The thing is I wouldn’t mind having a drink with you. I used to love chatting with you. I adored our talks that spiraled well past midnight, drifting from politics to history to your beloved Los Angeles Dodgers, to what would make the world become a better place, and even whether ham or bacon was more abhorrent to this vegetarian girl. So, you’re right. There is a lot to say. But how do I know you want to hear it?
* * *
Delaney
The next morning, I stare at my phone and the draft of the message on the screen. I read it over for the seven hundred sixty-second time as I swipe on some blush in front of the bathroom mirror.
Fact is, I don’t blame him for my change in career. How could I? Tyler might have stepped on my law school dreams, but I’d made my choice before that final debate. I’ve got another man to thank for the change of heart. Dear old dad.
Just thinking of my father stirs up far too many mixed emotions—the bitter and the sweet. Funny, in an ironic way, how one phone call with him my senior year of college could change the course of my future. But that’s how it goes. Sometimes we just know when it’s time to make a change.
I’m so much happier in my chosen field than I ever would have been as an attorney.
But hell if Tyler knows that. The man didn’t even ask. Not one single question about what I’m doing, and that’s how he behaved the last week we were together. Distant, cold, focused solely on himself. That’s probably why I never even told him the details from that call with my dad, and the things my father said that made me rethink my future.
One little call.
One offhand remark from the man who left my mother, brother, and me. My dad called to congratulate me on being accepted to law school, even though he was wrong about the timing. Letters hadn’t been sent out yet. Then he said, “You’ll be a great lawyer, Delaney.”
“You think so?” I asked eagerly. I couldn’t help myself. I still wanted his support. I hadn’t had it for years.
“Absolutely,” he said, with the kind of certainty only a father can give his daughter.
“Why do you say that?” I was hungry for his praise. So damn desperate.
“You’re just like me. You love to argue. Like I did with your mom.”
I froze, the phone like a brick against my ear. I didn’t want to be like him. I didn’t want to be the way he was with my mom. I had no interest in that kind of fighting future.
After he hung up, I sank onto my mattress and I contemplated everything about my career choice. I didn’t decide immediately. Instead, I told myself I would do the final debate, and see how I felt in the competition. Would I still enjoy debating? Would I like arguing a point as much as I had before?
Or had my father’s words colored everything I thought I wanted for my future?
The debate would be my final test, and it told me all I needed to know about how to be happy.
Now here I am – happy – but the memory of those moments on the phone with my dad tightens my spine like a high-tension wire as I do my makeup.
Except, I didn’t enter the massage therapy business to let myself be consumed by piss and vinegar. I went into it because I didn’t want to be surrounded by the kind of world I grew up in. I wanted to work in harmony, not discord.
I loosen my pincer grip on the blush brush.
Let the past rest. Let the future unfold. Let the present be a gift.
I can’t send a note to Tyler with that kind of ire attached to it.And it’s been nearly twenty-four hours, so at the very least I should respond to Tyler’s invitation.
A drink with him sounds intoxicating.
But far too dangerous. Given the way he’s invaded my mind for years, I can only imagine what sitting down to have a drink with him would do to my efforts to kick the addiction. Last night, I went on the wagon. I blocked him from my brain. Successfully. I earned my first-day sober chip. And I can’t risk falling back.
I set down the brush, pull my hair into a ponytail, and tap out a new note on my phone.
* * *
Dear Tyler,
* * *
Thank you. Your niece is lovely! Such a little doll. What a surprise to see you, too. Thank you for the invitation to drinks, but I have a packed schedule. Hope you’re well!
* * *
Best,
Delaney
* * *
I copy and paste the note into Messenger. My finger hovers on the screen like it’s resisting me. But this is the right approach. I believe that wholeheartedly, even though my stomach nosedives the closer my finger gets to the send button. Nerves swirl like a tempest, trying to trick me into seeing him. Trying to fool me into spending a few minutes with him at a bar.
I won’t give in.
I hit send.
I don’t look at my phone as I head into work. I don’t take a peek the rest of the morning to see if he writes back. Fine, I have back-to-back-to-back clients, and that helps.
Still, progress is progress, and I can beat this desire by focusing all my energy elsewhere.
Like on others.
With a groan, one of my regular gals flops down on the massage table in the Rainfall Room. Faint sounds of ocean waves lapping the shore drift from the sound system. The scent of lavender wafts through the dimly lit room. Relaxation is always the goal, but for some it’s tougher than others, and Violet needs the full effect.
“I’m addicted to my tablet in bed,” my raven-haired client mutters as she face-plants into the headrest. She says her words like a confession.
As I adjust the sheet on her lower back, I tsk at her gently. “I’ve told you before, Vi. We need to break the nighttime tablet habit. It’s bad for your wing,” I say, then run my fingers lightly over her bare shoulder.