“That’s the thing. I don’t work here. My name is Leo. I’m Hunter’s partner. I have been since before you were born.” He said this empathetically, and I caught the slightly Midwest twang in his voice that must come out only when he shows emotion. He seemed genuinely regretful to have to deliver the next sentence. “There’s no way that he could be your father. Hunter Moon is gay.”
I was stunned into silence. When I finally was able to find the words, I choked out, “Right, of course.” I didn’t know what else to say. In all the times I’d gone over in my head the ways in which this afternoon could turn out, this was the one twist I hadn’t anticipated.
“Thank you for your time. I’m really sorry,” I said, my voice trailing off in embarrassment at both the unnecessary drama of the situation and my icky hetero-assumptions.
“Don’t be sorry, please. Do you want to come in and chat? Hunter should be back in a minute. You can explain to us why you, beautiful girl with the amazing cheekbones, are searching for your father. Scandal wasn’t on last night and I’m dying for some good gossip.” His eyes twinkled hopefully, begging me to cheer up.
“That’s okay,” I answered, too disappointed to even smile in response. “Thank you for being so nice, but it’s not that interesting a story.”
“I cannot believe this!” Liv exploded, as soon as we hit the pavement, startling a couple sharing the sidewalk.
“What do you mean?” I replied wearily.
“Where is he? Why can’t we find him?” Liv peppered the air with questions, throwing up her arms in frustration and nearly smacking another passerby in a suit. “We’re not total idiots, right?” Assuming this was rhetorical, I shrugged in response. I was too tired to join her outburst. I understood why she was upset. This was her first time almost finding Hunter. I, on the other hand, was used to it.
Was it possible that I was wrong about Hunter living in San Francisco in the first place? Could the right Hunter Moon be living happily in an adobe in New Mexico or a condo on Miami Beach? For the first time, I wished I’d started the search earlier, tried harder. I needed this entire ridiculous escapade to be worth it. A thought occurred to me. What if my father’s legal name wasn’t Hunter at all? What if it was short for something, like Hunterson? Ew. I hoped not. Or was it possible that my mom had made him up entirely? I certainly wouldn’t put it past her. But no, I’d seen the birth certificate and marriage license once when I’d been snooping. Hunter Moon was my father, that much was for sure. So where was he? My mind settled on the dentist, Hunter Moon, DDS, who may or may not have been named Harry. Could there be something more there?
“Maybe we could put out an ad in the paper,” Liv suggested.
I wanted to respond positively, since Liv was trying so hard, but seriously, did they even have those sections of newspapers anymore?
“Or how about Craigslist Missed Connections?” I joked. “Baby seeking father, met briefly in the nursery of Georgetown hospital circa thirty years ago.”
“You better not be giving up on me,” Liv said. “We have to believe. There is a powerful energy in this city and it’s leading us toward something. We just have to keep looking.”
“I don’t know. There have been some pretty bad coincidences this week. Maybe the energy of the city is telling us to leave.”
“Not all of this week has been bad,” Liv protested.
“Really? Finding out Sam cheated on me? Bad. An enormous fight days before our wedding? Really bad. Running into your married ex-professor/ex-boyfriend who clearly still has a thing for you? Even worse.” I looked at Liv, who was quiet.
“I’m sorry to bring him up; I just hate that guy.” When Liv still didn’t respond, I asked gently, “How was it seeing him?”
“It was weird,” she admitted.
They met the weekend before law school officially began. Liv and I moved into our apartment in Berkeley on a Saturday morning, which we decorated sparsely with brightly patterned throw pillows from Target, a toaster oven, and the remnants of each of our college dorm rooms.
We were twenty-two, tan, and rested from a summer of bartending in Adams Morgan, and ready for a brand-new adventure. This time together.
Early Saturday afternoon we headed over to the law school to find our way around and check what section we were in, the group of people you have every class with during your first year of law school. Those I knew who were already in law school had repeatedly stressed to me the importance of “getting in a good section,” which seemed strange, since we had no control over it whatsoever. Classes were held either with your section alone or combined with others, so they could be as small as the original thirty or up to four sections combined, to form a 120-person lecture.
