands just what it is you have to lose more than I do. But you love this girl, Sammy, and I think you know it. And I'd bet my entire practice that she loves you just as much, and if there's anything good that can come from my mistakes, it's that I can tell you this: