“That raises a red flag.”
“No,” I clarify exhaling smoke, “he says hewants to talk about it tomorrow. He wants to have coffee.”
“Coffee?” Emily responds the same way I did.“Well I wouldn’t hold my breath for that phone call,” she sayspessimistically.
I laugh, “I told him the exact samething.”
My purse suddenly rings. I take out my phoneand look at the screen. It’s flashing with an unknown number and atext message:
Dean & DeLuca Broadway and Prince. Noon.Xx
Holy shit.I look up at Emily stunned,“I think it’s safe for me to hold my breath.” I turn the phone andshow her the message.
She looks down at it with an unsureexpression, “So much for not dwelling on your past.”
Fuck.
I sit quietly at thedining room table poking at my oatmeal. I have no appetite. I justkeep glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner, 9:23 AM. Ineed to catch the 10:36 train if I want to make it into the city bynoon. I know the path’s schedule by heart.
I’m sitting diagonally across from my father,who’s quietly reading the newspaper like he does every Sundaymorning. We barely speak and when he does address me it’s formal,like I’m a business acquaintance.
The honorable Merrick J. Remington, that’show the public knows him, and that’s exactly how he wants it, likehe’s constantly sitting on the bench. A persona to uphold. And I ama direct reflection of him; his beautiful, perfect, obedientdaughter. That’s who I am because that’s who he’s molded me to be;on the outside.
I glance at him in all his stateliness, histhick salt and pepper hair combed back meticulously, his postureperfect, his defined chin pointed down. I don’t look anything likehim. I’m tall and lean, with long, pale blonde hair just like mymother’s. The only trait we share is the color of our eyes; a lightchestnut brown with black specs around the pupils.
Judge Remington shakes out his newspaper,then folds it and throws it down onto the table, “What are yourplans today Alana?”
I look up at him, “I’m going into the city tomeet Jill.”
She’s the perfect alibi since she livesthere.
“Ummm hmmm,” he tinkers with his watch.“Good. Be careful,” he says the words but there’s no interest orcare, just obligation. “Have you decided if you want campus housingor an apartment yet?”
He’s talking about law school, Columbia.
I’ll never forget the day I told him I wasapplying; it was like being branded with a hot poker. His eyes litup, and not because I was following in his collegiate footsteps,but because he keenly caught on to the quiet excitement in my voiceand the enthusiasm on my face. He knew it was something I reallywanted, which meant it was something to hold over my head. I knewit too, but I didn’t care. Because being a lawyer is all I’ve everwanted to do. So if I have to play good little rich girl to getwhat I want, I will.
But trust me when I say, I don’t plan to starin this role forever.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I say, lookingdown.
“Well, you have until Wednesday. I’ve set upan appointment with a realtor. 9 AM sharp.” He clears his throat,“On the West Side.”
“Okay, daddy.”
He gets up out of his chair; he’s dressed inwhite shorts and a light green polo shirt, which means he’sprobably going to play tennis at the club.
“Have a nice day,” he tells me in a detachedtone, then walks out of the room.
All business, all the time.
Bye dad, love you too.
I step off the train at 11:38 AM and head upthe stairs of Penn Station. The city, like always, is alive. It’s aclear spring day as I walk down West 33rd with the sun reflectingoff the high rises. I slip on a pair of mirrored aviator sunglassesand trek towards Broadway. It’s about a ten minute walk to Dean andDeLuca. Which is good. I need the time to assemble my thoughts.Actually, I need the time to devise a geometric defense strategy toprotect my heart, because I know today, my emotions are going toengage in war. For five years I’ve wondered what happened to him.Wondered what happened to us, and now, almost seamlessly, I’m goingto get the answers. But answers aren’t the only thing I think Iwant. Seeing Ryan last night, feeling his body, smelling his skinrecharged the feelings I’ve so desperately tried to repress. I’m sotorn. I’m angry and hurt, and yet, at the same time, all I want ishim.
I’m delusional.
He’s a stripper.