That afternoon in late August, we tentatively walked the wide, hallowed halls, named after various successful alums, brilliant legal minds, or millionaires who decided their money was best spent on getting their name on a plaque in the hallway next to the library, until we finally stumbled on the posting. It stated that Liv was in section C and I was in K, which meant nothing to us. What did mean something was that sections C and K had a class together: Torts, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 9:00 to 9:50 A.M. We were thrilled. Law school was scary enough, but at least we knew that when Monday morning and our first class rolled around, we would be together.
That night, after unpacking the necessities and eating a power meal of Easy Mac, Liv and I came to the mutual decision that we had to go out one last time. Who knew when we were going to be released from the library in the next three years? Plus, we were still at the age when you could get hammered one night and feel good enough to attend your first day of law school thirty-six hours later.
“Let’s avoid any of the law school bars we’ve heard about, in case we want to make fools of ourselves,” Liv suggested wisely as we dug through each other’s closets looking for things to wear.
We ordered a cab and when the driver arrived, honking outside our apartment building, we asked him to take us to a bar slightly off the map, one that students didn’t typically frequent. We explained that we were new to town and didn’t know anyone, or where to go. At twenty-two, we were still naïve enough to say things like this to strangers without worrying about being sold into sex slavery. The driver said he knew just the place. He drove us over the Bay Bridge and into San Francisco, dropping us at a small boutique hotel in the Marina that he promised had a great bar.
As soon as we got inside we declared it our secret bar, loving the dark décor and leather club chairs, where people sat drinking malt liquors and having real conversations. It was more of a lounge than a bar, somewhere you wouldn’t be surprised to see a jazz band or a gentlemen smoking a pipe, if that had been legal.
We sat at stools by the bar and ordered two martinis, dirty gin for me, and vodka with a twist for Liv. I was on a tangent about how I wanted to work as a public defender, speculating that I might have to work in corporate law for a year to pay off my loans, when I noticed that Liv wasn’t really paying attention. In fact, she had been glancing at the same spot above my right shoulder the entire time I made my altruistic, yet clueless speech.
“What’s going on behind me?” I finally asked.
“Promise me you won’t turn around.”
“I can’t promise that.” I shrugged. “Not without another martini to focus on.”
“Okay, but you know what my dad says. One martini, good; two martinis, drunk; and three martinis . . .”
“Pregnant. I know,” I said, finishing the joke Mr. Lucci had told at their family Christmas party every year since I’d known him. It was the one time of year he consumed more than a single beer, which was usually during a Redskins game, and the point in the party in which Mrs. Lucci ordered him to bed.
“There’s a really hot guy—actually, he’s probably properly described as a man—behind you,” Liv said coolly, signaling the bartender for two
more drinks.
“A silver fox? I like it. With anyone?”
“Not quite silver. Probably midthirties. He keeps looking at me. He’s with some lady but she looks super boring. They’re not touching or anything. Okay, they’re saying bye, and she’s getting up; looks like a bad date,” Liv reported as softly as a golf commentator. “Now he’s alone.”
Emboldened by my second martini—Mr. Lucci really was right about those—I swiveled my stool around to search for Liv’s guy. She wasn’t exaggerating. He was definitely attractive and definitely a man. He looked dangerously confident, like he had a secret and if you were lucky, he’d share it with you. I gave a small but friendly wave. The man saluted back. Then he said something to the bartender, picked up his beer, and walked over.
“How are you two ladies doing tonight?” he said. I remember distinctly thinking it was the first time I’d even been called “lady” and that I didn’t really like it.
“We’re great,” I answered, waiting for Liv to chime in, but she didn’t say a word. I looked to her, ready for some kind of adorable introduction that would make him fall for her instantly, as I’d seen her do so many times, but she only nodded. Was she really tongue-tied, for the very first time, in front of this man-child?
