"Don't doubt it. Don't second guess it. You know. If you're scared, that's okay, you should be. Love is scary. But not as scary as living without the one person who makes your life worth living. So whatever stupidity makes you think that you're just friends, resolve it. Tell her how you feel. Because I may deserve my fate, but you don't."
My father is unrecognizable to me. Passionate, frazzled, with no sign of the poised professional from upstairs in his office. I swallow the lump in my throat and try to ignore the weight in my chest, crushing my heart and telling me that I am looking at my own future. That no matter how successful I become professionally, without Rory, this is who I will be. A sad cautionary tale of lost love. And I'm equally to blame for my fate as my father is for his. Because though there isn't a single part of me that would ever hurt Rory, my inability to control my anger, and my propensity to throw fists, blew our relationship up in smoke before it ever had a real chance.
I want to scream. I want to rip out my own hair. I want to throw more fists.
Because it's too fucking late.
My father's advice can't help me. Because I've told her how I feel—I've tried. But he's wrong about one key thing, and I just about tell him I'll accept that bet and take the law practice he's always loved so damn much. Because I know now that Rory doesn't love me just as much as I do her. And there's nothing I can do with this advice. There's no help for me now. And part of me wants to hit the man in front of me even now, just for his role in making me what I am—in making me a man who throws punches first and asks questions never—a man Rory could never truly love.
My father gets ahold of himself, combing his fingers through his hair and patting it back into place. He apologizes for overstepping, but tells me to think about what he said.
"Sure," I tell him, and then before he can say another word, I turn and walk away.
I don't go far though. I make my way behind a food cart and turn to see what direction he heads in. He crosses Madison and heads toward Fifth Avenue as he'd said, and I make to follow him, staying half a block behind at all times.
He checks his watch repeatedly, obviously nervous about his punctuality, and it's out of character for someone with his arrogance. I rarely remember him ever being late to anything, but if he was, his bloated sense of self-esteem prevented him from concerning himself with the value of other people's time.
He turns north on Fifth and picks up his pace, and I have to dart around other pedestrians just to keep up. His fingers rake through his hair repeatedly, and I can practically feel his stress in my own muscles. Whoever this woman is, he obviously cares about her. And it's not business, either. Even some important client wouldn't have him on edge like this—he's pompous enough to know that professionally, he's worth waiting for.
When Mitch gets caught at a red light, I hold back behind some smokers under an awning by some random storefront. He's practically bouncing in place waiting for the light to change and I note that wherever he's headed must be on the East side of the avenue, or he would cross rather than wait, considering the impatience obviously coursing through him.
But he doesn't stand out. Not among the hundred or so men and women just like him—professionals in expensive suits, all in a rush on their way somewhere they believe to be more important than the destinations of everyone else around them. The entire square block reeks of self-importance and over-indulgent egos. This is Mitchell Caplan's world and he fits right in. It's only his apprehension that's out of character, and it fuels my curiosity even more.
I glance down at my own watch, the Tag my Grandma Lena, Mitch's mom, gave me for my bar mitzvah barely a month before I kicked her son out of our lives. But not her, never her, and I make a mental side note to call her before she starts employing her personal brand of expert Jewish guilt and I have to hear about my terrible neglect for the next month. My watch tells me it's only one o'clock now, which means unless my father is planning on walking up to Harlem, he can't be more than a few blocks from his destination.
He's halfway down the crosswalk before the light even changes and I have to break into a jog not to lose sight of him. I cross in the middle of Fifty Eighth and watch as he passes the glass encased entrance to the Apple Store. The lunchtime crowds are remarkably dense, the air thick with the smell of hot pretzels and horse manure from the hansom cabs that line Central Park South, and I skirt around FAO Schwartz and through the plaza rather than the main sidewalk.
It's then that I realize where he's headed, and I'm surprised that it's taken until he was nearly there for me to recognize the obvious. He pauses outside of Harry Cipriani, the upscale Italian restaurant he's always frequented and where he's taken us all to countless lunches and dinners. In fact, it used to feel kind of like our place—our family's, mine and my father's, his and my mother's. And even though I know it's just a restaurant, enjoyed by many and conveniently located near his office, it still feels like a betrayal.
He takes a quick moment to compose himself, combing his fingers through his hair again and regulating his breathing. But he can't be more than a few minutes late, and it doesn't account for his agitation.
My curiosity shifts to something deeper—a need for information that rivals paranoia and a contemptuous desire to confirm this sense of betrayal. I can't even fathom who he could possibly be meeting that would warrant such emotions, but I want to catch him doing something wrong. I want to prove to myself that he's still a bastard, despite the supposed strides he's made toward being a decent man in the past five years. I want to give myself this chance to slam that door shut, an excuse not to have to examine these unsettling possibilities any further.
I feel off balance. As if my foundation has shifted, and now I can't quite catch my footing. My hatred for my father is such a deeply rooted part of my identity that I'm not even sure who I am without it.
