Page 135 of Role Play
“Remember our pact?” I ask, nostalgia washing over me. “That we’d both keep our ass out of trouble, graduate on time, not pregnant or in jail, and be disgustingly rich and successful by thirty? You’d be a hotshot lawyer; I’d be a bestselling author? We’d go to our college reunions dripping with condescension.”
“I remember.” Daphne smiles softly. “We’ve still got time, Sora. I still believe in us.”
“Me too.”
A sudden knock at the door interrupts us, three sharp raps that echo through the brownstone. Daphne and I exchange a confused look.
“Forrest?” she asks, half-rising from the couch.
I shake my head. “Can’t be. He has a key.”
Legs asleep from sitting too long, I wobble to the door. Through the peephole, I see the last person I expected—my father, shifting his weight from foot to foot, glancing nervously at his watch. His breath forms small clouds in the chilly night air, and there’s something unusually vulnerable in his posture.
I open the door, my surprise evident. “Dad? What are you doing here?”
J.P. Cooper stands on my doorstep, looking oddly diminished in the soft glow of the porch light. His usual commanding presence is muted, his shoulders slightly hunched against the November chill. In one hand, he clutches a brown paper bag…perhaps an apology present? Which is unnecessary, because this is all I ever really wanted from him.Show up.
“You wouldn’t answer my calls,” he says simply, his voice lacking its usual resonance. “And I need to talk to you.”
“It’s almost eleven at night,” I point out, crossing my arms against both the cold and my instinctive defensiveness.
“I know.” He nods, his gaze dropping momentarily to his shoes—expensive Italian leather now spotted with rain. “But it couldn’t wait.”
“It’s cold, come in.” I nod over my shoulder, deciding who will be less thrilled to see the other, Daphne or Dad. When he hesitates, I add, “Forrest isn’t here.”
“It’s not that. I’m not so great at this.” His leg bounces in place, proving his point. “Would you take a walk with me? Around the block, maybe? I can get the words out better if we’re moving.”
I pause, glancing back at Daphne, who’s now hovering in the hallway behind me, her expression curious.
“Go.” She makes a shooing motion with her hands. “I’ll stay with Dakota. She’s fast asleep anyway.”
“Let me check on her first,” I say, more to buy myself time than anything else. I leave Daphne and Dad to awkward small talk in the foyer as I dart upstairs.
Pushing the door open carefully, like it’s a sacred relic in an Indiana Jones film, I peek into Dakota’s room. She’s sound asleep, one small arm flung above her head, Mr. Flops clutched tightly in the other. Her breathing is deep and even, her face peaceful. The sight of her calms something in me, centering me in a way I desperately need at the moment.
Back downstairs, I grab my coat and pull on my fuzzy Muk Luks. “A quick walk,” I tell my father, stepping out into the night.
The November air is crisp and sharp, filling my lungs with a bracing chill. The streets of the West Village are quieter than usual, most windows darkened, though a few still glow with warm light. Our footsteps echo on the damp pavement, a steady rhythm in the night silence.
“Where’s Forrest tonight?” Dad asks after we’ve walked half a block.
I tighten my coat around me, the cold penetrating despite the wool. “Working.”
“Does he often work late?” Suspicion lines his tone.
“Why?” I mutter, preparing myself for the worst.
“I’ve warmed up to the idea of you not living alone. I thought it was too quick to move in together, but, on the other hand, it’s nice to know my little girl is being protected.” Dad awkwardlycrosses his arms and pats his shoulders. “He’s a strong-looking guy. Could probably fight off an intruder.”
I’m sure he’s expecting a witty, Sora response. But I’m not in the mood for a multitude of reasons. “Probably,” I mumble.
He sighs, the sound forming a small cloud in the frigid air. “I owe you an apology, Sora.”
I nearly trip on an uneven piece of sidewalk. In twenty-seven years, I’ve heard my father apologize maybe three times, and never with much sincerity.
“For dinner the other night?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual. “It’s fine?—”
“No, it’s not fine.” He stops walking, turning to face me under the glow of a streetlamp. Its light casts deep shadows across his face, highlighting the wrinkles I hadn’t noticed before. “And it’s not just about dinner. It’s about everything.”
