Well—almost none.
My cell phone buzzes on the desk next to me, where it lays face-down. I flip it over, seeing Dean’s name.
You still at it? Want to come meet me for a drink at Rosie’s?
I consider. Rosie’s is only a couple of blocks away. I could easily stop for a drink on my way home.
But I’m tired. My shoulders are stiff. And I haven’t had a chance to exercise yet today. I think about a glass of wine in the trendy, noisy bar, compared to a glass of wine drunk in my own bathtub, listening to a podcast instead of a recap of Dean’s day.
I know which one sounds more appealing to me.
Sorry, I text back. Going to be working late. Then I’ll just head home.
Alright, Dean replies. Dinner tomorrow?
I hesitate.
Sure, I say. 6:30 tomorrow.
Dean and I have been dating for three months. He’s a thoracic surgeon—intelligent, successful, handsome. Competent in bed (I would guess all surgeons are—they understand the human body and they’re in full control of their hands).
I should want to go to dinner tomorrow. I should be excited about it.
But I’m just . . . indifferent.
It’s nothing to do with Dean. It’s a problem I seem to have again and again. I get to know someone, and I start picking away at all their flaws. I notice inconsistencies in their statements. Holes in logic in their arguments. I wish I could turn off that part of my brain, but I can’t.
My father would say that I expect too much from people.
“No one’s perfect, Riona. Least of all yourself.”
I know that.
I notice my own flaws more than anyone’s—I can be cold and unwelcoming. Obsessive. Quick to get angry and slow to forgive.
Worst of all, I’m easily annoyed. Like when a man becomes repetitive.
It’s only been a few months, and already Dean’s told me three times about how he thinks the anesthesiologists in his department are conspiring against him, after he refused to hire one of their friends.
“It’s these South Africans,” he complained, last time we went to lunch. “You hire one, and then they want you to hire their cousin or their brother-in-law, and all of a sudden the surgical unit is overrun with them.”
Plus, he seems to think that now, at the three-month mark, he’s owed a greater portion of my time. Instead of asking if I’m free Friday or Saturday night, he assumes it. He makes plans for us, and I have to tell him I’m busy with work or a family dinner.
“You know, you could invite me to dinner with your family,” he said in a sulky tone.
“It’s not a social dinner,” I told him. “We’re going over plans for phase two of the South Shore Development.”
Most dinners with my family are working dinners, one way or another. Our business and our personal ties are so deeply intertwined that I would hardly know my father, mother, or siblings outside of “work.”
The fate of our business is the fate of our family. That’s how it works in the Irish mafia.
Dean has some idea about the Griffins’ criminal ties—it would be impossible not to. We’ve been one of the largest Irish mafia families in Chicago for two hundred years.
But he doesn’t get it. Not really. He thinks of it like an interesting backstory, like people who say they’re descended from Henry the Eighth. He has no idea how current and ongoing organized crime is in Chicago.
It’s always a dilemma in my dating life. Do I want a boyfriend who’s ignorant of the dark underside of this city? Who could never really understand my entrenchment in my family? Or do I want one of the “made men” who work for my father, cracking heads and burying bodies, with blood under his fingernails and a gun perpetually concealed on his person?
Neither, really.
And not just for those reasons.
I don’t believe in love.
I’m not denying it exists—I’ve seen it happen for other people. I just don’t believe it will ever happen for me.
My love for my family is like the roots of an oak tree. A part of the tree, necessary for life. It’s always been there, and it always will be.
But romantic love . . . I’ve never experienced it. Maybe I’m just too selfish. I can’t imagine loving somebody more than I love my own comfort and having my own way.
The idea of being controlled by someone else, doing things for their convenience instead of mine . . . no thanks. I barely tolerate that for my family. Why would I want to center my life around a man?
I pack up my briefcase. Before I leave, I sneak into Josh’s filthy, cluttered office and steal back the purchase agreements off his desk. I started them, and I plan to finish them, regardless of what Uncle Oran says. He won’t notice—I’ll be done with them before Josh would even have looked at them. With my briefcase satisfyingly heavy, I head out of the office tower on East Wacker Drive. I walk home, because my condo is only four blocks away from work.
I bought the condo just this summer. It’s in a brand-new building with a gorgeous fitness center and swimming pool. There’s a doorman, and a fantastic view from my living room up on the twenty-eighth floor.
It was past time. I’d been living in my parents’ mansion on the Gold Coast. Their house is so huge that there was plenty of space for everyone—no real reason to leave. Plus it was convenient to all be in the same house together, whenever we needed to go over business-related material.
But then Cal got married, and he and Aida found their own place. And Nessa left too, to be with Mikolaj. Then it was just me alone with my parents, with the distasteful sensation of having been left behind by my siblings.
I have no interest in getting married like they did, but I could certainly move out.
So that’s what I did. I got the condo. And I love it. I love the quiet and the space. The feeling of being on my own for the first time in my life.
I wave to Ronald, the doorman, and take the elevator up to my apartment. I change out of my blazer, blouse, and slacks, putting on a one-piece swimsuit instead. Then I grab my waterproof headphones and head up to the pool.
The pool is on the roof of our building.
In the summer, they open up the atrium overhead, so you can swim under the stars. In the winter, it’s enclosed from the elements, though you can still see the sky through the glass.
I love to lay on my back and swim back and forth, looking up.
I’m usually the only person in the pool when I come this late. Sure enough, tonight the space is dim and quiet, the only noise the water lapping against the rim of the pool.
It smells of chlorine, and fabric softener from the fresh stacks of towels laid out on the lounge chairs. After turning on my swimming playlist, I set my phone down on one of the chairs.
I’m about to jump in the pool when I realize I forgot to fix my hair. I usually braid it and put it under a swim cap, so the chlorine doesn’t dry it out. Red hair is fragile.
It’s still in a chignon from work, twisted up with one of those two-pronged hairpins.
I don’t really want to go all the way back down to my apartment. This will be fine, for one single time.
I put my hands over my head and dive into the water with one, clean jump. I stroke back and forth across the pool, listening to “California Dreamin’ ” on my headphones.
California Dreamin’—The Mamas and the Papas (Spotify)