In the past few months I've already been shaken to my core and turned inside out by a girl who forced me to reject everything I've ever believed—or didn't believe—about love. And now, the mere possibility that Mitch Caplan is not who I so fervently believed him to be, the inkling of a chance that I might have a father worth knowing… it's tilting my world so far off of its axis that I fear I may just slide right off.
So I find myself silently praying that I was right all along—that I will somehow prove to myself, inexplicably, that he's the asshole I always knew him to be. Because it would be so much easier to right the world I know than to have to navigate my way through a new, unfamiliar landscape.
When he finally enters the restaurant, I rush to the northeast corner of Fifty Ninth and Fifth and press my back to the window, leaning casually against it. I turn subtly toward the restaurant and scan the bar and dining room. I spot him almost instantly and anger rises like a tide in my belly, though in the back of my mind I know it isn't rational.
His back is to me, and it mostly shields my view of the woman who faces him, but there's no question that this lunch is, in fact, a date. Her manicured hands are clasped around his waist, and he appears to be holding her face in his hands. Wisps of blonde hair peek out from my blocked view, as do thin, shapely legs below the hemline of her skirt.
He certainly does have a type, and the thought makes me even more resentful. Does he think he can just replace my mother by finding some woman with a similar build and hair color?
I almost leave. After all, I've confirmed what I came to find out, and though it isn't the scandal that will allow me to unequivocally condemn him, it's enough to give me an excuse to ignore his speech about undying love, and at least remain doubtful of everything else he's told me today. Because whatever lines he spewed about loving my mother every day since their teens, he certainly seems over her now.
Whoever this woman is, whatever their relationship, I can read body language enough to know it isn't remotely casual. Their stance is romantic, affectionate, and if you consider the way they're standing with my father's anxiousness over being three minutes late to a stupid fucking lunch d
ate, I would even venture so far as to guess my father may very well love this woman.
The maître d' taps him on his shoulder and I look away before he turns in my direction. In my peripheral I see them all embrace like old friends, exchanging handshakes with my father and a kiss on the cheek with his date. I face Central Park as they pass through the dining room, but before I leave, I turn back to get one good look at this woman who's replacing my mother in his life.
And I stop breathing.
My father's fingers are laced with her finely manicured hand as he leads her to their table, and before I even see her face, I realize my mistake.
This woman isn't replacing my mother. This woman is my mother.
I stand there, gaping, too stunned to concern myself with my covert operation. My father pulls out her chair, allowing her to sit before taking his place not across from her, but beside her, and scooting his chair closer to hers. The way lovers would sit. I realize I have no need to try and remain hidden—they are far too caught up in one another to notice anyone else, least of all their son stalking them from outside the restaurant.
I can see my father perfectly, and my mother's profile, her lips stretched wide in a contented smile. My father says something and she laughs, and my father's pleasure at her joy is palpable. He looks at her like he used to during the good times—as if there isn't another soul in the room, or anything that matters besides her. As if his primary purpose in life is making her smile.
It's this adoration that was always dulled by his drinking, that was always the alcohol's first and worst victim. It blinded him, made him forget who he was. Made him jump onto some random, seemingly innocuous slight or offense and clutch it with both fists, until suddenly it was the most important thing in the universe.
How could you mention that in front of them?! Didn't I tell you to have this dry cleaned?! I wasn't ready to leave yet! How dare you say that to me?! Who do you think you are?! Who do you think I am?!
It didn't really matter. It was never actually about whatever it was about. It was about my dad drunk off his ass, something bothering him, and my mother or me being there for him to take it out on. It didn't escalate to violence every time. But it wasn't about how often it did, it was the fact that it did, and when it did, it was fucking bad.
I watch them interact as the waiter pours them both sparkling water and brings my mother a glass of red wine, presumably her preferred pinot noir. I'm still grasping at the chance of catching him in at least one lie, hoping he'll be served a whiskey and negate his story of sobriety. But he doesn't. He sips his Pellegrino seemingly without a care in the world.
It hits me that this must have been going on for a while. They're clearly not just reconnecting. My mother never talks about him to me, or in front of me, and I was under the impression that they were barely even in contact.
My father reaches out and tucks her hair behind her ear, and parks his hand on the side of her neck, brushing his thumb lazily up and down the outline of her cheek while she talks animatedly about something or other. He watches her intently, seemingly enthralled. There's nothing tentative or hesitant about their interactions. In fact, if they were just two strangers I was observing in a restaurant, I would guess that they were a committed couple, deeply in love. The thought throws me further.
I think about the theater tickets my mother had the night I first called him, and her apparent excitement over what I'd suspected was a date.
The city street spins around me, the world sliding further off of it's axis as I realize that it's likely that I was right about her dating, but clueless about exactly what company she was keeping. That it's possible he's been her date each of the many times she's been out in the city this past year.
I try to think back to when she started being so much more social, spending quite a few Saturday nights at the St. Regis, or so she claimed, so she wouldn't have to drive so late. I think it must have been just under a year ago.
