Page 47 of Role Play
“My daughter is four years old,” I cut her off. “She’s not going to any boarding school, especially not one three thousand miles away.”
“Perhaps you should discuss this with Dakota’s mother,” Principal Vaughn suggests, her tone now carefully neutral. “They’ll only hold the spot for the weekend. We’ll need an answer by Monday morning.”
“Here’s your answer:no.She’s not going,” I emphasize, my response full of undeserved anger directed at Principal Vaughn. I hate to shoot the messenger, but Dakota’s still a baby. Who the fuck willingly separates a four-year-old from their parents?
I hang up and stare at the phone for a long moment, rage building inside me like a pressure cooker. Hannah forged my signature. She’s trying to ship our daughter off to California without my knowledge or consent.
“What’s wrong?” Taio asks, watching me warily. “Koda okay?”
“Hannah’s trying to enroll her in boarding school.” My voice sounds strange even to my own ears. “In California.”
“What the fuck?” Taio pulls his mug from his lips. “She can’t do that. I’ve readA Little Princess. Boarding school is gnarly.”
My stare is blank. “What?”
“Sue me,” Taio snarks. “I read.”
“Playboy, maybe.”
“No, my guy. Classics.” Taio taps his temple. “Sometimes you have to rest the dick, and exercise your mind.”
I don’t have time to unpack that at the moment. I’m already heading for my bedroom, pulling a clean shirt from my dresser.
“Where are you going?” Taio asks as I return to the kitchen, pulling my white T-shirt over my head. “I need to talk to Hannah. Now. Before my brain explodes.”
“Want me to come with? Play bad cop and help put Hannah in her place? Put me in, Coach.” The offer is sincere. Taio might act like the perpetual bachelor, but he loves Dakota as if she were his own niece.
“Thanks, but no,” I say, clenching my fist so my fingers stop shaking from anger. I take a deep breath to calm myself. “I’m sure it’s some kind of misunderstanding. We don’t need to ambush her.”
Forty minutes and an expensive-as-hell cab ride later, I’m standing outside Hannah’s building in Midtown, a gleaming sixty-story glass monstrosity that screams “if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it.” The revolving doors give way to a marble-clad lobby straight out of anArchitectural Digestspread—all soaring ceilings, abstract sculptures, and a massive wall of cascading water behind the concierge desk.
Maurice, the weekday doorman who usually gives me a friendly nod when I pick up Dakota, isn’t at his post. Instead, there’s a younger guy in the same crisp charcoal uniform, who eyes me with the practiced suspicion reserved for anyone who doesn’t look like they belong in this temple to wealth.
“Can I help you, sir?” His tone is polite but cool, his hand hovering near the security phone.
“I’m here to see Hannah Novak.” I run a hand through my disheveled hair, suddenly aware of my appearance—unshaven, wrinkled shirt, radiating the kind of barely contained fury that probably has him calculating the response time of building security. “Hannah is my daughter’s mother. I’m Dakota’s father, Forrest Hawkins.”
Recognition flickers across his face, though not the kind I’m hoping for. “Mr. Hawkins. You’re not on the weekend schedule.”
Of course I’m not.The weekend schedule.Like I need an appointment to see my own daughter. The familiar indignity burns in my gut.
“It’s an emergency,” I say, forcing my voice to sound even. “Family matter.”
He consults his tablet, scrolling through what I assume is a list of approved visitors. “Let me call up.”
Every time. Every single time it’s the same dance. Asking permission to enter a building where my child lives. Waiting for approval like I’m a goddamn salesman rather than her father.
While he murmurs into the phone, I stare at the bank of elevators—four of them, each with custom artwork etched into their brass doors. The lobby is bustling with residents coming and going: a woman in tennis whites, balancing a small dog and a green smoothie; an older gentleman with a driver patiently holding the door; a couple in matching Lululemon, heading out for what I assume is a five-hundred-dollar-an-hour personal training session.
The residents of the building move through the space with the easy confidence of people who never have to consider what things cost. It’s a world I never belonged in, even when Hannah and I were together. Especially not now, with my current living situation and vocation.
“Ms. Novak says you can go up.” The doorman’s voice pulls me back. “Shall I announce you?”
“No need.” I head for the elevator bank, escorted by a concierge who materializes at my side. She swipes a key card and presses the PH button.
“Have a pleasant day, Mr. Hawkins,” she says with professional courtesy, stepping back as the doors slide closed.
The private elevator to the penthouse rises swiftly and silently, its walls lined with something that looks like leather. A small screen shows the weather, stock tickers, and building announcements about the rooftop garden renovation and the new sommelier joining the residents-only restaurant on the mezzanine.
