* * *
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THE REST OF the night followed the usual gala script, beginning with cocktails and a silent auction. There was nothing I really wanted, but reminding myself that all the money was going to a good cause, I bid on a sapphire cocktail ring. Meanwhile, I nursed a glass of sauvignon blanc, made small talk, and reminded Kirk not to drink too much.
At some point, the dinner chimes sounded, the lobby bar stopped serving, and we were herded into an expansive ballroom to find our assigned tables. Kirk and I were at a ten-top, front and center, seated with three other couples we knew reasonably well, plus Melanie, who kept me more than entertained with a running critique of the décor (the floral arrangements were too high), the cuisine (chicken, again?), and the egregiously clashing red and maroon attire of the gala co-chairs (how could they not have thought to coordinate?).
Then, as an army of waiters trotted out our standard chocolate mousse desserts, the gala chairs introduced Kirk and me, heaping praise on us for our commitment to this charity and so many others. I sat up as straight as I could, feeling a bit nervous as I heard So, without further ado…Nina and Kirk Browning.
As the crowd applauded, Kirk and I rose and made our way to the short staircase leading up to the stage. With my hand in his, we ascended the steps, my heart pounding with a rush of adrenaline that came from being in the spotlight. When we reached the podium, Kirk stepped forward to take the microphone while I stood at his side, pressing my shoulder blades together, a smile plastered across my face. When the applause died down, Kirk began to speak, first thanking the co-chairs, their various committees, our fellow patrons, and all the donors. He then got to the reason we were here tonight, his voice growing somber. I stared at his strong profile, thinking how handsome he was.
“My wife, Nina, and I have a son named Finch,” he said. “Finch, like some of your children, will be graduating from high school in just a couple of months. In the fall, he will be headed off to college.”
I looked past the bright lights into a sea of faces as Kirk continued. “For the last eighteen years, our life has revolved around him. He is the most precious thing in the world to us,” he said, then halted, looked down, and took a few seconds to continue. “And I just can’t imagine the horror of losing him.”
I lowered my gaze, nodding in agreement, feeling a stab of overwhelming grief and compassion for every family devastated by suicide. But as Kirk went on to talk about the organization, my mind guiltily wandered back to our life, our son. All the opportunity that stretched ahead for him.
I tuned back in to hear my husband say, “So, in closing, Nina and I are so honored to join with you in this important cause….This is a fight for all of our children. Thank you so much. And good night.”
As the crowd applauded once again, and a few of our closest friends actually stood for an ovation, Kirk turned and gave me a wink. He knew he’d nailed it.
“Perfect,” I whispered.
Only things were actually far from perfect.
Because at virtually that very moment, our son was across town, making the worst decision of his life.
Call it father’s intuition, but I knew something bad was happening to Lyla before I actually knew. Then again, maybe my gut feeling had absolutely nothing to do with intuition, or our close bond, or the fact that I’d been a single parent since she was four years old. Maybe it was simply the skimpy outfit she’d tried to leave the house in just hours before.
I’d been cleaning the kitchen when she slinked past me wearing a dress so short that you could see the bottom of her ass—a part of her anatomy that her eight hundred Instagram followers had come to know well, thanks to countless “artsy” (according to Lyla) bikini shots she’d posted before I instituted my bright-line social-media bathing-suit ban.
“See ya, Dad,” she said with practiced nonchalance.
“Whoa, whoa,” I said, blocking her path to the door. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To Grace’s. She just pulled up.” Lyla pointed out the front window of our house. “See?”
“What I see,” I said, glancing out the window at Grace’s white Jeep, “is that you’re missing the bottom half of your dress.”
She rolled her eyes and hitched an enormous tote bag over one shoulder. I noticed that she wasn’t wearing any makeup. Yet. I wasn’t a gambling man, but I’d bet a hundred bucks that by the time Grace’s car was at Five Points, the black shit Lyla put around her eyes would emerge, along with boots to replace her untied sneakers. “It’s called fashion, Dad.”
“Did you borrow that fashion from Sophie?” I asked, referring to the little girl she regularly babysat. “Although it might even be too short for her.”
“You’re hilarious,” Lyla deadpanned, staring at me with one eye, the other covered with a mane of curly dark hair. “You should do, like, stand-up.”
“Okay. Look, Lyla. You’re not going out of the house in that.” I tried to keep my voice low and calm, the way a psychologist had advised we speak to our teenagers at a recent lecture at Lyla’s school. They tune us out when we yell, the lady had said in her own monotone. I’d glanced around the auditorium, amazed to see so many parents taking notes. Did these people really have time to consult a notebook in the heat of the moment?
“Da-ad,” Lyla whined. “I’m just trying to go study with Grace and a couple other people…”
“Studying on a Saturday night? Seriously? What do you take me for, anyway?”
“Our exams are coming up…and we have this big group project.” She unzipped her backpack and pulled out a biology textbook, holding it up as proof. “See?”
“And just how many boys are in your study group?”
She fought a smirk and lost.
“Change. Now,” I said, pointing down the hall toward her bedroom, my mind filled with the horrifying possibilities of the real-life biology lesson she could get in that outfit.
“Okay, but every minute I waste debating this with you is, like, a percentage point off my grade.”
“I’ll settle for a C and a longer dress,” I said, then resumed my cleaning to indicate the conversation was over.
I could feel her staring at me and, out of the corner of my eye, saw her turn and stomp down the hall. A few minutes later, she returned in a potato sack of a dress that only worried me more, as it confirmed that she’d be changing clothes—right after she spackled on the makeup.
“Remember. Be home by eleven,” I said, even though I had no real way of enforcing her curfew when I wouldn’t be back until much later than that. I was a carpenter by trade, but to make a little extra cash, I also drove a few nights a week for Uber and Lyft, and Saturday was my best night.