“I promise to be the non-dickhead judge.” He returns to the issue of scheduling. “How about the Monday night after I return next Sunday?”
Wow. This guy is raring to go. What a nice treat. “Sounds perfect, Trevor.”
He pumps a fist happily. “Excellent. I had such a great time with you, Delaney.” His smile grows big and wide. “I truly can’t wait to see you again. Can I give you a good-bye kiss?” he asks with a cute quirk of his lips.
And he’s polite, too, as well as adorable, even though he’s more gung-ho than I’m used to. But it’s a welcome change not to play games.
“Sure,” I say, pressing my lips together in anticipation. I hope he’s a good kisser. I hope he gives me one of those trip-the-light-fantastic kisses. The kind that’s barely there, just a promise of what’s to come. The kind that sets off sparklers in your chest as you long for more.
I rise up on tiptoe the slightest bit. Ready for a kiss. As early evening traffic whips by on Central Park West, he lowers his face to me, and I wait.
Then he presses his lips to my forehead.
Okkkkaaaaaay.
Nothing wrong with a little forehead action, I suppose.
“Until the next time,” he whispers.
As we head our separate directions, I wait for the butterflies to take flight.
My belly is pretty much butterfly-free, but I’m sure that’s because it was a forehead kiss.
Besides, you can’t really tell about chemistry on the first date.
Surely sizzles and sparks are a second or third date phenomenon.
As I walk home, I send myself a note. Ask Nicole and Penny when butterflies make their damn appearance.
That’ll be a good topic for our night out.
As I get ready for bed, I crank up the music on my phone, blasting my favorite band, Guns N’ Roses. As Axl croons about eyes of the bluest sky, I replay parts of my date. Scrubbing off my makeup, I flash back to the ease of the conversation, to Trevor’s interest in my work, to that little moment with the plastic bag.
I weigh what those might mean and if they harbor any insight into what the next date will be like.
But as I sink into bed, the day washed off, I spot an email and my mind switches to a whole new topic. In a split second, I turn off the music. I can’t listen to the hair bands I love while I read this note. I straighten, my nerves snapping tight as I slide open the message in silence.
* * *
Dear Ms. Stewart,
* * *
Hope you’re having a good week. I expect to have some information for you soon on the whereabouts of your father. Hang tight.
* * *
Best,
* * *
Joe Thomas, PI
* * *
My stomach roils as I read the note. It’s been more than eight years since I’ve talked to my father—courtesy of that pivotal “congratulations on law school” phone call—and sixteen years since I’ve seen him. The last time I set eyes on the man was the afternoon he shut the door behind him.
He kept in touch—if you can even call it that—with emails on holidays and birthdays. So thoughtful, I know. But that contact dwindled after college. The last I heard, he’d moved to Oregon and shacked up with a new woman. Then he married her and didn’t invite us to his wedding. I would have been the worst flower girl anyway, considering I’m no fan of the groom, so that wasn’t a huge loss in the scheme of things.
The loss, though, was the end of contact with my father.
I don’t know if he’s in Oregon, or if he and his new bride decided to, say, set sail across the seven seas. Move to Peru to build homes. Escape to Canada.
I’ve no clue.
But since I’m turning thirty in a few more weeks, I decided now was as good a time as any to find out what had become of the man who gave me his last name. Watching someone who’s supposed to love you to the moon and back slam the door on his family can give you a warped sense of, well, of everything. My recent dating woes surely cast their lines back to the day that I heard the screech of his tires backing out of the driveway.
I don’t wonder if he’s dead or alive. If he’d died, news would have traveled back to me.
That’s not why I’m on the hunt.
I’m searching now because I want to know what happened to the man who left. Maybe then I can better understand what to make of the moment with the plastic bag and Trevor.
Not to mention the salad and the lilacs from Tyler.
6
Tyler
* * *
Details are my friends.
Loopholes are my bedfellows.
And detours are often the way I get where I want to go.
I’ve mastered all three for work. While my cousin has often said I charge out of the gate when it comes to work, he’s also acknowledged that I’m in love with details, and they counterbalance my relentless pursuit of unconventional deals.
All those tools are in my arsenal on Thursday morning.
I dress for work. Charcoal gray slacks. A black leather belt. A crisp white shirt. And a forest green tie. It’s too warm to wear a jacket, and who needs one these days anyway?
I grab my phone and wallet and leave my apartment, sliding on my sunglasses, since the big yellow orb in the sky is shining brightly. I take that as a good sign as I walk across town, passing the usual neighborhood haunts—the bodega on the corner, the dry cleaners, the organic café.
All around me, New Yorkers are talking, walking, moving. I was born and raised in Los Angeles, but this city energizes me like no place else as I put one foot after the other on the pavement. I’m not a car person; I’m a man who gets around by foot, quickly and with purpose.