Page 315 of The Winslow Brothers

I could try to refute again, but I know it’s a useless endeavor where Nathaniel Rose is concerned. He’s holding the line, and I’m expected to tow it.

Pigeonholed, I agree with a “Great. See you then” and excuse myself from what feels like an awkward powwow to head back into the lecture hall.

For a woman who came back to New York to live her own life and figure out her career path without worrying about her father’s expectations, I sure seem to be doing just the opposite.

At a little after five in the evening, I walk out of my Literature and Philosophy class and start on the march of death.

Maybe that’s a little dramatic for a visit to your own dad’s office at a prestigious university, but I have enough receipts from over the years to prove my point in a full-page spread on Page Six.

I shuffle down the hallway, jockeying through the last of the students who remain on a Friday evening, and head up the stairwell to the second floor.

I have no idea what stuffy Professor Rose wants to talk about now, but I’m sure he has a point, a presentation, and notes for me to take home for studying. If there’s anything he loves to do, it’s listen to himself breathe hot air in my direction.

Upon arrival at his office, I step through the open door with a truncated knock to its surface and find my father sitting behind his massive mahogany desk. It’s one he’s had for a long time,one that came from his office in the old Greenwich Village brownstone we lived in for many years—one my mother had made for him.

“Hi, sweetheart.” He greets me warmly enough. Nathaniel Rose is not the type of guy to raise his voice or fly off the handle or address anyone with outright disrespect. He’s old-school—classy. But all that means shit when he’s talking down to you the way he’s done to me since I can remember. He knows best, and I never know enough. Always.

“Hey, Dad,” I respond, taking a tentative seat on the edge of the big leather armchair that faces his desk. “What’s up?”

“Well, I want to talk to you about a few things,” he says, sliding off his reading glasses. “Remind you of a few things, I guess you could say.”

I furrow my brow, envisioning a direction this could go that would not end well. “Remind me of what exactly?”

“Well, Rachel,” he starts and stands up from his chair to walk around the massive desk and perch his hip on the side closest to me. He crosses his arms over his chest, and his face turns from warm and soft to firm and serious. “I want to remind you that you’re here for your career. Not for distractions.”

“I know,” I rebuke immediately. I’m carrying a full load of graduate classes and TA’ing for another professor because of him. I don’t need a reminder of what I’m swamped by every day.

He studies me closely, uncrossing his arms and letting his hands settle onto the surface of his corduroy-covered thighs. “When I made the arrangement for you to be Professor Winslow’s TA, I did that with the expectation that you would keep it strictlyprofessional. And from what I saw of you two in the hall earlier today, I think it’s possible that some lines are getting close to being crossed.”

Is he serious with this shit?

This isnoneof his fucking business, and yet, here he is, having the nerve to think it is.

“You can’t seriously be saying this to me right now.”

“A relationship between a professor and his subordinate at this university—atmyuniversity—is not appropriate, Rachel, and I won’t condone it.”

“There is no relationship,Dad. I’m his TA, just likeyouassigned me to be.”

I want to tell him to fuck off with his expectations and give him my official resignation from NYU, but a photo just beside him on his desk stops me.

Mymother. That photo is my father’s favorite picture of her, and it always pulls at my heartstrings. She looks so young, so happy, and I see so much of Lydia and myself in her eyes.

If my mother were still alive, I know my relationship with my father wouldn’t be like this. She was the glue of our family, and without her, it’s all falling apart.

In her absence, he seeks control over me. Together, they read voraciously, they challenged each other, and our dinner table conversations often revolved around debating books likeWar and Peaceand the reasons why Nabokov’s prose was so brilliant.

He wantsmeto be the next Nadine Rose because then, it would feel like he still has a part of her in the literary world—and his. And maybe, just maybe, that would make her loss more bearable.

But I don’t want to fill Nadine Rose’s shoes. She was beautiful and bold and interesting—but she wore a size nine. My size seven foot just doesn’t fit.

“Things like this have huge consequences, Rachel. You’re here for your career, and now is not the time to lose focus,” he continues, unfazed by my denial. It’s not a surprise. He never hears a word I have to say.

This is why I was on the West Coast for so long. I needed space away from this. Away from him.

He doesn’t own me and my actions. He doesn’t decide what is a distraction for me and what is not. He doesn’t get to dictate my life.

Idecide what my career path is.Imake my own choices. And he might be my father, but I’m an adult woman. He doesn’t get a say inanyof this.

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