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“The baby has a name.” Christian’s eyebrows pull together. “It’s Louie. And he’s home, with the sitter. You thought we’d bring him to a wake?”
“I didn’t think about him at all,” I admit coldly. “I was just making conversation.”
Christian eyes me with exasperation. “Mingling is not your forte, buddy. Stick to making money.”
“Why weren’t you close?” Arya puts an encouraging hand on my arm. “You and your father.”
“Good luck with getting a confession out of this guy,” Riggs snorts out, raking a hand over his golden hair in slo-mo. “Ars is not the talk-about-it type. I’m gonna go hit the bar. Not that I’m not interested in your sob story, buddy, but . . . oh, wait. That’s right. I’m not interested in it.” He winks and swaggers to the other side of the room.
I wouldn’t put it past him to chase tail here. Riggs is shameless in his pursuit of women as if he just found out about their existence last month.
“It’s a client.” Christian lifts his phone in the air, indicating an incoming call. “And not a happy one. I’ll be right back.”
“Well?” Arya continues staring at me intently.
I hitch a shoulder up. “My father and I hadn’t seen eye to eye.”
“Since when?” She tilts her head sideways.
“Conception.” I let out a wry laugh. “He made sure I remembered he only married my mother because she was knocked up with me. As if sperm-me escaped from his balls in the dead of the night and found my way between her legs. No personal responsibility taken. When my so-called mother died, he married his ex-girlfriend not even two years later. Supposedly they’d been having an affair throughout his brief marriage. But that’s all right, I’ve been hearing Patrice wasn’t anything to write home about in the parenting department either.”
I sound as bitter as a pint of Guinness. Truth is, I don’t give two shits about my no-show parents. I just want her to do a U-turn from the conversation and stick to safe topics, like the weather.
Arya nods. “Sounds like he was a piece of work. I can relate. Loving someone who doesn’t deserve our love is the greatest punishment one could endure.”
A sardonic smile touches my lips. “Remind me why we love people by blood connection and not merit?”
Arya considers my question. “Because humanity wouldn’t survive otherwise. People are generally not very endearing,” she says matter-of-factly. “Look, I know you’re not feeling the grief now. Things are too raw, too hot to process. Maybe you never will. And I know we’re strangers, for the most part. But as someone who’s had a very complex relationship with her father, I just want you to know—if you ever need to talk to someone . . .” She puts a hand on my arm. “That someone could be me. I will understand and never judge.”
“I appreciate it.” And I do. I would have liked to fall for a woman like Arya. Strongheaded, smart, and compassionate. Someone who is the head of a charity in her spare time. Tragically, I’m in the market only for one egocentric nymph.
“How’s the PR business going?” I change the subject.
“Great.” Arya smiles. “I’m never out of a job, because people are never out of trouble.”
“And the charity you run?” I forgot what it was about. Something with children. Christian doesn’t usually ask for favors, which means I am going to need to attend the stupid charity gala she throws every year.
Arya opens her mouth to answer me just as Riggs swaggers his way back with wine, hands Arya and me glasses, and takes a sip from his. “Is the girl talk over? Is Ars ready to purchase his first training bra?”
Arya gives him a playful shove. “Grow up, Riggs.”
He makes a face, something between horrified and disgusted. “Not a chance in the world, ma’am.”
“Are we taking bets on Arsène growing a heart in this hollow chest of his?” Christian reappears from the veranda, sliding his phone back into his pocket.
“Close.” Riggs chugs his wine like it’s Gatorade. “Your wife just told me to grow up.”
Christian plants a kiss on Arya’s forehead. “We’ll land on the sun sooner.”
“Riggs would probably be the idiot to say yes to going there to take pictures,” I point out. Laughter rings in the air.
I’m glad they’re here. My core support group. The people I confide in. We grew up together. Fought the odds together. And won together.
From the corner of my eye I spot Alice Gudinski, the spiritual godmother of Christian, Riggs, and me.
“Came all the way from Florida as fast as I could.” She breezes toward us and kisses both my cheeks. She is wearing a flowery, colorful dress and looks like an exotic bird, as opposed to someone attending a funeral. She clutches me close, whispering in my ear, “To tell you good riddance. That old fart didn’t deserve you as a son. I hope you know that.” She pats my back in a gesture more motherly than Miranda ever offered me.
