Anyway, my mom had added insult to my dad’s bruised ego, saying, “By the time I figured out what the hell was wrong with my body, it was too late to do anything about it. I thought it was all the cheap beer making me fat, but it wasn’t. It was this girl. So, she’s all yours.”
She sat my carrier down on the porch with a white patent leather diaper bag (he still had it when I was a teen) and turned to leave, her friend never saying a word.
“What’s her name?” my dad had called after them.
“Whatever the hell you want,” Paula had said over her shoulder as she left.
I’d been five days old, according to my birth certificate.
My dad said his life changed forever that day. He’d loved me the instant he set eyes on me, and he didn’t regret a moment of raising me himself.
Other than when I was desperate to spend the night with Robby. After all, a girl couldn’t go off to college without her V-card punched. I deserved a night or two with my high school love.
My poor dad. I was a pain in the ass, always looking for a little mischief, and he never was able to have any fun or fuck like rabbits anymore.
But at least he kept me.
Oh, and about my name. I was named Emerson, after my grandfather, who used to bounce me on his knee and hide eggs at Easter for me.
My dad will never admit it, but thePin my middle name, Paige, was meant for my mom, who he seemed to want to honor in some way.
“She gave me you, Emerson,” he always used to tell me.
And in turn, I gave you grief, Dad.
Price
Ididn’t care what anyone else said ... New York City was a shithole. It was almost as if the air hung heavy with wasted money and expensive booze. I could barely breathe there.
Give me Main Street, USA, over this cranky city, any day of the week, and I’d be good to go.
My feet pounded the sidewalk for a run at dawn, the dirty, murky, disease-infested water rushing down the gutter splashing my ankles. People said they loved this place, but I didn’t believe them.
It wasn’t even light out yet, and this place was so fucking noisy and busy. Horns and ambulances blared all around me. Clubbers and drag queens walked home, laughing in the twilight.
Welcome to the Big Rotten Apple.
After I’d lapped the entirety of Central Park, savoring the briefest moments of quiet on the back side, I made my way home. To my apartment in the looming building on Central Park South.Yep, you heard me right.
I’d recently come into some money.
In fact, I was like a pig in shit, practically rolling in it.
Problem was, the money had strings, and I didn’t like them all too much. I’d rather be covered in hay and dirt, wearing ripped jeans, my hair too long, my nose sunburned and my hands blistered from a hard day’s work outside.
“Morning, Rudy,” I said to the doorman as I wiped my feet on the entryway carpet. I wasn’t raised in a barn—it had been a nice-size farmhouse—and I knew better than to track my wet feet all over the lobby.
“Good morning, Mr. Barnes. Ready for the weekend?”
Poor guy, he startled hard when I slapped my hand on the counter in front of him.
“Cut it out, Rudy. It’s Price. Barnes ishislast name. Price is all me, only me, even if I do share his last name.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, Mr. Price. Did you have a good run?”
“Price. Just Price. Didn’t get far enough, only chased a few demons this morning. Too many left to slay for a lonely day in the big city.”
Rudy probably knew me better than anyone here. I hadn’t made many friends since I’d been brought to this godforsaken urban mecca a month ago. Sometimes, I carried a beer down and sat with Rudy, rambling about how much I missed home. He was there the day I arrived with shitkickers on my feet, nothing but a T-shirt and a flannel on my back, my dark hair wild and unruly—like my heart.
