“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 reminder 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.”
“Why? He’s been your doctor a long time.”
“Maybe it’s time for a change.”
“Then we’ll find you someone else.” The leather seat groans when Rich moves. “I’m not the bad guy, Halston. I love you, and I want you to be happy.”
“How do you know you love me?” I glare at him. “You don’t even know me.”
He blinks a few times, stunned. I don’t say things like that. I don’t even think them. But it’s true that Rich has only ever known this version of me, so how can he actually love me? This is what Finn hinted at this afternoon. It’s not healthy to pretend to be someone else to make others happy. And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing since Mom’s death. I wear a mask. I keep thoughts and desires and opinions to myself more often than I express them. Rich doesn’t get me. If he read what I wrote, if he heard some of my thoughts, he’d think I was sex-crazed. My dad understands me to a certain point. He’d have accepted the quirky tights outside of a work setting. He won’t accept, from an employee or a daughter, posting sexy things online for the world to see.
My mom was different. She appreciated art and encouraged me to be creative. Unfortunately, I’ve ensured I’ll never get to share that that understanding with her again.
“How can you say I don’t know or love you?” Rich finally asks. “We’ve been dating almost two years, and I’ve been a great boyfriend to you.”
“I’ve only ever known you while I was taking antidepressants—”
“They don’t change your personality.” He furrows his eyebrows. “You know that, right? They clear away the bad shit so you can function how you’re supposed to.”
“And you would know? Are you taking them?” I ask sardonically. “I’m sure my dad convinced you I’m better off.”
“He didn’t. I’ve done my research, Halston.”
“He never would’ve let me stop them,” I mutter. “He doesn’t know how to handle me.”
“You’re so hard on him.” He unbuckles his seatbelt to angle his entire body toward me. “Why? He does everything for you. He pays for your treatment. He created a position at the company for you. He doesn’t care if you show up late or take a long lunch—”
“That’s guilt over how he’s treated me the past ten years. It’s the only way he knows how to keep me happy and going along with what you guys want. But you never see that, do you? You always side with him.”
“I don’t, and you know that. I genuinely don’t believe your dad has wronged you by paying your rent. And it isn’t healthy for you to get so worked up over him.”
“It is healthy. The world won’t end if I feel strongly about something.”
“Christ,” he says, sighing. “What’s wrong? Why are you suddenly hell-bent on stopping the meds?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m good.” I don’t tell him that I’m better than good. Maybe he thinks tonight is going downhill, but for me, I’m finally shedding the past decade of nothingness. Finn has brought a lot to the surface—and I’m surprisingly grateful for it.
“Does it have to do with . . .” Rich’s throat sounds raw. I squint to try and read him. “Is it something new?” he asks. “A new . . . pattern? Something really bad this time?”
I nearly laugh. Pattern is one of Rich’s words for addiction. Other words include habit, routine, or weakness.
“You saw me tonight with the coffee. Do you think I’m doubling up on obsessions now?”
“You know I hate
that word.”
So does my dad, which is why I chose it over addiction. “I guess I forgot. What’s wrong with obsession again?”
“Obsessions are for teenage girls.”
“Then is it any wonder I’m like this?” I ask, raising my voice. “In a lot of ways, I still am a teenage girl. How could I not be?”
He frowns. “What?”
“My dad dopes me up practically the day my mom dies. Then terrifies me into staying on them the rest of my life by telling me if I stop, I’ll do something destructive and reckless again. How can I not be emotionally stunted?”
“I don’t know where all this is coming from,” Rich says. “I’ve never heard you talk about this.”
“Which is why I said you don’t fucking know me.”
“Calm down.”
“Calm down? You brought this up. You were trying to provoke me, and it worked.”
“I was not.”
“Yes you were. You brought up the wine, the coffee, the meds, the patterns. Why, if not to get under my skin? What do you want from me?”
