By the time my car door closes, fresh tears blur my vision. Contrary to my goal, I did not escape that closing with my dignity intact—behaving no better than my teen daughter.
It takes a bunch of tugging and a good lick to wrench my wedding rings from my finger. In the sunlight their dazzling sparkle is full of false promise, so I drop them into my purse. I stretch the fingers of my bare left hand, which now looks as unfamiliar as everything else about my undone life.
Richard wasn’t the husband I’d hoped he’d be, and ours hadn’t been the perfect marriage. But I’ve given so much of myself to that life that I can’t stand the way it’s ending. He’s skipping forward as if our years together meant nothing, leaving me behind on an uncertain path. Seeing him quickly—and happily—replace our family stings like an ice-cold shower.
I’ve been telling myself I’m not running. Telling myself that this move will be for the best.
Please, God, let me be right.
CHAPTER TWO
KATY
I tuck my dab pen back in my purse before asking the Uber driver to drop me off on Connecticut Avenue, less than a block from the front door of my dad’s office building in DC. A quick glance in the mirror on the back of my phone reflects my bright-red eyes.
I shouldn’t have taken that second hit. Haven’t quite got the hang of this yet, but after my dad moved out in June, my friend Jen saved me with this little gift.
“I’ll tip you on the app.” I wave at the Uber dude before exiting his ancient Honda.
“Thanks!”
He pulls away from the curb as soon as I close the door. His car putters off, leaving me in the shadow of the multistory building that is basically my dad’s second home. It’s near Nordstrom Rack and GW University, so there are actually a lot of people close to my age in the vicinity.
The first time I remember coming here was for a Bring Your Daughter to Work Day. Fourth grade. Mom had dressed me in a blue velvet dress from Crewcuts, a sparkle headband, tights, and gray suede ankle boots. She’d stuffed my backpack with a sketch pad, colored pencils that smelled like cherries and grapes and lemons, and a copy of Wonderstruck.
Dad had let me sit at his desk and explained to me what he did. Reading and writing those contracts every day sounded boring, but I saw the same buzz in his eyes then that he got whenever I made him proud. I’ve tried to make him proud all the time so he’d make it home for dinner or spend more time with me on the weekends than just our Sunday-morning runs. Now, we don’t even have those.
When I yank on the heavy glass door, the lobby I’ve entered less than a dozen times since that first day is pretty much the same: shiny cream-colored marble tile floors inlaid inside a hideous rose-colored border, mirrors and brass on the walls, the scuffle of shoes coming and going, the bell tones from the elevator banks behind the security desk.
Normally I get really nervous here, but my muscles are finally loosening thanks to that second hit. Things move in slow motion as I cross to the security desk, sign in, stick a little badge on my shirt, and head to the elevator. Top floor. My dad’s corner office has a pretty sweet view.
When I get off the elevator, I stop at the reception desk rather than risk catching my dad in his office with Lauren. She works here, too. High as I am, if I see her, I might do or say something nobody will like—like the first time I met her, right after Dad moved out. He’d brought her to lunch without warning me, so I ignored her the entire time.
My mom might hover too much, but she’d never blindside me.
The receptionist looks maybe five years older than me. Blonde—like Lauren. Big boobs—also like Lauren. My mom isn’t sexy. She’s just a mom. Brown, curly hair that she pulls into a ponytail most days. Hardly wears makeup. Smiles way too much for any normal person most of the time—but not so much this summer.
Didn’t she know that all the gold diggers in this office would go after him? I mean, he’s loaded, he’s nice-looking for an old guy, and he’s so smart. Everybody wants his attention. Mom was careless to let her guard down. But Dad didn’t just leave her. He left me, too. If he really thought I was so special, he wouldn’t do that.
“Hi. Can you let my dad know I’m here—Richard Chase, I mean.” I clear my throat and try to pull myself together so he can’t tell that I vaped. “I’m Katy.”
The cheap-looking version of Lauren smiles at me. “Sure, Katy. Go ahead and take a seat.”
While she connects to my dad’s office, I plop onto the leather sofa. This area reminds me a little of home. Our old home. The Tibetan carpet. The reds and golds and burnished brown decor, with glossy wood tables. Classic. Like Dad and his navy blue suits.
My eyes water, so I close them and swallow the lump in my throat. Round and round I twine a long strand of hair until there is almost no feeling left in my fingertip.
“Katy.” My eyes pop open to catch my dad crossing the small reception area, his arms open for me, with a book in one hand.
I untangle my hair and push off the sofa. For the few seconds I’m smooshed against his chest, there is hope. “Hey, Dad.”
He eases away and tips my chin up with his fingers. “Have you been crying?”
At least it’s an excuse for my red eyes. I don’t lie, exactly. Just shrug my shoulders and let him draw his own conclusion. That earns me another hug and a kiss on the top of my head.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Is he, though? Because he could change his mind if he really was sorry. Mom might take him back if I begged.
“Yeah.” My stomach tenses. We have to leave before Lauren appears. “Can we go eat?”
“Yes.” He glances over his shoulder at Big Boobs. “Gretchen, I’ll be out for ninety minutes.”
Ninety minutes. I’m lucky he gave me any time on a workday. Normally he wouldn’t. Still, now every time I see him will be a “visit” reduced to some kind of time frame. Forty-eight-hour weekends. Two-week vacations. Wednesday-night dinners.
My lungs turn to ash. I almost kick his shin and run out on him the way he’s run out on me. But that will only convince him that he’s better off with Lauren.
On the elevator, he hands me Malcolm Gladwell’s book Talking to Strangers. “I just finished this and thought you might like it. I don’t agree with all his conclusions, but there are some really interesting insights about reading people—or misreading them. In our multicultural world, I think it’s important to better understand this so you can communicate well. Bottom line, we jump to conclusions about strangers based on very little information, though we shouldn’t, because they are as nuanced and complicated as we are.”
“Cool.” I smile and take the book although it’s the last thing I care about right now. He should worry more about reading me than reading strangers.
“KAZ?” he asks as we exit the building.
“Sure.” KAZ Sushi Bistro is a short walk, and we both like sushi.
When we get to the restaurant, I slide onto the tan suede bench seat against the wall and let my dad have the chair at our small table so he won’t be distracted by things going on around us. He orders himself a hot sake and me an iced tea—my usual.
“So, how are you handling everything?” He folds his hands on his lap.