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This is one of those times I wish I was in front of my father so I could throat-punch him. “I’m on the first flight in the morning. I’ll be at the office by nine a.m.”
The conversation centers around my disrespect, and I’ve explained at least ten times that I’m on the first flight in the morning. But, my father insists on stripping my freedom, because he has to hold all the power and control.
“What does it matter if I fly out in the morning or tonight? I told you I had plans with a friend from college who lives in New York.”
“What if the flight is delayed? There’s always that issue,” he asks.
He could make it easy and have his jet at my disposal but when I suggest it his reply is, “Why would I do that when I want you home tonight?”
“Okay, so I’ll say this one last time, I’m flying home in the morning. You don’t own my time-off. And if I’m late, then dock my pay, oh wait, you’re not paying me.” I hang up the phone and call Clark, and he picks up right away.
I skip the hello. “I’m turning off my phone. Can we meet somewhere later?”
He’s hesitant and I wonder if he has to clean up a little or maybe he doesn’t want anyone from work to know, which I can respect because he needs to come out on his own terms, and not mine.
“You okay? Are we still on?”
“Um, yeah, can we meet at the subway station around the corner?” he asks.
“Yeah, at the top of the steps?”
“Xan, I’m sorry, I’m just not ready to make it public, and I know it’s not fair to you—”
I cut him off. “I’m not upset, at all, baby. I’ll never force you to come out, and it’s something you decide, not me, never any pressure.”
He lets out a deep breath through the line. “Thanks, I don’t know how to do this.”
I want to say we can do it together but can I make that promise? “Never apologize,” and it’s my promise to him for now. “I know this sounds childish but I’m avoiding my father. So what time? I’ll run to my hotel, pack a bag, schedule a car to come get my luggage, and have it pick me up at your place. Don’t forget to send me your address.”
I sound pretentious, and I could Uber, I have nothing against it, and prefer it most of the time, but I don’t want to cart my luggage on the subway to Clark’s.
“Yeah, baby, I’ll send it now. How about six-thirty? Is that too soon?”
I was expecting it to be later, but more time with Clark isn’t a bad thing.
“See you then, Farmer.”
And it will be a good night.
* * *
We stopby the little pizzeria before heading up to his apartment. I’m game for anything on my pizza, and he orders telling the short Italian woman behind the counter he’ll be down in twenty minutes to grab it.
“No, tesaro, I have Gino bring up. You and friend, you relax. Hard day lawyering.”
“Thanks so much, Mama Santori, you’re too good to me. By the way, this is a friend of mine from Minneapolis.”
“Xander, ma’am, nice to meet you.”
“Oh, and he have manners. And he so what the word you call it? Formidable. Yes, he is.”
I know Italian and thanks to the dickhead with the same last name as me, I know four other languages.
“Thank you, Singora Santori.”
“You call me Mama. Everybody does. Now, shoo. You go take feet off.”
Her broken English is adorable, and when we’re alone in the stairwell that leads to his apartment, I guide him upstairs with my hand on the small of his back.
