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It amazes me because it doesn’t happen often. I’m a man who knows exactly what he needs and wants. Very rarely do I need to set my own limits. If I want to drink, I drink. If I want to blow money on fast motorcycles, I’ve got the Manhattan Ducati dealership on speed dial. If I want to fuck, I’ll go to the latest hotspot of a club downtown, sweet talk a babe at the bar, and invite her back to my apartment.
Sometimes we don’t even make it farther than the club bathroom.
But Eve is something else entirely. She’s not some random babe. She’s a beautiful, borderline-angelic woman.
A woman who has her defenses up. Because of me.
I can be cold, but I’m not heartless. I can’t blame her for treading the waters with caution after my ten-year absence. A part of me wants to explain, to justify why I left. But the other part of me knows that in a few weeks’ time, it won’t matter. The second Pops is well enough to go back to work, I’ll be on a plane back to the Big Apple in a blink of an eye. In a world of seven billion people plus, my chances of running into Eve again are slim.
“Will you pass the salad, Nathanial?” Mother asks me.
She’s literally sitting in front of the wooden salad bowl, so I know she’s just trying to start up a conversation. Even though she’s in the confines of her own home, Mother looks stiff and overly formal—like a kid visiting her friend’s house for the first time and trying to make a good impression. She’s in a black wool dress—probably Chanel—with a string of delicate white pearls adorning her thin, willowy neck. Her dark brown hair is pulled up into a tight bun, streaks of gray at both her temples. There’s a coldness to her, like ice makes up her very bone marrow.
It’s nothing new.
I pass her the salad, but I don’t make eye contact. I’m far more interested in the story Pops is recounting to bother paying her any attention. Why waste my time making small talk with the woman who blames me for the accident? Why bother wasting the effort of politeness on the person who sent me away?
“And then the ballerina tripped over the prop.” Pops chuckles. He’s seated on several special cushions designed to support his back. It’s been a few minutes since he’s complained of any pain, so I assume his medication’s kicked in. He’s dressed comfortably in a pair of oversized gray sweatpants and a baggy white T-shirt. His hairline’s receded significantly since last I saw him, but he more than makes up for his cue-ball with a full white beard.
He kind of looks like Santa Claus.
Despite his back injury, he gesticulates wildly as he talks. I think he gets it from the Italian side of our family. “The whole line of them fell down after her, those poor things,” he continues. “I can’t even remember how many knees I had to reset. And then I had to deal with them crying all day. I had to send the nurse to buy more tissues.”
“That’s rough,” I mumble.
“Ah, but enough about me. I’m sure your job’s much more interesting. I heard you’re working with the Knicks now. Think you can grab me a signed jersey?”
I shake my head, but I’m unable to stifle my smile. “I’ll see what I can do. It’s only a few of their players.”
Mother clicks her tongue as she cuts her ribeye into smaller pieces. “Does the hospital know you take clients on the side?”
“They do,” I answer flatly. “I’m allowed to consult privately in my spare time.”
“Spare time?” I can practically hear her roll her eyes. “I hope that doesn’t mean you’re neglecting your day job.”
I give her a stiff smile. “Of course not, Mother. I’ve got Pops’s work ethic.”
My father claps me on the shoulder twice, looking rather fond. “That’s my boy. Nothing wrong with expanding your client list in case you want to open a private practice.”
Mother raises a thin, arched eyebrow. “I thought you wanted to become head of orthopedics.”
“I do,” I say. “The old head is retiring come January, so I plan on putting my name in for consideration.”
She presses her lips into a thin line as she stabs one of the peas on her plate. “I don’t think you should be taking private clients. Focus on your work at the hospital. It’s the only way to impress the hiring committee.”
I inhale slowly through my nose, refusing to break eye contact. Sometimes, if I squint, I swear I can see Jacob. My brother looked a lot like Mother. Same eyes, same long nose. Jacob’s demeanor was a lot warmer, though. He got that from Pops.
“Thank you for the career advice, Mother, but I know what I’m doing.”
