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Doc smiled, knowing yoga was one of my own self-calming techniques. “Atta girl.”
The rest of the trip was almost peaceful—sans a few extra detours and Doc talking to his lady friend on his cell with the volume turned up so loud that I heard her remind him to fill his Viagra prescription. I’d timed it so we’d arrive in Manhattan in the middle of the night to avoid as much traffic as possible, and we were lucky to nab a parking spot on the street, since a garage was out of the question for me. My trusty therapist was staying at a hotel, which was only half a block from my dad’s apartment.
“Doc. Wake up. We’re here.”
He woke looking confused, and I felt bad for having to interrupt his sleep at all. “What? Huh? Oh. Okay. Here. Yes. Okay.”
I walked him to his hotel and waited out front to make sure he checked in with no issues. “Thanks again for taking the ride with me, Doc. Give me a call if you feel up to breakfast in the morning. I know it’s late so, if not, maybe lunch.”
Doc patted my shoulder. “You call me if you need me. Anytime, Luca. And you did well today. Really well. I’m proud of you.” I knew he meant it.
Even though I’d been tired for the last few hours of the drive, when I let myself into Dad’s place, I was suddenly wide awake. It was the oddest feeling to walk into my father’s living space without him there. He’d been gone for a year now—although you wouldn’t know it from looking at his apartment. Mrs. Cascio, Dad’s neighbor, had been checking on the place every few days, bringing in the mail, and generally keeping the cobwebs at bay.
I walked around and opened all the windows, because fresh air always helped me feel less trapped. Dad’s bookshelves were still lined with framed photos, none of which had been updated in the five years since Mom died. I lifted a small silver double frame. The left side had a photo of me in my Girl Scouts uniform, and the right had one of me sitting on Dad’s lap while leaning forward and blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. I must’ve been six. A large ivory frame displayed my parents’ wedding photo. I traced my finger along the length of Mom’s veil. Everyone always told me I looked just like her, but growing up, I didn’t see the resemblance. Now, though, I was the spitting image of her. It was hard to believe they were both gone.
The small dining room table had a pile of mail. I’d had Dad’s mail forwarded to my house, so mostly it was just catalogs and junk. Once a month, Mrs. Cascio sent me everything that arrived, even though I’d told her it wasn’t necessary. I mindlessly fingered through the pile, not expecting to see anything worth keeping. But I stopped at an envelope addressed to me—well, not me, but Luca Ryan. That was a name I hadn’t heard in a long time. In second grade, my teacher, Mrs. Ryan, started a pen pal writing program with a small town in England. We weren’t allowed to use our real last names for safety reasons, so the entire class used her last name—hence I was Luca Ryan.
I checked out the return address for the sender’s name.G. QuinnWow, really? It couldn’t be.
I squinted at the postmark. It was from a PO box in California, not England, but I didn’t know any other Quinn other than Griffin. And the handwriting did look pretty familiar. But it had been close to eight years since we’d exchanged letters. Why would he write now?
Curious, I ripped it open and scanned right to the bottom of the letter for the name. Sure enough, it was from Griffin. I started at the beginning.Dear Luca,
Do you like scotch? I remember you said you didn’t like the taste of beer. But we never did get around to comparing our taste in hard liquor. Why is that, you might ask? Let me remind you—because you stopped answering my letters eight damn years ago.
I wanted to let you know, I’m still pissed off about that. My mum used to say I hold grudges. But I prefer to think of it as I remember the facts. And the fact of the matter is, you suck. There, I’ve said it. I’ve been holding that shit in for a long time.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m not obsessive or anything. I don’t sit in my house thinking about you all day long. In fact, there have been months that go by when thoughts of you don’t even enter my brain. But then some random thing will pop into my head out of the blue. Like I’ll see some kid in a pram eating black licorice, and I’ll think of you. Side note—I’ve tried it again as an adult, and I still think it tastes like the bottom of my shoe, so perhaps it’s that you just have no taste. You probably don’t even like scotch.
