Page 18 of Claimed By the Don

When I set my goals for the year back in January, they were all along the lines of building back trust in the organization and making sure stakeholders feel a sense of belonging and loyalty.

I planned to do more with the Boys and Girls Club local chapters. Nowhere on that list for the year did I jot down ‘sneak around with old girlfriend’. Yet here we are, and I know her work schedule and the hours when she has to help her mom out with therapy and around the house. It’s committed to memory because those are the markers that our time together has to pivot around. For my part, I’ll shuffle meetings, end conference calls early, send an email instead of meeting face to face.

Dad questions me one morning when I say I am leaving for a couple of hours. A flood of resentment and defensiveness surges up in me—I’ve spent every waking hour protecting his disintegrating reputation and shoring up his business for years and he begrudges me a couple of hours? I make myself roll my shoulders, take a slow breath. The frustration falls away—he isstruggling with his health, his mortality, his pride, and doesn’t need my aggravation taken out on him.

“Just some stuff I have to take care of. I’ll be back for the meeting with Grigo at one.”

He snorts and stuffs his hands in his pockets, walks out of my office. He looks a little lost, sending a wave of sadness over me. I message Daisy that I’m on my way. We’ve only met up a couple of times since she came here to dump the flowers I’d sent her mom.

I’d see her all the time if I could, but I won’t tell her so. I’ve been up front about wanting to spend time with her while she’s in town. I have a sense—or a superstition—that if I ask her how long she plans to stay or what her plans are that she’ll pull away from me. It’s humbling to know this about myself—that I’ll take her however I can have her. Even if it means coloring inside the lines so to speak, accepting what she’s willing to give without asking for more. If I’m too serious about this, if I pressure her for more, then I’ll lose what we have.

It's a quick drive to the coffee shop. I go early so I can grab her a caramel iced coffee and a muffin. She meets me in the parking lot, locks her car and gets into my truck. It’s a rush seeing her there, sitting across from me, her peach lotion scent filling the cab. I breathe in deeply, and it feels like I’m getting high off her scent, her bright eyes and the shock of delight on her face when I hand her the coffee drink.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that, Benny,” she says.

“I know that. I wanted to.”

Daisy leans across the seat and takes my arm, leans her head on my shoulder for a minute, hugging my arm. Honestly, it feelsbetter than anything I can think of right now. It’s pure affection and happiness. She’s light and energetic, tells me about her client yesterday who wanted a style Daisy didn’t think would work for her.

“I talked her out of it, but it was a close call. She would’ve been unhappy with it, and when people asked who did her hair…it would’ve been me. That’s not good word of mouth advertising,” she says.

“You did the right thing,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says. “Do you mind if I--?” she indicates the radio. I nod.

Daisy turns on the radio and flips through stations until she finds a song she likes. She leans back against her seat and belts out the lyrics.

“Still a Chainsmokers fan,” I say, cutting my eyes to her. She doesn’t stop singing, just grins at me.

“You look surprised.”

“That you remember what bands I liked years ago, yeah,” Daisy says.

“I paid attention,” I say with a shrug, trying to make light of it.

“You always did,” she says, and she sounds a little sad.

I take her to my place, let her in to the brownstone and turn on the lights. “It’s beautiful,” she says. “I love the floors—are they original?”

“Yeah, I had them refinished, they were pretty beat up when I moved in.”

She takes in the deep green walls, the wide white trim, an approving gaze. Then she goes to the photos on the wall, the moody black and white ones. She studies them, looks over her shoulder at me and then back at them.

“These look familiar,” she says.

“Sure, they’re of Coney Island,” I say, waiting to see if she recognizes them.

“I took these, Benny,” she finally says. “I remember this day. We went to the Wall of Remembrance—this one here—that’s one I took of the Cyclone lit up at night, and that’s the parachute jump. Why do you have these on your wall?”

“The photographer had a great eye. You sent me the black and white edits you did—I think it was when you were into Lightroom for a while. I printed them, and I was gonna frame them, surprise you or whatever.”

“But I left,” she supplies.

“When I moved in here, I found the prints in with some papers. They’re on my wall because I like them.”

She sets her coffee down on an end table and turns to me. “That was a good day, wasn’t it?” she says with a sigh.

I come up behind her, wrap my arms around her. She leans back into me, we fit together perfectly. It takes my breath away how good this feels, how right. I want to ask her to stay with me. I tell myself to slow down, that we’re different people now and she’s not here permanently. Our time is short, and I won’t waste any of it talking about what we failed at, what we can’t have.

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