Page 53 of Watch Me

“Hey, buddy.”

I’ve worked hard to repair things as best I can over the phone from Dubai, accepting responsibility for my actions while giving as few details as possible. Why would I ever tell my son how darkly obsessive I became over his girlfriend, how sex consumed both of us, how my addiction to her is so powerful I would still choose her all over again in a room full of strangers, not even knowing who she is? We left it vague—that something had happened, that boundaries were crossed. I apologized, and eventually, he insisted that he didn’t care. “We were never right for each other, anyway,” he said once, and I had to tamp down the immediate rush of invitation that I felt, as if there was something he could say that would open the gates for me to be with her. As if it could ever be okay.

Nothing can excuse what I did, but after David’s revelation, a difficult sense of inevitability is closing over me. I choose Zoë over and over again, even when it’s the worst thing I could do. Even when I don’t know it’s her. Zoë is my kryptonite, and maybe I just can’t fight it.

We order drinks, and while it’s strange to watch my son drinking a beer, it’s a relief, too. He’s all grown up. His childhood wasn’t perfect, but we made it through—he’s here, on the other side.

He tells me about his girlfriend, glowing with pride over the number of TikTok followers she has, how popular her videos are, how ambitious she is. She’s changed him, he tells me, got him out of his gaming chair. He’s running and going to the gym. He’s never felt better.

It’s easy to see that he’s in love, that she’s besotted him in a way that Zoë never did, and I realize that I’m just as much of a cliché as he is. I have to bite my tongue to not draw comparisons between Zoë’s passion for dance, how hard-working she is, how funny, how fun. The whole time he’s talking about his new girlfriend I’m thinking about Zoë.

Finally, he asks about her, and the conversation takes a turn and becomes tense.

“Have you heard from Zoë?”

I hesitate, gritting my teeth as I think about how to answer.

“I did run into her,” I finally say.

He rolls his eyes, and it’s strange to be in this position with my son, where I’m withholding information, and he’s the one who sees through me. But his exasperation seems benign.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he asks and, do I imagine it, or is there a whisper of a smile? A lightness. Like the whole thing is a bit silly.

I cut into my steak and take a bite to buy time, saying nothing, and he does the same, an uncomfortable silence falling between us.

“You know I don’t care, right?” he says after a minute, putting his fork down and steepling his fingers. “About you and Zoë? Listen… I know you did your best, Dad. You gave me everything and I owe a lifetime of privilege to you. There are lots of opportunities I have because of that. But you were always away, you know… It doesn’t necessarily feel like the typical father/son thing between us. I’m not trying to blame you for anything. I’m just saying maybe it doesn’t matter so much, what happens anymore. I’m moving away, and you’ll always be my dad, and I don’t know… I guess I just want you to be happy or whatever.”

I’m not sure it’s a ringing endorsement, more like an accounting of my failure at parenthood, but I can’t deny that he’s right. I’ve tried to give him everything—everything because I couldn’t be there for him. I didn’t know how to. And now he’s trying to let me off the hook.

“Tate.” How do you articulate a parent’s love? I don’t have the words to tell Tate how much his existence has changed me. How, for the past twenty-three years, it’s been like a part of me lives outside of myself. I would do anything for Tate. Anything. I would walk away from Zoë—I think. God knows I’ve tried.

He’s my son.

“I know you love me,” he says with a smile, saving me from my own speechlessness, and once again, I’m surprised at the man my son has suddenly become.

Maybe I didn’t do that badly, after all, I catch myself thinking.

“I love you, too, Dad. I’m going off to start a new life, you know? I’m not holding onto anything from the past. I just wish you well.”

“Okay,” I say, nodding, and when he lifts his beer bottle towards me, I lift mine, too, and we tap them together.

Cheers.

A punctuation mark on his permission to me, and then for the rest of dinner we don’t bring it up again.

ZOË

I SIT BOLT upright in bed, the adrenaline that’s just been dumped into my bloodstream ensuring that I am wide awake, and immediately break into a sweat.

The mask.

I’d finally started drifting off to sleep after a fraught and exhausting day, and the promise of sleep was such sweet relief. A reprise at last from my racing thoughts. But as my mind wandered through the events of last night for the millionth time, it finally traced my steps through David’s office: laying out the mask on the bathroom counter, walking past the desk, hearing David’s voice and hiding, scurrying down the corridor and leaving as quickly as I could. There was just one thing I forgot—going back to the bathroom that only David and I have access to and reacquiring the mask.

Goddammit.

It’s weird enough for me to know about the intimacy that David and I have shared, but he—the overprotective man who acts like he’s my father—will not be able to handle it. He’ll hit the roof. I’ve never had any problem with the idea of intimacy between us, but it’s always been a hard line for him.

I pick up my phone and check the time. Four o’clock in the morning.

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