“I couldn’t help but notice that you two seem to be having the most fun in the place. I’m Tony,” he said, offering his hand.
“I’m Emma, and this is Olivia. We moved to town today.”
“Can I just say,” he said, turning directly to Liv, “you have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen in my life? Promise me you’ll never straighten it.”
Finally Liv found her voice. “I promise,” she said coyly.
Over the next hour Liv and Tony discovered all sorts of bland things they had in common. They had both traveled to and loved Cinque Terre (because most people hate it there?), they both had had appendicitis when they were twelve, and they both thought anyone who preferred Milky Ways over Snickers was crazy. (“But they’re certainly not nuts,” I added. No one laughed.) Typical of two people who were instantly attracted to each other, they became overly excited about unmeaningful coincidences, when the most important thing they had in common was that they wanted to see each other naked. Finally, after they marveled over the unbelievable fact that they both preferred biographies to fiction, I got the hint.
“Liv, I’m gonna grab a cab home. I want to get a good night’s sleep for Monday.”
“What’s Monday?” Tony asked. Hard to believe we hadn’t yet explained the reason we’d moved to Berkeley, but John and Yoko had been too busy comparing favorite toothpaste flavors.
Liv quickly changed the subject. She had this rule about not admitting that she was in law school until absolutely necessary. She thought the lawyer thing made her sound uptight and stuffy and didn’t represent her true self. Although the feminist in me objected, she had a point.
When Liv got home much later that night, she didn’t think twice about waking me up to tell me everything. Apparently they’d closed the place down, sat in his car for an hour talking, and then went to IHOP—ironically, of course—for Tater Tots drenched in ketchup, both of their favorite midnight snack.
“We didn’t even kiss, but I’ve never felt more sexual tension in my life,” Liv said, lying back on my pillow and grabbing another one to hug while she talked. I hoped she wasn’t about to start demonstrating on it. “I think we have to call him Sexy Tony Brown ’cause that boy is sexy.”
I laughed sleepily. “I wouldn’t exactly call him a boy. Did you ask him his age?”
“No, Em, that would have been so weird, but he got all of my pop culture references, so that’s all that matters. I’ll get more details for you next time I see him, Nancy Drew.” She paused for a minute. “This is embarrassing, but I can’t wait,” Liv said happily and I smiled with my eyes closed. I hadn’t heard her this excited about a guy in a long time.
“That’s great. But be careful. He is older.” I didn’t know exactly what I meant by this, but sensed it was good advice.
“I know, I know,” she replied without listening, starting to fall asleep next to me, presumably dreaming of eating Tater Tots with Sexy Tony Brown on the Italian Riviera.
A day and a half later, Liv and I entered our very first law school class. We sat on either side of the huge lecture hall to keep ourselves from talking or giggling—a true sign of maturity—to find a man facing a chalkboard, scrawling case names. He kept writing and I unpacked my laptop nervously.
At precisely 9:01 A.M., the chalkboard guy—our professor, I assumed—turned around, scrolled through his class list, and without missing a beat looked up and said, “Ms. Moon? Where is Ms. Moon? Can you please tell the class, what is a tort?”
I sat silently, flummoxed, and momentarily unable to form any words. Finally I raised my arm to identify myself. My nerves weren’t helped by the fact that I didn’t have a clue what the answer was. Sexy Tony Brown was Professor Brown.
When he recognized me, a short look of surprise passed over Tony’s face, but he continued his cold call smoothly. After it was clear I didn’t know the answer, he moved on and asked the same question to the girl on my right, dressed in argyle, who perkily stated, “A civil action leading to legal liability, not involving a contract.” Suck-up.
Three hours later, after rushing from class to class, without even a second to discuss the turn of events with Liv, I sat in Criminal Law with my small section, only thirty students. Without warning, Tony’s, I mean, Professor Brown’s, bad date rushed in and started handing out syllabuses.
