Page 4 of Bingeworthy
“Fine.”
“Wonderful! I’ve texted him your address, and he should be there whenever you’re ready,” she says.
I’m about to hang up when I get the eeriest feeling that I’m being watched.
Staying on the phone, I look to the street. There, silent and smooth as a ghost, a gleaming midnight-blue SUV pulls up to the curb and slows as I walk, matching my pace.
I speed up. The car speeds up.
I peer at the car and identify it as that electric luxury German make and model. Chic, but also safe. On brand for a wealthy, sensible dad with good taste. Not the type of vehicle that slows down to harass me on the street.
My heart beating out of my chest, I ask, “Mom, what kind of car does Rocco drive?”
She tells me, matching every detail down to the trim of the car that’s following me.
I slow my pace, and one of the tinted windows rolls down.
It’s him. Rocco.
The tousled, wavy hair is unmistakable.
“He’s here already, Mom,” I say breathily into the phone.
“That’s so thoughtful, he went to meet you at your office!”
“Who told him I worked there?”
“I admit nothing,” she says.
“Wait, what?”
“Have fun!” Mom chirps and then hangs up.
I’m about to call her back to tell her to abort this plan. But then the car door opens, and the six-foot-four, bespectacled Rocco is standing on the sidewalk, looking striking in a navy fisherman's sweater that no dad his age has any business looking this good in.
He gives a slight nod of his chin, as stoic as ever. The last time I saw Rocco, he was standing on my parents’ porch, writing a check. “There’s no need for that. No one was hurt,” Dad had said. Rocco had been insistent. “Then put it aside for Tiffany. For a rainy day.”
I witnessed the conversation from the gable window in my childhood bedroom. I never asked about that check. I was too shell-shocked over the events of prom night.
Today, Rocco has barely aged, save for the wisps of white in his hair at his temples and the lighter streak of one soft curl, off kilter from his forehead. The scruff on his chin is turning lighter, too. If I were to name this color, I’d call it “lighthouse-keeper white.”
My throat is dry, but I manage a smile, “Mr. Burlington?’’
He blinks. “Hi, Tiffany. Please, call me Rocco.”
His voice is rich and deep. Rather officiously, he holds out his hand to shake mine.
Warm, strong fingers surround mine.
“It’s gonna take a minute to get used to using your first name.”
With no hint of humor, he replies, “We have 120 minutes alone together for you to practice.”
My muscles tighten at the way he phrased it. Alone. Together.
“So, we’re not picking up Matthew?” I bite my lip. I need to be sure my mom’s not manipulating me to get back together with my long-ago ex.
Rocco shakes his head and lets go of my hand. All warmth seems to leave my body.
