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A hard laugh leaves my chest and I cup my mouth, embarrassed at how it echoes around the empty gym.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” James insists, rubbing his hands together and prepping his first question.
“Okay, yeah. Sure. Shoot,” I say, doing my best to hide my racing pulse and near panic attack.
James scrunches his face in thought, acting the part of hard-hitting journalist as he holds his thumb against his pursed lips.
“Tell me about the mimosa,” he utters.
My nerves ease when he moves to sit on the floor, leaning his back against the bench as he stretches his legs out and crosses the ankles. Somehow his relaxed state shifts mine.
“Ah, strawberry mimosas. Yeah, those are . . .” I make the chef’s kiss motion and James hums out a quiet laugh.
“Where is this place? And how, may I ask, do they let you order mimosas?” He’s starting me off with softballs, and I’m grateful. This is the easy stuff to share.
“It’s called Met’s Bistro, and it’s only ten minutes from Welles. It’s in this really cute cluster of historic buildings in Appleton, on the way into the city. My mom always loved the place, and my dad bought the building—well, the entire block of buildings, actually—for my mom as a gift.”
“Wow, that’s some gift!” James’s features stiffen as his eyes widen. I suppose that does sound insane to anyone other than our family’s circle of equally eccentric people.
“Yeah, I suppose it is. It was more of a bribe, really. Or hush money? Or maybe ameaculpa?”
James stares at me with a drawn-in brow.
“My dad cheated on my mom. That was his apology,” I explain.
“Ah,” James says, nodding as if he understands, and this fucked-up behavior makes sense. “So, that was, like, his version of flowers.”
I punch out a laugh and cup my chin with my palm as I prop my elbow on my knee.
“Yeah, I guess so. Flowers, multi-million-dollar real-estate deal. Same thing,” I joke.
“Totally,” James says, letting a slight eyeroll slip through.
It gets quiet between us for a few seconds, and we take turns meeting each other’s gaze then flitting it away. There’s a sweet comfort settling in, and suddenly I feel less guarded, less ashamed.
“My dad and I, we . . . we’re not like you and your dad,” I begin.
“I mean, I would imagine, yeah,” James says. “Like, we’re both dudes.”
We both laugh.
“Yes, there’s that. But . . . that’s not what I mean,” I say.
Rather than probing me, James simply pulls one leg in and rests his folded arms on top as he angles his head to the side slightly, eyes soft and mouth closed in a faint smile—every bit of him ready to listen.
“My dad didn’t want to be a father. I’m not sure he really wanted to be married, but it was the thing to do. He liked the look of a family man, I guess. And my mom came from money, which seemed like a good match. He was thirty when they got married; my mom was much younger.Muchyounger. She was a bauble he could parade around to parties and business events for attention. When I was born,Ibecame the thing he got to show off and use to get his foot in any closed door. Being a family man made him look grounded, which he is anything but.”
“How so?” James asks.
I rock where I sit, hugging my legs as I sigh.
“My dad’s the epitome of a psychopath. He knows how to pretend to have emotions, but really? He’s cold and unfeeling. He likes success, for himself. He speaks the language of dollars and commodities, and his worth is summed up by the things he’s amassed in life. Family and things like that are dressing,” I say, feeling the sting of that truth in my gut. I have to look away from James because the droop in his eyes is too much to take.
“Family’s everything,” he says, and my only instinct is to laugh once.
“I wouldn’t know,” I say, rolling my head along my folded arms until our eyes meet.
“So, how does that tie in with the mimosas?” he asks.
