Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“I’ve already looked at flights, sir,” Betsy says. “I can get you on a five-p.m. flight Wednesday evening. Would you like me to book that for you?”
“Yes, please,” I say, relaxing back against the seat and reaching for my sandwich. “You’re the best, Betsy. You’re going to be running this company someday. Mark my words.”
“Oh, I plan on it, sir,” she says, surprising me again. “I believe in what G.P.G. Green is doing so much. I want to be a part of the team for the long haul.”
“I’d like that, too,” I say, signing off with a tight feeling in my chest.
Another impressive young woman kicking ass in her career, while my son refuses to get a job or pay his own bills. I would wonder if it’s a male vs. female thing, but dozens of highly motivated young men from the UVM business school apply to be interns at my company every year.
It’s not young men in general; it’s my young man, in particular.
In my gut, I know the way Angela raised Adrian—to reject my love and my presence, while still feeling entitled to unfettered access to my resources—is a big part of that. But plenty of kids have problematic mothers and grow up to be amazing people.
Sydney didn’t even have a mom past the age of thirteen…
I unwrap my sandwich and take a massive bite, focusing on the explosion of tangy banana peppers, high-quality salami, and freshly sliced provolone cheese.
I will not think of Sydney, and I certainly won’t call her while I’m here.
Yes, I’m going to be in town longer than I expected, but it’s still only five nights. Then I’ll be back in Burlington for the rest of the year. My life is there, hers is here, and our immediate futures aren’t any more compatible than they were a month ago.
The New York office practically runs itself. The staff in Burlington still needs me there at least three days a week. Besides, I couldn’t stomach traffic like this every day. Or the noise or the frenetic pace or all the ghosts that haunt me in the Big Apple.
The ghost of toddler Adrian grinning at me from the swings in Central Park, of our family getting rainbows painted on our faces at the Brooklyn Pride Parade, of Angela and I dancing to music from our cell phones in our tiny living room after the baby went to bed… For a few years there, I thought Angela and I might be able to make it work. That we would beat the odds and our teenage love would last forever.
But nothing lasts forever.
Which is as comforting as it is sad.
I may not have had the kind of marriage I dreamt about, but I can still have a decent relationship with my son, maybe even a close one.
Adrian’s old enough for us to have an honest conversation about our past and how to move forward with love for each other. Hell, he’s past old enough. We should have had a real talk years ago, once he was eighteen and no longer living under his mother’s roof.
I’m willing to do the majority of the work to make things better, I just need him to put away the grudge Angela saddled him with and start fresh. I know if he’d only let me in, just a little bit, I could prove to him that I’m not such a bad guy.
Am I perfect? Not even close. But I love my son and it hurts to see him moving through life with so much resentment for no good reason.
When Smith finally fights his way into Manhattan and onto the narrow streets of the East Village, where delivery trucks block every other street, despite the fact that it’s nearly nine o’clock, the first sign of Adrian’s event is a giant smiling cat projected on the brick exterior of the Inheritance Hotel. I decide to take it as a good omen. He loved my parents’ cat when he was little. We used to have so much fun playing with Banksy before dinner there on Sundays.
We have good memories together and I know we can make more, if he’ll only give me the chance…
“I’ll drop your bags off at your apartment and make sure you have coffee, fruit, and donuts for the morning,” Smith says, as we queue up behind the other cars dropping guests at the party.
“You don’t have to do that. Just leave the bag with the doorman and head home. It’s already late.”
Smith shakes his head and grunts. “Nope. Not going to do it. If we’re ever going to convince you to come home, we have to make sure it feels like it when you’re here.”
Smiling, I say, “Thanks, Smith. I appreciate you.”
I do appreciate him, far too much to tell him that the city doesn’t feel like home to me anymore. It hasn’t for a long time, not since my wife took my son away and my life toppled like a house of cards.