Page 95 of All Twerk, No Play

When I looked through the doorway, my fingertips dug into Eric’s bicep.

Richard sat frail and shrunken in his chair. The last time we spoke, he called me weak and selfish. A disappointment. He said my mom would be ashamed of me for abandoning my birthright.

But now, staring blankly out the window, he just looked ... lost.

Eric whispered, “Should we go in?”

“I don’t know what to say to him,” I whispered back, pausing with my hand on the doorknob.

“You won’t be alone,Cobrecita,” he murmured. So I stepped into the sun-dappled library to confront the man who thought I would never be good enough.

Richard brightened as we entered. A small, wistful smile tugged at his lips. “Regina?”

My breath caught, and Eric steadied my elbow.

“No, of course not,” Richard shook his head, then gestured to the olive upholstered sofa across from him. “Please, join me. It’s good to have company.”

“Who’s Regina?” Eric asked, tossing his ankle over his knee as I perched beside him. His arm rested along the back of the sofa, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck.

“My late daughter,” Richard said, scanning my face again. “You look just like her. Same determined expression, God help anybody who told her what to do.” He chuckled weakly. “Have we met before?”

“A long time ago.” I managed a tight smile. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I had braced myself for his usual sharp wit, his impossible standards. But this gentle, forgetful man was a stranger wearing my grandfather’s face.

Outside, the caterers moved briskly between tables draped in white linen. Richard watched through the window. “What’s all that fuss about?”

Eric spoke up. “It’s a birthday party.”

“Looks extravagant. Who’s it for?”

Eric paused. “You, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Me?” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I've told her a thousand times that I hate these parties. Can you get my wife Patricia?"

I sucked in a breath at his mention of my grandmother, who died when I was a toddler.

"Your wife? Do you mean Beverly?" Eric asked kindly.

"Yes, of course," Richard said, pressing a fist into his leg.

"These parties always seem like a waste. Keep moving forward, don’t stop to look back.” He watched as a server carried out a towering cake. “Patricia was livid that I didn’t celebrate our wedding properly. Poured myself a whiskey and went back to the office.”

“Do you regret it?” I asked, not sure what I meant—his relentless ambition, the sacrifices he’d made.

Richard exhaled through his nose. “Regret is an indulgence for people who still have time to fix things.”

As Eric carried the conversation, my gaze caught on the giant mahogany desk in the corner. When I was six, Richard sat me in that executive chair and said fondly,You’ll grow into that desk someday, Vickie.

“You hear that, baby?” Eric said, squeezing my leg to catapult me back into the present. “Mr. Sinclair met Mick Jagger!”

“Please, call me Richard,” he said, his mouth tugging into a proud smile at Eric’s joyful outburst. He pointed towards a bookshelf. “Go get that photo album, son. Third on the left.”

Eric retrieved the album, and his jaw dropped. Richard smiled, expression wistful. “Exile on Main Street tour. Must have been ‘72, ‘73? When Patricia and I went backstage, Keith Richards offered her blow. She joked that she married the wrong Richard.”

His laugh quickly devolved into a jagged cough. He reached for a handkerchief, covering his mouth, and it dawned on me that the room smelled like old books and expensive cologne, but it was missing the ever-present cigarette smoke.

Once the coughing settled down, Eric said, “I can’t believe you met David Bowie and John Lennon. Why didn’t these photos make it into your memoir?”

“You’ve read that piece of shit?” Richard scoffed. I’d never heard him swear before, let alone about his self-importance.“I can’t believe someone your age even knows who I am.”

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