Page 63 of The Tryst

I’m about to say thanks but no thanks to the Kip date when she sets a hand on mine, squeezing. “I worry about you, Layla. I want you to be safe. I want you to be with someone who comes from a good family,” she says.

The implication is clear—Dad’s business partner did not come from a good family. Joe McBride was from a rough section of Boston. He was the first in his family to go to college. He had no pedigree.

“Would you do this for me? Meet Kip?” Mom asks in a low voice. Rose has the decency to look away, fidgeting with her pearls.

I want Mom to be happy. I’ve always wanted that. There were so many nights when I was sure she’d never survive the loss of her love, her best friend, her rock. No matter how complicated our relationship is, I want her to find peace and joy in life again. I’ve found it with my friends and with my work. I don’t know if she truly has.

I relent though I don’t give all the way in. “I don’t want a date to the auction. But I’ll have coffee with Kip when I return.”

I haven’t seen her eyes sparkle with so much happiness in years.

Maybe this is a pyrrhic victory, but I’ll take it, especially since she says, “I wish I could be there at the auction, but I have to visit our offices in Los Angeles that week and I’ll be staying for a spa weekend.”

Oh, hello, empty home in the Hamptons. You are mine. “I’ll miss you, but could I use the house that weekend?”

“I had the alarm company test the system last week after the upgrade. It’s the most secure one out there. And you’re always free to use the house,” she says.

That’s always a win in my book, even though I have a date in a few more weeks.

Too bad it’s not with the only man I want to see.

20

THE HANDLE ON THE POT

Nick

So this is friendship with a woman. If so, I don’t know that I want to sign up for another stint of it.

Being with Layla over the last week has been painful and wonderful at the same time.

On Thursday evening, David’s off in Brooklyn with the shelters he coordinates with there, while Layla and I roll through our task list. This time we’re on the couch. She’s on one end. I’m on the other.

This space between us is good. Empirically good. It’ll keep me from being obsessed. If I’m lucky, maybe it’ll keep me from thinking of how sturdy this couch is.

Even though I’m distracted by her call.

“Yes, the golf lessons donation is fantastic, Kip,” she says on the phone as I answer an email. “Can you take a picture of the set of clubs you’re including? Yes, I know the clubs are PXG.”

A pause, then she laughs sweetly. “I would, but I’m so busy.”

I’m instantly jealous. Who the fuck is this guy who wants her to come over and take a picture of a couple pricey golf clubs?

“You’re a good photog,” she says, clearly flattering him. “Just take a well-lit wide shot and send it to me.”

Another pause. “Yes. After the auction. See you then.”

She hangs up, then dusts one palm against the other, like she’s relieved to have that call done. “And the golf lessons and the clubs are in. You better bring rich people to bid on them.”

But I’m too irritated to address her demand. “Who’s Kip?”

Her brow knits, like she’s unsure why I’d ask with such vitriol. “He’s donating golf lessons at his family’s country club, and a set of golf clubs. I thought that was clear.”

“It was,” I say, then bite out, “Who is he?”

She quirks her head to the side, puzzled but a little amused too. “Why are you asking it like that?”

“You sounded friendly with him. Is he a friend?”

---