I blame my dad. I know, you’re not supposed to do that. You’re supposed to take responsibility—personal responsibility.
But we are what they made us, aren’t we?
Before
Frankie
September 7
I’m sitting at the bar at City Grille on the Upper West Side, eyes glued to the TV. I’ve been here for forty-five minutes. Scotty is late. He warned me he might be, even though it’s just around the corner from his apartment.
“If you don’t mind coming to me,” he said on the phone. “The kids have been a mess lately. I don’t like to go that far in case Hilary needs me back home.”
I think back to those early days on the trip—how Scotty gushed constantly about Hilary. There was a lot of eye-rolling among the men—yeah, right. Still, Scotty’s affection for his wife was clearly genuine. It was endearing.
The Yankees game is on, and I’m watching to avoid eye contact with two different guys who I can feel are watching me. One is two stools down to the right. The other is to my far left. Both harmless, I’m pretty sure, though the one to my right does seem like the overconfident type. Like he might slide over soon and strike up a conversation. I’m feeling wired pretty tight. If I go to shut him down, I’m going to hit too hard. All things considered, I’d prefer to avoid a hostile back-and-forth with yet another man right now.
I’m just registering some motion to my right—the guy maybe gathering himself to make his move—when the door opens and Scotty finally hurries inside.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. Everyone was in full meltdown tonight, including Hilary. Maybe especially her.” He smiles ruefully.
“Is everything okay?”
“Let’s just say having a wife who tells it like it is isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be.” But then he smiles. “Love. You take the good with the bad, right?”
“Right,” I say, not that I’d know firsthand.
The bartender appears in front of us just as the guy to my right storms out the door. Scotty points to my whiskey. “Another?”
“Yes, please.” Though I’m not sure I really need another.
“And a Diet 7UP,” Scotty says, unabashed by the bartender’s disapproving scowl. He’s quiet for a beat before turning back to me. “So…this about Richard?”
How mortifying. Does Scotty think I called him here to get the inside scoop on Richard’s feelings for me? We’re not in seventh grade. “No, what do you— No.” The worst part is that now Idowant to pump him for information. Has Richard said something to him about me?
“Sorry,” he says. “I just thought…” He shakes his head. “I thought maybe you and he…Anyway, Brooks and I were talking at the memorial service—”
“How is Brooks?”
“Not great. His life is a bit of a shit show at the moment. He was about to be made CEO of his family’s company a few weeks before the trip, but he ended up gambling his trust trying to leverage some position with stock and it backfired. Brooks without his money is—” He bl0ws out a quiet whistle. “His wife will alsodefinitelyleave him.” Scotty looks worried, maybe that his own wife will do the same. “I feel bad for the guy.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Anyway, sorry—off topic.” Scotty glances my way. “What is up with you?”
“I, um, called because I need some legal advice.”
He laughs. “Oh. Hilary is always saying I should talk less and listen more. Anyway, my legal specialty is white-collar crime—insider trading, that kind of thing. So it depends what you need advice about. But if I can’t help you myself, I can try to find someone who can.”
The bartender delivers our drinks. I take a sip of whiskey, fortify myself. “There’s someone harassing me.”
Scotty frowns sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you know who’s doing it?”
“I think so. There’s this guy. Something from a long time ago.”
“Let me guess,” he says. “You turned him down?”
“Something like that.”
