When he calls the first time, I’m at a soccer game, watching small people kick each other in the shins instead of learning the proper passing technique their coach keeps trying to yell at them from the sidelines. Brady’s texts are a welcome distraction, because not only is Dominic here to watch the boys play, but so is his mother, his sister—Miranda—and her two sons.
“Didn’t I mention it was a family thing?” Dominic says sweetly as I stop short when I see everyone all set up with their folding chairs and cooler of drinks and snacks.
“Yes, you did.” But I, who somehow lost the ability to take a hint, thought he meant the four of us—him and me and the boys. That family. Except I guess that doesn’t count anymore.
“Is Karim coming?” Miranda asks, watching me, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from reacting.
Dominic gives me a smug smile, but says, “Not yet.” And I can’t tell if that means he’ll be around later or if he’s not ready to meet the kids. Either way, I glare at Dominic, but he opens a can of mineral water and turns back to the game, leaving me to stew.
So Brady’s text is great, even if I only sort of know what it means. His name on the screen, though, as the call rings, sits a little more uneasily, but the call is brief and to the point, shall we say, and I get off the phone relatively easily.
Dominic is watching me as I hang up. “Who was that?”
I say, “Just someone from work.” Dominic scowls, and it brings old memories of the times I took phone calls in the middle of dinner or while we were waiting to meet with the social worker about the adoption, but if I can’t comment on his love life anymore, he has no room to lecture me about my work-life balance, particularly not as Jacob gets the ball and hustles it up the sideline. We all turn and cheer, even though Miranda and Rosa haven’t said five words to me since I arrived.
One big happy family.
By the end of Tuesday, though, I’m practically itching to get out. Of everything. My office. My clothes. Doug is trying to walk me through early submissions for the short film program, and I can’t help myself from tapping at my phone screen. Even I don’t know what I’m expecting to find there, other than a very slow countdown until the minute I can leave and rush over to Brady’s.
“Are you expecting a call?” Doug says, lifting one bushy eyebrow.
“Sorry.” I slide the phone back into my pants pocket.
Doug frowns. “I know the field’s not great this year.”
“No, no!” I try to smile. Doug takes a lot of pride in the slates he puts together for us. “I’m sure they’ll be great. Except maybe the one about the woman learning to fist herself. We always get sexual awakening submissions, but that one... Are we really sure we need it? It’s hardly even cinema. Just fetish.”
He shrugs, and I have to smile. Doug is unflappable. He has seen it all in his years here. Everything from Oscar-calibre submissions to home video that is practically porn with a voiceover.
“We needed one more European submission. I don’t know.” He rolls his eyes. “So many pieces were the same this year. Lots of staring at bridges after heartbreak and wondering if it all means anything.”
I get it. But we have a reputation to maintain, and I’m not feeling that one.
I check my phone again.
Doug shuffles anxiously. “I’ll see what I can do about the fisting film.”
“Let me know what the other options are. We can go through them together if you want.”
His smile is tight. I know he doesn’t like me seeing the submissions he doesn’t pick. I’m not trying to stick my nose where I’m not wanted. Just trying to be helpful.
But I’ll be helpful tomorrow. For now, someone else needs my attention.
As I head toward the office door, Harpreet gasps. “Did someone die?”
“What?” I say.
“Is one of your kids in the hospital?”
“Why would you say that?” I ignore the thump of my heart at the very suggestion.
“Because you’re leaving before five o’clock. I assumed you had some kind of personal emergency.” She’s smiling, but her eyes hold a hint of worry, as though she’d leap into action if I said either of the boys really was hurt.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just have an appointment.”
Let her assume I’m having my eyes checked.
Brady lives in one of the ubiquitous towers that seem to endlessly pop up in Toronto, slowly swallowing old strip malls and factories, replacing them with perpetually looming chrome and glass. They all feel the same to me, but I can’t help the way my heart starts to beat and my skin heats with anticipation as I walk down the hall from the elevator to Brady’s front door.