“Come on, Halston. Look at you. You’re acting paranoid and agitated. What could possibly be the reason for that?” he asks wryly. “Gee, let me think.”
I curl my hands into fists. It’s as if I’ve been in a box, and I’m pushing the lid open inch by inch. Rich wants it to stay closed, doesn’t want to know what’s inside in case he doesn’t like it. I lean between the two front seats. “Stop the car.”
“Do not stop the car,” Rich says, then turns back to me. “You’re unstable. I’m taking you back to my place.”
“I’m getting out whether you stop the car or not,” I threaten the driver.
He glances over his shoulder at us. “Uh.”
“Then what?” Rich asks. “You’re going to walk home?”
“It’s not that far.”
“It’s ten o’clock at night.”
You wouldn’t know it by the throngs of students and loosened-tie professionals and hip twenty-somethings littering the sidewalk. By the neon open signs, the steaming hotdog stands, the endless cars swerving by. “I’m twenty-five, not eighty, and it’s a Thursday. People our age haven’t even gotten started for the night. I’ll be fine. Let me out.”
“If you want to go out, I’ll go with you. Let’s just stop by your apartment first. Or mine, even. I think you’ve got a few pills there, and I really think you should—”
“You don’t work for him,” I tell the driver, ignoring Rich. “He’s my dad’s employee, and this is my dad’s company car, and if you don’t stop now, I’ll call George Fox himself and make him tell you to pull over.”
Rich knows my dad would call me unreasonable and hang up, but fortunately, the driver doesn’t. I get out.
Rich rolls down the window. “Halston,” he calls. “It’s freezing.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re being childish,” Rich says as the driver creeps alongside me. I stride down the sidewalk. “Get in the car.”
“No.”
“Come back with me now, or . . .”
“Or what?” I prompt.
“Or don’t come back at all.”
Even though there’s a definite waver in his voice, my stomach clenches. Is he breaking up with me? Do I care enough to get in the car? In this moment, my answer is no. I don’t want to think too hard if that’ll be the case tomorrow. “Fine,” I say. “I won’t.”
I turn on my heel and walk in the opposite direction.
“Come on,” Rich calls after me. “Seriously?”
I ignore him. This is unlike me, acting on impulse, arguing in front of a stranger, being petulant just to get at Rich.
Or, maybe it is me.
Only a couple blocks later, the adrenaline begins to wear off. In the East Village, the bars are packed, the sidewalks livening up with downtowners who remind me of my assistant. Don’t I belong here as much as anyone? I consider calling Benny to see if she’s around. I think she lives in the area. She’s invited me out a few times, but I’ve always turned her down. We don’t have that kind of relationship. But why couldn’t we?
I shiver. I’ve never been much of a partier. I didn’t smoke or drink because I liked it. They were just ways to comfort myself. Despite what Rich said, he wouldn’t turn me away if I showed up on his doorstep right now. If I did, we’d make up. We’d pretend none of this happened. He’d convince me not to take on my own treatment, and if he couldn’t, my dad would. Because Rich will tell him all about this. Maybe already has.
I walk toward my apartment, which is a good twenty or more minutes away. It’s not where I want to be, though. Rich and my dad have always been more of a team than I have with either of them. I accepted that. But Finn makes me feel important. Heard. Seen. We met less than two weeks ago, yet his interest in my journals, his questions, his attention, reminds me of how my mom was with me. When she looked at me, it was as if she couldn’t wait to see the person I would become.
Finn does that too, except he knew me before he ever laid eyes on me. It’s not supposed to happen that way, as if something greater brought us together.
I already have a missed call from Rich. I clear it. I didn’t get out my phone for him. Finn just posted the third photo, but I go right past it to my inbox.
I send Finn a direct message:
Are you home?
11
Four minutes have passed since I messaged Finn to see if he was home. He shouldn’t be sleeping at ten thirty on a Thursday night, but it’s not exactly early either. Now that I’ve decided I want to see him, it’s all I can think about. Just the thought of Rich annoys me.
