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)
I think of my father. How he always told me to try to do my best.
Here goes, Dad.
This is my best.
“I did meet him in Miami. After his speech. It was great. And I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner, but I had no idea he was your father,” I say, taking a shaky breath. There. That’s all completely true. Then I jump over the romantic details. Those aren’t mine to tell. “And when we all met again at the diner, I should have told you I’d met him, but I was honestly surprised to see him and learn he was your dad.”
David seems to accept that answer, nodding a few times. Trouble is, he’s still rubbing his palms on his jeans. He’s still working out the puzzle, and I feel like a twisted terrible person.
“Got it,” he says. His tone is hollow.
My heart caves in. I’ve hurt my friend. I have to end this conversation before I hurt him more. “David. I have to go see Mia,” I say.
He pops up in a heartbeat. “Yeah. Sounds like you have a lot going on.”
In seconds, he’s at the door and we’re saying goodbye. It’s more uncomfortable than when I broke up with him. The second the door snicks shut, I lean against the wall, and try to breathe past my skyrocketing pulse.
But there’s no more time for self-care. I run to my phone and call Nick.
He doesn’t answer. I text him to call me.
I pace. No reply.
I try again and again, pacing back and forth.
Till my phone buzzes.
“Thank god,” I mutter, but it’s my mother.
Mom: My meetings in LA are going so well. I can’t wait till you’re part of this!
Great. Another thing I have to deal with. Another thing I have no clue how to handle.
38
A COUPLE OF BEERS
Nick
I’m in the shower, washing off the chlorine from a quick swim, counting down till David arrives in twenty minutes. I needed to clear my head of the weekend and get in the zone, so I hit the pool the second the Lyft dropped me off.
Now, tipping my hair back under the hot stream, I wash away last night and this morning, honing my focus to the present.
A podcast plays from the speaker as a futurist opines on the intersection between machine intelligence and philanthropy. It’s like a brain cleanse, and it resets my attention.
When I’m out of the shower, I dry off, get dressed, and run a towel over my hair one more time as the episode ends on a hopeful but cautious note about respect for humanity as computers become even more powerful.
Hopeful but cautious.
That sounds like it ought to be my mantra this afternoon.
As I brush my teeth, I flash back on speeches I’ve given, pitches I’ve made. But I grumble out a fuck that after I spit out the toothpaste.
This isn’t a speech for my kid.
It isn’t a pitch for him to go with my funding.
I can’t prep like it’s a meeting.
I just have to speak from the heart.
And I also have to apologize.
As I set the toothbrush down on the counter, I peer in the mirror, nodding decisively. Yeah, that’s the key. I have a lot to say I’m sorry for.
I hear my dad’s gruff voice. When you say you’re sorry, don’t make an excuse. Don’t blame the other person. Don’t “but” or “just” or “I only did it because.” Just own it, like a man.
He’s right.
On that note, I grab my phone and head to the kitchen, checking messages along the way. David’s due here any minute.
But my heart stutters when I see the barrage of texts and missed calls from Layla.
I barely read the first text.
Layla: Nick, I think he knows. He stopped by. He was acting very strange. You have to call me.
My pulse sprints. But I try to slow down, get the facts. I scroll through the rest of the messages with gritted teeth.
But that’s enough. I’ve got the picture.
I stab Layla’s name in my contacts—she’s no longer listed as Friend, she’s in there under her name—and call her.
“What happened?” I ask the second she answers.
In no time, she tells me about a surprise visit from my son. With each successive sentence, the oh shit meter ticks higher.
When she’s done, I blow out a frustrated breath. “Well, I really need to fix this, stat,” I say.
“I did my best to say as little as possible. But I didn’t want to lie any more than I had to.”
Another reason my heart beats for this woman. “Thank you.”
“Nick,” she says, her voice stretched thin. “I’m sorry.”
I shake my head adamantly. “No, I’m sorry. I should have said something to him that night at the diner. Thinking I could forget Miami ever happened was the real mistake.”
I hang up and check the time. David should have arrived five minutes ago. He’s not often late. I don’t want to assume the worst though.