Holly tugs hard at my sleeve. “Let’s take a potty break, shall we?”
I trail Holly as she grabs my hand and leads me around the corner into a hallway, then opens the door to a nearby all-gender restroom and beckons me inside.
“Luisa,” Holly says, shutting the door firmly behind us. “Are you aware that you’re being just plain ugly to Eli?”
“Ugly?” I point at myself, dismayed. “I’m being ugly?”
“Mean,” she clarifies, arms crossed over her chest.
In my mind’s eye, I see Eli adjusting his headphones, deep in concentration. A thousand feeble excuses cross my mind—mostly some ludicrous, childish version ofHe started it, I begrudgingly realize.
“Be careful not to confuse kindness with weakness, Luisa,” Holly says, her tone low and soft. She gives me a long, pitying gaze before turning on her heel and exiting the bathroom.
I scoff to myself, growing agitated by the lack of space in the small bathroom. I push my way into the hallway, but I come to a standstill before rounding the corner into the lab. I have a clear view of Eli sitting behind a thick pane of glass, moving his mouth, presumably repeating Pridmore’s list of words. When his gaze finds mine, there’s no mistaking what I see: scars, deep and tender. Behind those gray eyes, I recognize the trauma of language. Accents, dialects, phonetics—weaponized, manipulated, controlled.
All of it, reflected like a mirror straight back at me. Am I frustrated with Eli because I had to do this on my own? And nowhere we are, in an academic research facility, working with an expert, and he still can’t grasp the most basic concepts? Or is it about much more than that?
A voice deep in my gut whispers what I can’t admit—even to myself. The certainty that ever since my own father betrayed us with his double life, with his blatant lies, I expect every man I meet to do the same.
CHAPTER 16Holly
It’s an hour past my bedtime, and I’m crammed into the Amsterdam, clutching my soda with lime, trying to score a table near the front. The venue is intimate, and the crowd is huge—all waiting for the Wednesday Jazz Jam to begin.
Luisa called me just as I was pulling into the parking lot. She flew into a frenzy about how far we had to go with Eli’s accent, and she assured me that we’d never get there.
I patiently tried to talk her off a ledge, but she has a point. OperationMy Fair Ladyis our final phase of training, but will Eli be ready? Luisa and I both agreed that before we throw our Tripp Bedford into the pool of sharks, we need some sort of final exam—a low-stakes trial run among the Southern elite, to be sure he’s got what it takes to hang with Griggs and his golfing buddies. We need to take him to an event outside of Atlanta, but where? Highlands? Cashiers, maybe? Too risky? I’m not sure.
I toss my phone to the bottom of my purse, urging myself to set all this scheming aside for one night and be fully present for my son.
Aidan came down from Athens for the jam, since he misses playing with all his bandmates from the Atlanta Youth Jazz Orchestra. Ever since he was eight years old and first held a pair of sticks, watching my son play drums has been an experience of seeing him at his most true and authentic self, confident and relaxed, fully present.
A seat opens at a table near the front of the room, and I rush to snag it. Aware of someone moving rapidly through the dark from the direction of the bar, I pick up speed and slide in to scorethe empty chair, just as none other than Professor Hugh Pridmore arrives at my side, holding a glass of red wine.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, wondering how in God’s name the highfalutin Professor Pridmore ended up in a Midtown dive bar, at a jazz jam for locals. He must be lost.
“Indeed,” he replies, bowing slightly. “And you’re fortunate that I’m too much of a gentleman to note that you’ve just stolen my chair.”
“Finders keepers,” I say, flashing what I hope is my most confident smile.
From the stage, the band director calls out for the audience’s attention, mercifully distracting Professor Pridmore and me from our awkward predicament. He takes the mic and announces, “There’s extraordinary talent assembled here tonight, and I’ll do my best to give all the musicians a chance to play.” He then gestures toward our table. “Jeremiah Goldwin, come on up to the stage and bring your tenor sax.”
Jeremiah is the adorable early twentysomething sitting next to me in a black beanie and very stylish kicks. He gets up and motions for the professor to take his seat. “All yours, Prof,” he says, an offer Pridmore very politely accepts.
“Jeremiah is one of my students,” the professor explains as he sits down to watch Jeremiah take the stage. “We bonded over our shared love of American jazz music the other day after class, and he invited me to the jam,” he tells me. “Not a chance I’d pass it up.”
I nod, although I wouldn’t have thought he’d be a jazz fan.
“And what brings you here?” he asks, his tone cordial if a bit stiff.
I spot Aidan coming through the door with a couple of his friends. “That kid—the one with the shaggy hair, dressed like he shops at thrift stores.” I elect not to mention that he dresses like he shops at thrift stores because he, in fact, does shop at thrift stores. I thank God every day that Aidan and his friends prefer thrifting over buying new, name-brand clothes. Needless to say, my service-industry pay doesn’t quite support a label-conscious lifestyle.
“A friend?” he asks.
“My son,” I reply.
To his credit, Professor Pridmore doesn’t show the shock that I’m certain he must feel, to learn that a full-fledged adult is my child. Before he can say anything, Aidan and his friends spot me and begin heading through the crowd toward us. I stand to greet them, and Aidan enfolds me in a huge hug, lifting me off my feet. He’s lanky, like his father, a foot taller than me.
“Hey, Ma,” he says into my ear. “I’ve missed you.”