When they start feeding each other bites of their appetizers, I realize I need to get the fuck out of there. Next they'll be slurping the same spaghetti like Lady and The fucking Tramp.
I make my way across Fifth Avenue and enter Central Park. Conversation buzzes around me, faceless masses all going about their business like it's just another day, completely oblivious to the alternate universe I somehow stepped into on my walk to my father's office this morning.
My head spins and my pulse races, and I pick up my pace on my way to nowhere. The image of my parents staring at each other like teenagers in love shoots around my brain like one of those super bouncy balls—the ones that never seem to stop, that only bounce faster and harder with each hard surface they come into contact with.
Apparently my mother has forgiven my father for years of abuse. Did she buy his sobriety story? Does love really forgive all? I can't understand it. I can't understand why she would give him another chance after the hundreds of chances he's already had and forsaken, after all of the promises made and broken.
And him! How was Mitch able to sit across from me for two fucking hours, even talking about how he never stopped loving my mom, and pretend as if everything was normal? They're supposed to be divorced—living separate lives. How was he able to give me that speech about real love versus puppy love and how he knows how much I have to lose, when he hasn't actually lost anything at all? He may not be living in her house, but he obviously has her where he wants her.
I find myself at one of my favorite spots—one I often sought out when I was in the city as a child. I've always loved The Balto statue along East Drive, right by Sixty Seventh Street. My Grandma Lena went on a cruise to Alaska with my Grandpa Alex before he died, and brought back all kinds of souvenirs, including a children's book about the heroic sled dog, and at six years old, I was hooked. I begged my parents for months to get a Siberian Husky, but my father wouldn't let us consider any breeds that shed their fur.
I feel an unsettling wave of nostalgia as I look at the massive animal, mostly slate gray with bronze still highlighting much of its coat and tail, and I sit back against one of the great natural stones making up its base.
I woke up this morning feeling like an adult—a man. Now I don't know what I am, don't know who I am, don't even know what goddamned planet this is I'm on. Balto is the only evidence that this world is the same one I knew as a child.
But it isn't.
This world has one less drunken bastard, apparently cured by a twelve step program and forgiven by the woman he hurt the most. In his place is someone else, someone I want to judge and reject, but know I can't, because I don't even know him. And the only things I do know are that he's helping me with Rory, and that my mother seems to be a fan. But knowing what I can't do doesn't help me figure out what I should do.
I don't know what to fucking think.
Fuck, what if he tells my mother I was his last client? What if he tells her what I told him about Rory? About what went down in that goddamned alley?
But he said anything I told him would be privileged. And to trust him as a professional. Well, I guess this is a good way to find out if he's actually worthy of that trust. Better to test it with my ass than Rory's. Because if he tells my mother what I did, what I said… my ass is fucking toast. I mean, I'm eighteen, so it's not like she can take away my car or anything, but she learned quite a bit from her mother-in-law in Jewish guilt, and it's goddamn brutal.
My mother would be so disappointed, so worried, and she would have me promising to see Dr. Schall about it. She'd try to make me promise not to do anything reckless, to be careful. And I won't be able to do it. I am trying to do it her way, my father's way, but if for some reason it doesn't work out… I'm prepared to do whatever I need to keep Rory safe.
But the last thing I want is for my mother to hear what happened that night—the violence I meted out, the promise I made. Rory doesn't even know. Only me, Tucker, and that motherfucking bastard know what I did, what I said, and not one of us told the truth in our stat
ements to the police. But I just recounted it detail for detail for my father, not that I could forget a moment of it if I tried.
"Please just stay here with Carl. Okay, baby? Please."
Rory nods uncertainly and it takes everything I have not to grab her and hold her tight, to keep her wrapped in my arms, where I can know she is safe. The image that assaulted me when I entered the alley behind me shoots through my mind, bouncing off of every surface, picking up velocity until it's all I can see, all I can think of. And it galvanizes me.
I turn, trusting Carl beyond measure, and stalk back to where I left Tuck guarding Rory's predator—my prey. I feel the strain of the clench of my jaw, the grit of my teeth, the flex of every muscle in my body as fury vibrates through every part of me, trapped and searching for release.
My gaze lands purposefully on the target of my rage, and I feel a subtle calm. Because yes, the purpose is to punish the motherfucking bastard who tortured my girl, to make sure he never so much as thinks about coming anywhere near her again…
But I am going to enjoy this.
I feel a buzz of excitement flowing from my gut into my limbs, charging me with renewed energy as I approach to find Tuck slamming his foot into the bastard's ribs, and I allow him to get one more in before I stop him.
"Tucker." My voice is low and in control. Very unlike the version of me who has gotten into physical altercations in the past.
Tucker steps back, watching me warily. He's nervous, presumably worried about what I might do, but he doesn't say a word. He knows he can't stop me.
I wait for the piece of garbage on the ground to make eye contact.
"Get up," I order.
"Cap," Tucker warns, but I barely even hear him.
The bastard spits on the ground beside him, but doesn't get up.
"Get. The fuck. Up."
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