“Good morning, class, my name is Professor Gray. You may have had Professor Brown for Torts this morning, but I assure you, my class is far more demanding than my husband’s.”
She looked much better than she had on Saturday night, in a dark jacket and skirt, over a royal blue shirt that brought out her sharp sapphire eyes. She looked sexy and serious, her straight black hair pulled back in a bun and her black heels impossibly high.
Confused, I turned to a guy from my section, sitting next to me. “What did she say about Professor Brown?”
Looking at me like I definitely didn’t belong in law school, or kindergarten for that matter, he answered, “Considering she referred to Professor Brown as her husband, I’m pretty sure she’s his wife.”
For the entire three years of law school, Liv and STB kept their relationship a secret from everyone else, and even with me she was reluctant on the details. I had enough of a rough sketch to know that nothing physical happened that first year—although emotionally she was hooked—but things progressed our 2L year when she was no longer his student and Professor Gray took a sabbatical to assist in writing a new criminal law textbook in New Haven with some law professors at Yale. STB told Liv his marriage was over, and the sabbatical cover was a polite way to end the marriage without causing a stir at the university. Like so many others before her, she believed him. This, of course, ended up not quite being the case.
Before tonight, the last time Liv had seen STB was at our law school graduation.
The weekend started with a Friday evening cocktail hour to honor the graduates. After Liv’s family gathered at our apartment, we all headed over to the reception hall, with her parents and two brothers in tow. Caro couldn’t make it to California until the actual ceremony on Sunday, so as usual, the Luccis had taken me under their wing, inviting me to tag along with them for the weekend. (Unsurprisingly, my mother ended up not coming at all, when the lobby’s head researcher was called to testify in one of the many court battles going on at the time and she was asked to spend the weekend prepping him.)
The first person we saw when we walked into the Friday cocktail hour was Professor Brown: Torts, as his name tag read. With his charming personality and good looks, he was often chosen to operate in this function, greeting parents and representing the faculty. In my opinion, he’d only go
tten the job at Berkeley in the first place because he was married to Professor Gray, who was a legal superstar, and this was one of the few things he offered the school.
While Liv’s dad and brothers went off in search of beers, STB approached us, warmly shaking Mrs. Lucci’s hand, telling her what an intelligent and special daughter she had. I could feel Liv smiling next to me, proud of him in a secret, palpable way. Mrs. Lucci didn’t seem quite as impressed, maybe because her mom sixth sense was flashing red. Then, clad in a fitted white Theory dress and holding a lime-spiked cocktail, up walked Professor Gray: Criminal Law.
You’d think we would be used to this by now. But Professor Gray didn’t attend many social law school events and she’d been on the East Coast for the entirety of our second year. After that first time, neither Liv nor I ever took a class with her again. Actually, I realized, the only other time we’d been in the same room with STB and his wife was that fateful night in the hotel bar.
The introductions made me feel ill. I was at the same time sad for Liv, while also painfully ashamed of the position Professor Gray was in, not to mention livid at STB for being such a spineless jackass.
The rest of the weekend didn’t get much better. STB distanced himself from Liv, seeming to take the cocktail party as a warning from the universe to check himself. As he ignored her through the picnic and softball game on Saturday and ducked out of the fancy graduation dinner early that night, I saw Liv slowly start to panic. I could tell that the reality of the situation was dawning on her with increasing intensity, and soon it would hit her squarely in the face.
I awoke in my bed on Sunday to the sounds of her sobbing through our shared bedroom door wall. I heard her call Tony and convince him to meet her before the ceremony. Shortly after, the front door opened and closed, and forty-five minutes later she returned. They’d met in Tilden Park, a lookout in the forest of the Berkeley Hills with a panoramic view of the city. Sitting on my bed while I rubbed her back and encouraged her to alternatively take deep breaths and drink the tea I made her, she explained that for the first time ever, she’d given him an ultimatum. He had to initiate divorce proceedings or it was over.
Cold Feet Page 12