Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“Do you have an issue with her being from New Jersey, or her being a bartender?” I ask, guard up. Sometimes the older generation is so…judgy.
My mother stares at me like I’ve gone mad. “Darling! Neither, of course. I was simply saying he’s finished his wilderness dalliance with a girl from the other side of the bridge. He should date you…again,” she says, delighted to play second-chance matchmaker. “A Bancroft and a Mayweather.”
I can see the Fifth Avenue wedding in her eyes. “Like I said, we’re friends, Mom,” I emphasize, trying to put her straight. She’s convinced I’ll be safe if I marry a man from a family she knows. A family she’s vetted.
“I was friends with your father,” she says, and I want to point out that that’s not entirely true—they became the best of friends while married, but they weren’t friends first. But it’s better to let her memory remain untarnished. “Let’s set something up,” Mom persists. “He’d be so good for you. He’d definitely walk you home. Unlike Bryce.” She sighs. “Forgive me for Bryce. Let me make it up to you by working my magic with this new one.”
The woman is nothing if not relentless.
Truthfully, I was going to see David anyway. He texted me a few weeks ago to tell me he was returning to New York later this month. Would it be so terrible if I said yes to Mom’s offer simply to get her off my dating back for a little while longer? What’s the harm in Mom thinking it could be something even though it won’t? Saying yes would make her happy. I’ve seen so little happiness from her in the last six years. Seems the least I can do for her. I made a promise, after all.
“Sure. I don’t think anything will come of it since, again, we already dated, but you can go ahead,” I say. There. At least I was honest.
“Lovely. I’ll put you two in touch,” Mom says, cheery again.
But I know her cheer will drain away any second since we’re near the end of the hall.
As if on cue, she stops in front of a cherished photo. The picture makes my heart lurch every single time.
My parents. Onstage at a charity ball held here.
Dancing, smiling, gazing.
So in love.
My fingers itch to reach out and touch his bow tie. I tied it for him that night. He knew how, of course. But I’d taught myself on YouTube, so I tied it in our living room. “A perfect bow for my favorite dad,” I’d said.
“A perfect bow from my favorite daughter,” he’d echoed. It was one of our games—the favorite dad/favorite daughter one.
When he left that night to take my mom to the ball, he kissed her cheek at the door, told her she looked radiant.
“You always say that, John.”
“You always look radiant,” he’d said, then he’d kissed her again.
No wonder she was so happy in this photo. He doted on her, and she adored him.
No wonder, too, it always makes her cry.
It was taken one week before the end of my father’s life.
My mother stares at it like it’s an altar she prays to. She purses her lips. Blinks back tears, then swipes a hand under her eye.
My throat tightens, both from her reaction and from the hole in my heart too.
“Miss you, Daddy,” I say to the handsome, magnetic, protective man in the picture.
Then, I turn away from the photo, but I feel like I’m carrying it with me the rest of the day.
I’ve been carrying all the memories of him with me since the night he was murdered six years ago.
11
DISTRACTIBLE GUY
Layla
On Monday, I make plans to see David at the end of the week, then I take a ferry across the river to meet Geeta at a tea shop in Hoboken. We mostly zoom and call, but we try to meet in person now and then, and I do my best to come out here since it’s easier for her. As she sips chai, we review my reports from the conference.
“I especially like Farm to Phone, and it’s not just because of the clever name,” I say, showing her the proposal from a hot-shot digital marketing firm that wants to work with us. “They’ve helped some of the best new apps rise up and get noticed. A handful of their apps have gone on to become part of Omega Media.”
One well-groomed brow rises at the mention of an app holding company with a sterling rep. Geeta sets down her cup. “Let’s sell this baby to Omega.”
The endgame for us has always been an exit. We want to sell The Makeover to a bigger company, one with a family of apps already. I have two years to make that happen with Mom’s timeline breathing down my neck.