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She looked at Tom, who looked at his place setting. She’d need to do something about that and about opening the conversation up again. “What are your plans for being here?”
“No specific plans.”
Open questions, closed answers. Tom said meeting in public would be easier. “This is my chance to get all the stories about Tom as a kid.”
The waiter arrived to effectively stifle that ambitious conversational thread. They all ordered pasta. Once he’d left she tried again with something less challenging. “You’re a builder, Nick. What made you want to build houses?”
“What made you want to be a lobbyist?” he said.
So that’s how it was going to go. “Influence makes the world go around. I wanted to learn how to use it to do good for people who don’t have a voice of their own.”
This was usually where the other more reluctant party shared. She got snake fangs. “You’re a meddler.”
“I believe the whole of society wins when its population is healthy and has opportunity.”
“Damn lobbyists with their bankrolls interfere in things they know nothing about.”
“That’s not—”
“It’s legitimized corruption.”
“Dad,” Tom said in warning.
“I’m sorry you feel that way. What I do and what Tom does are not worlds apart. He helps sell products and I help sell ideas.”
“Tom had the choice to do something more meaningful.”
Tom breathed out heavily. “I am a disappointment, according to Dad.”
Nick wasn’t finished. “I’m assuming you had a choice too.”
She had the value of it tattooed on her skin. Her choices all the way. “Since I think fighting for the rights of people less fortunate is the best thing I can do with my time, I’m going to disagree with you. I’m one of the good guys,” she said, trying to keep it light.
“See that you are.” Nick O’Connell poured himself a fresh glass of water. After the chair act, which demonstrated he had excellent manners when he wanted to use them, it was a deliberate slight not to also top her glass or Tom’s. He really didn’t like lobbyists and he had no respect for his son.
He was a handsome man, weathered from working outdoor
s, and Tom’s height and build. Where Tom could look grumpy, Nick wore a permanent look of displeasure. If he was like this when Tom was a kid, he’d have been a challenging parent.
When their meals arrived, both men focused on eating. “I get it—strong, silent types.” They made her want to scream.
“We talked earlier,” Tom said, like they had a quota of words and had used them all and there were penalties for going over. She grimaced at him, but he missed it because his eyes stayed down on his penne alla cardinale. The artichokes in it must’ve been acting the part, choking off his civility, because that’s all he said.
It was the most staggeringly uncomfortable social event Flick could remember attending, and her own family had manufactured some humdingers. There was often shouting and name-calling and a walkout wasn’t unexpected, but it wasn’t this silent, judgmental horror show. Nick was detached, cold and remote, and Tom was reduced, resentful and shut-down.
She excused herself early and went home so she could be in her room when they got back. The plan was to avoid Nick for the three nights he was spending in the apartment, and with early starts and eating her meals out, that wouldn’t be difficult.
It was tempting to run her vibrator at high speed just to pester Nick in Tom’s room, but she figured that would only make it more awkward for Tom, so she refrained from that particular naughtiness.
At 2 a.m. she woke and couldn’t go back to sleep. She went to the kitchen for a drink, and almost woke the neighborhood. The figure on the sectional was Tom, but she’d forgotten he was going to be there and let out a yip that had him sit upright.
“What?”
“Oh, God. Sorry. I forgot you were there.”
Tom groaned and lay back down. “You didn’t get up in the middle of the night when I slept with you.”
True. She’d been exhausted; sleep had been easier to get a good grip on. “Go back to sleep.”
