“Thank you, Kent,” I say. “I appreciate your help.”
“Good luck, Halston.”
Ending the call, I perform a quick Google search on Mason Foster—my last remaining avenue to Kerouac.
Chapter 42
Ford
“I can’t get over how different you look,” my sister says. I’ve been back in Brooklyn forty-eight hours now and she hasn’t stopped staring once. “The longer hair, the scruff. The styled, casual outfits. You remind me of a high fashion model. It’s like you left the states and came back someone else completely.”
“Are you saying I look like shit?”
“No. I’m saying it’s taking some time to get used to,” she says. “When you left here, you looked like shit. Now you look like you should be walking runways in Paris.”
She folds her arms, leaning back against the bench we share outside a little park in her neighborhood. Arlo climbs across playground equipment, stopping to wave when he sees us both watching.
“Hey, buddy!” Nic yells.
I give a quick wave and a short smile. I’ve missed this kid something fierce, but Nic’s been good about sending pictures and videos.
“You doing okay though?” she asks a second later.
“Of course. Having the time of my life.”
Shielding her eyes with her hand, she cocks her head. “Really, Ford?”
I nod, concentrating on my nephew. “Yes, Nic. Really.”
“I call bullshit.”
“That’s fine. You can call bullshit.”
“You’re lonely,” she says. “I can see it in your eyes, the way you talk.”
“How does the way one talks suggest loneliness?”
“You sound sad.” Nic shrugs. “And you look sad.”
“I can assure you you’re wrong,” I say. “I’m not sad. Quite the contrary. I’m free as a fucking bird, living life without a care in the world. That means I’m happy.”
“Maybe you’re not sad, but you’re definitely lonely,” she says.
“Why are we talking about this again?” I adjust my position, crossing my legs wide and leaning away from her.
“Because I’m a good big sister, and I care about you.”
I say nothing. I can’t argue with those facts.
“Do you ever think about finding someone and settling down?” she asks. “I mean, we’re both in our thirties now. I’d love to find someone special and share my life with them. I can’t imagine you don’t want the same thing.”
“My mind doesn’t even go there, Nic,” I lie. “Settling down couldn’t be further from my mind.”
“I don’t mean right now. I’m talking someday,” she says. “Do you want to settle down someday?”
Someday is a concept that no longer exists for me. When I think about “someday,” I think about missed opportunities, a future in ruins, and everything I’ve had to sacrifice.
“Uncle Ford, can you pitch for us?” Arlo runs up to the bench, red-cheeked and out of breath, a ball and mitt in his hand. He points toward a group of boys all his age, setting up a makeshift baseball diamond in a grassy area.
“Sure,” I say, rising. He runs ahead.
“What are you going to do, Ford?” Nicolette asks.
“Right now? I’m going to play baseball with my nephew. Tomorrow? I’m going to Amsterdam.”
Chapter 43
Halston
Another Year Later …
“Yes, can I help you?” A narrow-eyed receptionist with jet black hair pulled into a tight, low bun glances up from a reception desk.
This is Mason Foster’s administrative assistant.
His gate-keeper.
The woman who, allegedly, hasn’t been relaying my messages for the past month.
“I’m here to see Mason Foster,” I say with gumption.
She reaches for her phone. “Is he expecting you?”
“He should be,” I say. “I’ve been trying to reach him for weeks.”
Placing the phone back in the cradle, she bites her lip. “I’m sorry. Unless you have a scheduled appointment, he can’t see you. We have a strict, no-soliciting policy.”
“I’m not a solicitor,” I say.
“Then what’s this meeting in regards to?” She bats her thick, dark lashes.
“I’m going to change his life,” I say, knowing full well I sound insane, but one of the top rules of marketing is to hook the customer within the first several seconds, and I’m already running out of time.
The girl laughs. I don’t blame her. I would laugh at me too.
“Trust me, all I need is five minutes of his time,” I say with a wink. “Then I’ll stop with the phone calls and the emails and crazy ex-girlfriend behavior.”
Her smile fades the second she glances over my shoulder, and when I turn, I see a tall man, a few years older than me, with sandy blond hair and an overwhelming air of arrogance in his step.
“Mr. Foster,” the receptionist says, sitting straighter.
“Ming.” He approaches her desk, glancing over the ledge. “Everything all right?”
“This is the woman that hasn’t stopped calling all month,” she says. “Says she’s going to change your life if she has five minutes of your time.”
Mason takes a step back, eyeing me from head to toe before a devilish smirk claims his mouth. “I’m not sure whether to have security escort you out or to insist you join me for sushi so I can get to know you better.”
I think he’s hitting on me.
Extending his hand, he says, “And you are?”
“Halston Kessler,” I say. “Owner of Fusion PR. We specialize in promoting tech companies.”
“Beautiful name,” he says, “for a beautiful woman.”
“Flattery is not necessary, Mr. Foster,” I say, releasing his handshake and trying to imagine Mason and Kerouac side by side at Thanksgiving dinner, wondering how they interact and if they keep in touch.
“So tell me, Halston,” he asks, “would you care to join me for lunch?”
If it means getting his attention, then yes. “I’d love to.”
“Perfect. I’ll drive.” Mason nods toward the elevator, and I follow. “We’re in the market for a new PR firm.”
“I know. I saw the ad in the Silicon Register.” Two months ago, Lila and I graduated from Greatwood, loaded up our little cars, and road tripped it to Silicon Valley to start up our PR firm. We figured a specialized firm in a location with loaded locals was going to be a recipe for success, and with my degree in Public Relations and her degree in Information Technology, our business plan practically wrote itself.
For now, we work out of a two-bedroom basement apartment we share in a shitty side of town, but our lease is month-to-month and as soon as we land a few contracts, we’re going to upgrade our digs and get an actual office.
The elevator deposits us in a basement parking garage, and Mason leads us to a parked Ferrari. Bright red. The shiniest thing I’ve ever seen, even in dimly lit surroundings.
“Hop in,” he says with a wink.
This was almost too easy.
My heart races when I think of Kerouac and how insane it is that I’m spending time with his stepbrother or ex-stepbrother or whatever their dynamic is. I’ll figure it all out soon. I don’t want to rush this, don’t want to make it obvious.
I’ll work for Mason, get to know him, and maybe one of these days I’ll see Kerouac.
Even if it’s just in passing, even if it’s a photograph or a conversation … I’ll settle for that because it’s better than nothing.
The never knowing is what kills me.
And as soon as I know, I can finally move on.
Chapter 44
Ford
If I’m lucky, I won’t remember any of this tomorrow.
My vision blurs as I scroll through Halston’s Facebook page, one finger on the trackpad of my laptop and the other hand wrapped around a long neck bottle of Guinness as I recline against the headboard of a Belfast hotel bed.
For four years I’ve held strong.