I’m a couple blocks from his place when his response comes through.
Call me.
His phone number pops up.
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. My bravery wavers. Finn is a man. He’s in his thirties. He won’t like being jerked around. If I go up to his apartment this late at night, and he has certain expectations—am I ready to take things to that level?
Breathe. I’m being ridiculous. Jumping to conclusions. I don’t even know if Finn will want to see me. Despite the temperature, I begin to sweat. I unwrap my scarf and ball it under my arm before dialing.
Finn picks up after the first ring. “Hey.” His voice is scratchy, even deeper than I remember.
“Were you sleeping?”
“Nah. Just been working all day since I saw you.”
“Oh.” A snowflake lands on my nose as a couple more drift onto my coat. He doesn’t say anything else. “Do you maybe want some company?” I ask.
“Where are you?”
“Close,” I say. “I walked from the East Village, and now I’m by the café.”
He sniffs. “Hmm.”
Clearly, I didn’t think this through. It occurs to me that he might not even be alone. “I mean, if you’re busy, it’s fine, or if you don’t want—”
“I want,” he says so low, I almost miss it. “You know I want.”
This afternoon, he basically admitted to fighting his attraction to me because of Rich. Finn doesn’t want to get hurt. But the way I left things with Rich is as close to breaking up as we’ve ever come “It’s over. We had an argument.” I play with the fringe of my scarf. “So can I come up?”
“I’ll come down.”
I hang up, part triumphant, part scared as shit. I don’t know how to be with someone like Finn. I’ve written about it, I’ve fantasized about it, but what if I can’t actually be it?
I need coffee, if only just to smell it, hold it. As fate has it, Lait Noir is only two blocks from Finn’s—but I turn the corner to find it closed. I continue toward Finn’s, where there’s a twenty-four-hour diner across the street. I can be in and out in a minute flat.
I’m about to step into the crosswalk when Finn exits his building a half block away. He comes toward me, passing under yellow streetlights. In sweatpants, sneakers, and a jacket, he’s not dressed for snow. He cups his hands over
his mouth to warm them and nods at me. “Who do we have here?” he asks as he approaches. “Halston—what’s your last name?”
“Fox.”
“Fox,” he repeats, stopping in front of me. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say.
“What was the fight about?”
Sharing the details means getting into some heavy stuff with Finn. It’s more than enough to scare him off. I shake my head. “It’s complicated.”
“In other words, it isn’t my business.”
“No. I mean yes, it is. Well, it’s not, but I can make it your business if you want to know.”
He crosses his arms under his pits. “I do.”
“I’ll tell you more, but can we go to your place?” Maybe if I can get him upstairs, he’ll forget all about it. “It’s cold.”
He tugs my scarf from under my arm and shakes it out. “Tell me now.” He wraps it around my neck with extraordinary care, as if he’s dressing a queen for her coronation. He wants to know about the fight before he invites me up. It’s fair, but the thought of telling Finn the truth has my stomach doing flips, my nose tingling. Unlike Rich, who wanted in good with my dad, Finn has no reason to take on damaged goods.
I glance at the ground a few seconds while the words bubble up—and then fizzle out. “Can we at least go get a coffee?” I ask. “The diner—”
“I’ll make you some upstairs.” He slips a hand under my hair, freeing it from the scarf, and brushes some flakes away. “Just give me the rundown.”
He basically said we’re going upstairs no matter what. I might as well get it over with. “You might think less of me.”
“I told you I cheated on my wife with someone else’s wife.”
I scrape the sole of my boot against the icy sidewalk, carving out a circle in a fine layer of snow. “I just don’t want you to see me differently.”
“I want to see you differently,” he says without missing a beat. “As many sides as there are, I want to see them all. I’m sure a week into knowing someone, that’d scare some people. I don’t think you’re one of those people, though. Are you?”
Yours to Bare Page 8