Page 43 of Spades

Alissa and I talked about Harrison last night. She guessed that I brought him as a wingman. She said that it wasn’t a big deal.

I hope she knows that this date with herisa big deal. I’m not just hoping to get into her pants—though I certainly won’t say no if she offers—I want to get to know this woman.

Good. I’ll talk to you later. Meeting Alissa for our second date in a few minutes.

I put my phone back in my pocket.

I look around the corner.

It’s not as cold tonight because the sun was out all day. I chose a light-gray suit for tonight over a black shirt and a blood-red tie. And of course a gray fedora, the same one I wore the night I first met Alissa.

Only two days ago. It feels like a lifetime ago. From this point forward, I’ll measure my life in years of BA and AA.

Before AlissaandAfter Alissa.

I check my watch. A few minutes past six.

Where is she?

I’ve always prided myself on being punctual, perhaps to a fault. If I’m ever running late for an appointment, I call ahead. And I’m usually more upset about it than the person I was supposed to meet. That was something my father drilled into my head.Time is finite, son, and you show respect to your colleagues by respecting their time. Early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable. No exceptions.

But Alissa isn’t meeting me for a dental appointment or for a work meeting. She’s meeting me for a date. She’s allowed to have a few minutes to herself.

Five minutes past the hour now.

My heart takes a dive into my stomach. What if Harrison fucked me over?

Or—oh God—what if he told Alissa who my father is?

He wouldn’t think anything of it. Most people in the city have heard my name, at least in passing.

Alissa doesn’t know who I am.

And I like that.

I’m sick to death of women who are after my family’s money. They lose all interest once they find out I turned away my family’s riches in favor of an old haberdashery.

I don’t want to live in the cesspool of Chicago politics. Politics in general, if I’m being honest. Screw my family’s money. There would always be a new condition attached to it. The dominos would keep lining up. That’s how my father worked his entire life.

It's part of the reason for his downfall, too.

All those deals made behind closed doors, all the working the media like puppets, all the flashing cameras and hot mics. My dad was a master at it, until his luck ran out.

It never sat well in my gut. I don’t want to live like that.

Better to die a pauper than a prince of politics.

All Alissa has to do is a Google search, and she’ll know everything.

I thought she was different. Iknewshe was different.

It’s ten past the hour.

Fuck.

She hasn’t texted me, either. If she were running late, she’d at least let me know.

I’m being stood up.

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