Page 114 of The Tryst

Great. Another thing I have to deal with. Another thing I have no clue how to handle.

38

A COUPLE OF BEERS

Nick

I’m in the shower, washing off the chlorine from a quick swim, counting down till David arrives in twenty minutes. I needed to clear my head of the weekend and get in the zone, so I hit the pool the second the Lyft dropped me off.

Now, tipping my hair back under the hot stream, I wash away last night and this morning, honing my focus to the present.

A podcast plays from the speaker as a futurist opines on the intersection between machine intelligence and philanthropy. It’s like a brain cleanse, and it resets my attention.

When I’m out of the shower, I dry off, get dressed, and run a towel over my hair one more time as the episode ends on a hopeful but cautious note about respect for humanity as computers become even more powerful.

Hopeful but cautious.

That sounds like it ought to be my mantra this afternoon.

As I brush my teeth, I flash back on speeches I’ve given, pitches I’ve made. But I grumble out afuck thatafter I spit out the toothpaste.

This isn’t a speech for my kid.

It isn’t a pitch for him to go with my funding.

I can’t prep like it’s a meeting.

I just have to speak from the heart.

And I also have to apologize.

As I set the toothbrush down on the counter, I peer in the mirror, nodding decisively. Yeah, that’s the key. I have a lot to say I’m sorry for.

I hear my dad’s gruff voice.When you say you’re sorry, don’t make an excuse. Don’t blame the other person. Don’t “but” or “just” or “I only did it because.” Just own it, like a man.

He’s right.

On that note, I grab my phone and head to the kitchen, checking messages along the way. David’s due here any minute.

But my heart stutters when I see the barrage of texts and missed calls from Layla.

I barely read the first text.

Layla: Nick, I think he knows. He stopped by. He was acting very strange. You have to call me.

My pulse sprints. But I try to slow down, get the facts. I scroll through the rest of the messages with gritted teeth.

But that’s enough. I’ve got the picture.

I stab Layla’s name in my contacts—she’s no longer listed asFriend, she’s in there under her name—and call her.

“What happened?” I ask the second she answers.

In no time, she tells me about a surprise visit from my son. With each successive sentence, theoh shitmeter ticks higher.

When she’s done, I blow out a frustrated breath. “Well, I really need to fix this, stat,” I say.

“I did my best to say as little as possible. But I didn’t want to lie any more than I had to.”

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