Page 37 of P.S. I Dare You

My hunger seems to have vanished.

MY FATHER RAISES THE partition between us and his driver as we merge into traffic. We’re on our way to his weekly “three martini lunch” at Tavern on the Green with a few of the board members who also happen to be close friends of his.

This is day five of my father carting me around like a show pony, showing me off to all of his comrades, trying not to outwardly cringe when he makes a comment that implies we aren’t estranged and that we’ve got the kind of father-son bond most men only dream of.

If delusion is a thing that comes with age, then I don’t want to grow old.

I haven’t spoken more than a few words to Aerin since Monday, when I told her she was just some girl I fucked in a bathroom. Or more like, she hasn’t spoken more than a few words to me.

I regretted the words the instant they left my mouth.

In my attempt to scare her away, I shoved her instead. Metaphorically speaking. And it was wrong. I tried to apologize in the middle of the week, but she cut me off before I had a chance, redirecting any and all conversations to work-related topics.

“How are things going with your assistant?” my father asks.

“That came out of nowhere.” I steer my attention outside my window, counting cars as they pass and watching people dash through the rain, weaving around with their oversized umbrellas. A young mother lets her child splash in a puddle, and he squeals as the murky water drips down his yellow wellies. “Things are fine with Ms. Keane. Why do you ask?”

I glance at him for a moment, catching a glint in his eyes.

“Oh, you know. I just think you need to be careful with that one,” he says. “I think she likes you.”

“I can assure you that isn’t the case.”

If the bastard only knew.

“It’s fine. You don’t see it, but I do. And I’ve been around long enough to know what it looks like when a woman is keen on a man.” He pats his leg, as if he’s amused at himself or proud of himself. But I’m positive it doesn’t occur to him that the majority of women he’s encountered in his dating life have shown interest in him for non-organic reasons.

“I’m not sure why you’re telling me this,” I say.

He chuckles. “It was just something I noticed. That’s all. Guess I’m just trying to make up for some of the things we missed out on.”

I can assure him, he’s the last person a younger me would have ever approached for dating advice.

“Aerin reminds me of your mother in a lot of ways—”

Leaning forward, I rap on the partition. “Stop the car.”

“C.J.”

The driver rolls down the glass. “Did you need something, sir?”

“Yes, I need you to let me the fuck out of this car.”

He’s not allowed to talk about her. He’s not allowed to wax poetic about all the things that made him love her, all the things that were great about her. He’s not allowed to feign nostalgia about the woman whose life he intentionally cast aside so that he could have a better one.

Not to mention the fact that Aerin Keane and Gwyneth Welles couldn’t be more dissimilar. My mother was effervescent and carefree. Aerin is uptight and collected. The only thing they have in common is their hair color, and even that might be a stretch.

“C.J.” My dad’s voice is lower, his chin tucked. I’m embarrassing him, but it’s about damn time someone did.

The driver glances over his shoulder before pulling into a no parking zone, and I waste no time showing myself out of the Town Car and hitting the pavement.

“Where are you going?” he yells after me. “Was it something I said?”

I don’t answer.

“Get back here this instant. We have reservations!”

The sky above rumbles and the drops of water pelting me grow heavier by the second, but I’ll be home soon enough.

I keep walking until I lose myself in a rain-splattered crowd, and I wait a couple of blocks before checking to ensure he didn’t have his driver follow me. As soon as I get a chance, I text Aerin my address, telling her to grab the files off my desk and meet me there in half an hour.

HIS PLACE ISN’T AT all what I expected.

It’s a third-floor walk-up. No doorman. No elevator. It’s modest and modern, all granite and stainless in the kitchen, wood floors throughout, West Elm-esque furniture carefully placed, but there are no chef’s-quality appliances, no collection of Baccarat tumblers backlit in some fancy corner bar.

It’s actually impressively humble and completely contradicts the man I’ve been working for the past week or so.

“You can put everything on the table there,” he points to a corner, toward a table covered in randomness. His hair is damp, whether it’s from the shower or the rain, I don’t know. And a white t-shirt and dark jeans cover his muscled body.

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