“So, what’s up? Why all the formality of drinks?” I reach out and take a sip of my martini which is smooth and briny. Perfect if you like this sort of thing.
“We are leaving for two months to travel. Your father has some speaking engagements lined up and has been asked to oversee a cardiac surgery center opening in Germany.”
“That’s wonderful,” I say enthused, but also skeptically. “But you could have easily told me that over the phone. It hardly warrants a mandatory cocktail.” I set my glass down and eye both of them, one and then the other. “Not that I’m unhappy to see you, but why do I feel like there’s more?”
My parents exchange nervous glances, having some sort of private conversation with just their eyes. Well, this can’t be good.
“What? Just say it.”
My father leans forward in his chair, reaching across the small table and clasping my knee. His eyes pierce mine as he says, “We were thinking maybe you’d like to come with us?” He clears his throat. “In fact, we would very much like you to join us.”
An incredulous “Huh?” flies out of my mouth. “Why would I do that? I mean, I appreciate the offer, but you’ve never invited me along before. Why now?”
He gives my knee a squeeze before righting himself and putting his arm around my mother’s shoulders. “Because this is the six-year anniversary, and we thought a change of routine might be good for you.”
“Uh-huh. What else?” I cock a dubious eyebrow, feigning unaffected at the mention of it being nearly six years while I take another sip of my drink that I hate.
“Harrison’s father reached out to us. He wants to speak with you.”
That smooth and briny concoction that was just hitting my tongue flies out of my mouth, shooting across the room in a spray of clear liquid at my mother’s words. Thankfully I don’t hit either of my parents. Just the pristine walls and art.
I set my glass down, wiping at my mouth with a cocktail napkin as I stare dumbfounded, my eyes wide while a jolt of terror creeps up my spine, making me inadvertently shudder. At first, I have nothing. No retort. My mind is frozen, and words only seem to be coming to me in fragments. My parents are doing their best to remain stoic, but I see it in their eyes.
The fear. The uneasiness. The memories.
“Since when?”
“Last week.”
I lift my glass back up and gulp down half of it, the alcohol burning the back of my throat. The glass clicks harshly against the coffee table as visions of that night skitter through my head like a warped movie reel.
“Why now? Why after all these years? The anniversary isn’t for another month.”
I heave in a breath, but it’s not helping. Neither is the alcohol for that matter. I can’t stand this. This feeling. This scared, out-of-control feeling I’ve fought to banish for so long.
“What could his father possibly want?”
“He didn’t say,” my mother answers gently. “He asked to speak with you, and we declined giving him your number. He’s called twice already.”
Like father like son.
“You’re tapping,” my father murmurs under his breath, his eyes snagging on my fingers. I hadn’t realized I was and stop the motion instantly. But suddenly it’s like I’m thrust back six years. The desire to lock myself inside my house and ensure everything is exactly the way it was when I left this morning is incredibly strong.
It’s irrational. I know it is. And I need to get a grip on myself now.
“I can’t go with you to Europe,” I tell them, my voice clear and strong. Because even though I want to go home and lock myself away, I won’t. It’s a fight. A fucking struggle for the ages, but I won’t do it. “I have work and there is no way I can take that kind of time off.”
I polish off my drink, shaky and sick.
I never regretted moving back to Boston. Leaving New York was the right decision for me though it felt like I was conceding something. Declaring defeat even if no one else saw it that way. After all, I had survived an additional three years in that city after what happened. I graduated top of my nursing class and even worked for six months in a family clinic. Then my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer and I came home to be closer to my family. The doctors said it was caught early. In situ, meaning it hadn’t spread, and didn’t require a mastectomy. Just a lumpectomy. Not even chemo.
And for three years, she’s been gold and I’ve been grateful to be here with her for that.
I love my family and now that Carter has moved back up here from Virginia Beach, it’s where we all are. I love my job at MGH. I love my friends and my life. And most of the time, I don’t think about it.
But what the actual fuck?
Couldn’t I have just gone the rest of my life without him trying to contact me? Like for real.
“Please consider it. We leave in ten days and I’m sure we could figure something out with your work.”
I shake my head at my father. “He won’t come after me.”
“No,” they both agree. “But he wouldn’t tell us why he wanted to speak with you either. We’ve contacted our lawyer and if need be will file a restraining order.”
“That’s for me to do. Not you.”
This is the point where I stand because that pisses me off even though it’s years later and I doubt the outcome would have been different if I had followed my gut sooner. But I listened to them when I shouldn’t have and both they and I know it.
“Rina—”
“It’s done. Thank you for telling me and I wish you both a wonderful trip. Please don’t tell the boys. I don’t need them hovering over me any more than they already do.”
I give both my parents a parting hug and kiss, and on numb legs I get the hell out of there. I can see their turmoil. Their heartache and regret and I didn’t mean to cause any of it. I don’t want them to feel bad because what happened was not their fault and likely couldn’t have been prevented.
But still… being an Abbot-Fritz occasionally comes with a few too many hurdles to leap. And now it seems I have another one to face.
2
rina
My head is spinning as I stagger into The Hill, the usual bar my friends and I all meet in that just so happens to be across the street from the hospital Margot and I work in. I’m a mess and not just from the martini I swallowed down at record place.
The entire Uber ride over, I developed a plan because that’s what I freaking do.
I plan.
Because when you plan, you’re rarely caught off guard. Like I was tonight. That can’t happen again.
Part of me is tempted to call Mr. Bishop to flesh out exactly what he’s after.
But I don’t want to hear his voice—so similar to Harrison’s just the thought of it makes my stomach roil. I don’t want to talk about his son or that night or the six months that led up to it. I don’t want to think about all the things I wish I had done differently.
Glancing around the Thursday night bar crowd, I spot my friend Halle’s copper hair first and head in that direction. The large table they have is jampacked with greasy food and colorful drinks, the sound of their chatting and laughter carrying above the din of the bar, and some of my anxiety starts to fall away.