“What?” I prompt just to get him out of here.
“Don’t forget your coat. I’m saying that as your boyfriend who doesn’t want you to be cold, not as the overbearing father figure you make me out to be.”
In the reflection, I watch him disappear. Guilt gnaws at my gut. Despite his faults, Rich does care about me. And he takes careofme. Mentally, emotionally, he makes sure I’m okay from day to day. He keeps his distance for the most part, accepting that my decrease in sex drive comes with the territory.
It’s a big job, handling me. I should be grateful Rich is up for it. Instead, I’ve been unnecessarily bitchy to him for no reason.
No, that’s not true—there is a reason. He knows it, I know it, my dad knows it.
I knew there would be mood swings, and that they’d eventually give me away to Rich, my dad, or my doctor. It’s not as if I was going to keep this from them forever, but they would’ve talked me out of it. They’ve done it before.
But it’s time. Thanks to a handsy pigeon, I only have a quarter of my prescription left, even though Doctor Lumby thinks I just refilled it. This last week, the air has been colder on my skin. People’s features have been sharper. Finn’s acceptance of my embarrassing desire for passion makes my heart swell whenever I think of it.
Next month would make ten years of being on antidepressants. I’m determined not to see that anniversary, though. I’ll be better this time.
I’ll be an improved version of the girl I was before.
10
Ican’t think of much worse than client dinners. At least in meetings, I have work to discuss. At these after-hours engagements, I’m expected to talk about anythingbutwork. My dad’s method for signing clients is to impress the shit out of them with ideas at the office, then close over expensive food and liquor.
Which is what we’re heading into now. The host leads us to our usual table. My dad gets my chair for me. “You look nice tonight,” he says.
Not that it’s so rare to get compliments from my dad, but I’m immediately suspicious. Did Rich already mention the argument over the tights to my dad? Is this their way of thanking me for not wearing them? I look at Rich, whose nose is buried in the wine menu, pretending he didn’t hear.
“Flying solo tonight, George?” Grayson Dietrich asks once we’re all seated.
“Unfortunately.” Dad unfolds his napkin to put it in his lap. “After my wife passed, I was never quite able to move on.”
My throat closes for a few seconds, long enough to suppress my intake of air without killing me. What my dad says is true. He’s never even attempted to date since the accident. But I still don’t like when he uses my mom’s death as an icebreaker, and tonight the sting is especially painful. I’ve been thinking of her more this past week, ever since the pigeons. I wouldn’t call myself a spiritual person, but it’s as if she’s around.
Mrs. Dietrich touches her collarbone with both hands. “Oh, George. I’m so sorry. When was that?”
He clears his throat. “Almost ten years ago.”
“Ten?” She shakes her head at her husband. “Would you go that long without dating if you lost me?”
“Of course, dear.”
“And this was your mother, Halston?” she asks.
I try not to fidget. I don’t want attention on me. “Yes.”
Rich passes me the wine list. “Why don’t you pick one out?” He turns to Grayson. “George tells me you’re a Knicks fan.”
Gratefully, I take the menu. Rich doesn’t like me to drink ever since last year’s incident, so saving me from this conversation is an olive branch. Suddenly, I’m glad I opted for plain black tights and a more conservative outfit. On some level, I guess I know Rich is usually looking out for me.
I go to squeeze his hand as thanks, but my dad reaches across and snatches the list from me. “Why don’t you get yourself a coffee instead?” he asks, halting the table conversation. He turns his glare on Rich. “Don’t you think that’s best?”
My face warms as I’m reduced to a twelve-year-old in front of a man who’s here to decide whether to trust us with his million-dollar-plus advertising budget.
“Yes, sir,” Rich says. He smiles uneasily at Grayson, nodding in my direction. “This one drinks coffee like water.”
“I used to be that way,” Mrs. Dietrich says. “I’m too old to have caffeine this late, though. Let’s call the waiter over.”
Without my usual armor my antidepressants provide, embarrassment hits me harder than it normally might. It shifts to sadness. For my strained relationship with my dad and Rich. For missing my mom more than usual. Fortengoddamn years. I put on my best smile. Anything less will irritate my dad. “Excuse me,” I say, standing. “Ladies’ room.”
I sit in a stall and take a deep breath. I don’t want to be here. Already, this dinner feels like it’s been going on all night. I’m getting restless. I’m anxious that I’m anxious, worried my dad will notice and that Rich will out me. George Fox put me on antidepressants, and he’ll decide when I stop taking them. At least, according to him.
