Page 156 of Kingmakers, Year Four

Then I call Snow.

He picks up on the third ring. It’s 5:00 p.m. in New York, six hours earlier than here.

“Dean,” he says, in that deep, gravelly voice—rough on the surface, but warm underneath.

“Snow. It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Likewise, my friend. Are you and Cat coming to see us soon?”

“Well . . .” I say. “If we do, there will be three of us coming . . .”

Snow catches on quicker than me. He chuckles.

“Congratulations, Dean. There’s nothing like having a child. You’ll see.”

My skin feels hot and cold at the same time. I grip the phone tight against my ear.

“How do I do it?” I ask. “I don’t know how to be a father.”

“In some ways it’s like being a coach or a mentor,” Snow says. “But in some ways it isn’t. A coach is there if you want them. If you don’t want the goal anymore, then they don’t coach you. A father does whatever it takes for his son to achieve his goals. A coach praises when the goal is met. A father always shows that he’s proud of his son. You build your child up, and never tear him down, because you love him. And that makes it harder—because you’re not controlling where they go. You don’t control their goals. Be the kind of father that accepts your son’s decisions.”

I nod slowly, though Snow can’t see me.

“That’s how I want to be,” I say.

“Most of all,” Snow says, “a father never gives up on his son. Your child may struggle at times. He may scream at you, hate you, push you away. But you will always be there to help him when he needs you most.”

“Yes, I will be,” I say, fervently.

The baby in Cat’s belly may barely be formed. But I already love it. I already know I’ll protect it with my life.

“Snow,” I say. “You were more than a coach to me.”

I can picture his rough-hewn face as if he were standing across the room from me.

“And I’ll always help you, Dean,” he says. “However I can.”

Zoe Romero

Berlin, Germany

June

I packedseveral dresses for Chay’s wedding, but none of them seem right once we reach the opulent hotel where the ceremony will be held.

I’ve never seen such an eye-popping array of color, pattern, and texture—as if it were designed by Liberace after a vacation in Wonderland.

I’d expect nothing less from Chay. “Subtle” and “understated” are the dirtiest words in her dictionary.

Now my wardrobe choices seem underwhelming. Chay said the dress code was “somewhere between the Oscars and the Met Gala.”

I attended the Oscars with Miles just last year. Chay told me that the black gown I wore was, “nice, but a little boring.”

I plan to spend the afternoon shopping on Kurfurstendamm to find something more impressive to wear, but Miles forestalls me before I can leave our room.

“I’ve got something that might work,” he says.

“You brought a dress?” I say, trying not to smile. “That’s daring, even for you. Though you do have incredible legs . . .”

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