An inch of gray ash tumbles into the porcelain tray on the coffee table, his eyes wide with manic exasperation. I’m still half expecting him to reach out and snap my neck. He’s unpredictable, possibly a little unstable. I think you have to be, in his job. “You kids will be the death of me.” He leans back in the seat again. “Fine. Deal. Only because Francesca likes your mother, and Vincenzo likes you.”
I didn’t need his acceptance, but I take it anyway.
“How is she?” he asks.
“Ophelia?”
He snorts. “No, dipshit. Your mother. I don’t give a fuck about the sad ginger girl.”
“She’s the same.”
He draws a graph with his hand, up and down and up and down. I nod. That’s about it. Highs and lows, over and over, with increasing volatility.
“When Francesca got shot in the back, I thought my kids would have no mother. It’s fucking terrifying, the idea of losing her.”
“And?” I say, waiting for the inspirational speech. Theit’ll get easier, or theshe’ll always be in your heart.
He shakes his head, tossing the remainder of his cigar in the tray. “That’s it. It’s bullshit, it’s terrifying, and it’ll hurt like hell. Nothing anyone tells you, no shitty quote regurgitated from a sign on a bathroom wall is gonna fix it. Your mom will be gone, and that’s shit.”
“A cheerful conversation for my Tuesday morning,” I chime, but really, I do appreciate his honesty. Everyone is obsessed with telling me that everything will get easier.
I can’t imagine that ever being the case.
IT’S INCREDIBLE HOWfast things decay. My relationship with my father, whatever it was I had with Ophelia, my mother’s health. My mood today is no exception.
As I saw Rocco into the elevator just before lunch, I felt buoyant, another job off my list, another weight off my shoulders. And here I am at quarter to three, struggling to imagine how I’ll make it to five.
I can’t identify a trigger. No disastrous event occurred between Rocco’s polished oxfords shuffling out of my office and now. But there’s a gray cloud looming over my head again, casting all my thoughts in shadow.
Fat droplets of rain slide down the glass windows behind me, staining the sidewalks an inky charcoal.
On cue, my phone buzzes where it sits on my laptop keyboard.Robert Harwood.I pick it up on the first ring.
“Robert.”
“Alex. How are you?”
I don’t even bother answering that. He knows the answer. “You’re not very good at being on vacation.”
I hear his smile. “I can find time to check in on my favorite clients.”
Yeah,right. He just wants to make sure his paycheck is still breathing. “Your most unstable clients.”
He laughs. “I think you take both crowns.”
“How is Lagos?”
“Busy. Humid. How is New York?”
I drum my pen on my thigh. Suffocating. Depressing. Freezing. Gray. So fucking lonely. “It’s fine.”
“Tell me more.”
“Enjoy your vacation, Robert.”
“I have time. It’s this or drinks with my great aunt, so if you could keep talking, that’d be fantastic.”
I shrug, even though he can’t see me. I stare down at the traffic on the street far below. It’s all so pointless. “I’m just tired.”
