Then I’d met Wendy at a bar, and I’d become part of the Thursday Night Drinking Pack. They saved me from feeling alone in a city filled with people, and I will love them forever.
“I’d love to do brunch—it’s one of my favorite meals,” I tell Vittoria. “Unfortunately, I’m heading to Manhattan for the weekend. How about next Saturday?”
“Yeah, maybe.” She sounds a little disconsolate, and then her voice brightens. “Or I’ll see you at the next game? There’s one on Thursday night. I’ll get Bulldog to send you the details.”
“Umm, sure. I think I can make that.” Carter said last night that he didn’t want me going to play at Denton Mitchell’s poker room any longer, but an innate sense of caution keeps me from telling Vittoria that.
“You better,” she quips. “You won a lot of money this week. Gotta give the house a chance to win it back.”
We exchange some small talk, and then she hangs up. That’s weird, I think to myself as I navigate the fools on the Garden State Parkway. Vittoria sounded down this morning. I wonder why.
23
Dominic
I shower and grab another cup of coffee, and then I call Fred Jefferson, the president of Atlantic Southern. “Crawford,” he greets me. “What can I do for you?”
“I could have just called to catch up.”
“Before noon on a weekend? I doubt it.”
I grin. Fred’s ten years older than me. He’s the youngest-ever president of Atlantic Southern. The first Black president of Atlantic Southern. He’s been Businessman of the Year three years running. He’s smart as a whip and fiercely ambitious, and he hides that under a layer of pragmatism and good humor.
“You’re right, this is business.”
“You want a loan?”
“Not now, no.” Fred’s not going to be happy about the next part. “Your bank is about to loan Denton Mitchell thirteen million dollars.”
“What? No. The only loans we’re making of that magnitude are to—”
“PK Corporation, who manufactures equipment for deep sea oil explorations.”
Fred catches on immediately. “It’s a shell.” He swears under his breath. “You have proof?”
“I do, but it hasn’t exactly been acquired through legal means.”
“Ah, Carter Hughes strikes again. Thanks, Dominic. I appreciate the heads-up. Send me what you have, will you?” He sighs. “The loan documents went through several layers of scrutiny. We should have caught this. Looks like I’m going to have to fire some people next week. Have I told you I hate Mondays?”
“Keep this quiet? I don’t want my involvement mentioned.”
“Not a problem. Buy you a drink next week? How about Tuesday?”
If all goes well on Tuesday, I’ll be having dinner with Gabby. I hope.
“I’m busy Tuesday,” I reply. “Does Wednesday work?”
“Sure.” We make arrangements about where and when. Then, when I’m about to hang up, Fred asks a question. “Dominic, do you know anything about the entertainment industry?”
“Be more specific.”
“Nyla wants to be a singer,” he says. “She’s pretty good, and that’s not just the perspective of a proud father. She’s going to be on American Idol.”
“That’s fantastic.” Nyla is fifteen, just as smart as her parents, just as ambitious. Fantastic voice too. The music industry doesn’t always reward the purest talents, and success is never a guarantee, but my money is on her.
“It is both fantastic and the stuff of nightmares. She’s got a good head on her shoulders, but she’s also a teenager, you know? She wants to go to Los Angeles. Sarit and I are freaking out. I’ve got a lawyer looking over the American Idol paperwork, but I want someone familiar with the industry to walk her through what she might run into. Social media, paparazzi, interviews, that kind of thing? Nyla is pretty sheltered about that kind of stuff. We only let her open a Facebook account this year.”
Gabriella. She wants to start her own company, and this would be up her street. It’s not a large contract, but Fred is extremely well-connected in Atlantic City. If he’s happy with her work, he’ll open a lot of doors for her.
In Atlantic City. Not Manhattan. Are you doing this for Gabby? Or are you doing this for you?
Fine, I have ulterior motives. “All the cool kids are on TikTok and Instagram, from what I understand,” I tell Fred. “Not Facebook. Yes, I might know someone. Gabriella Alves is a PR consultant for Karpis & Associates. They specialize in sports and entertainment. Gabby is managing Nicky Z’s social media.”
“That sounds perfect. Would she be interested in some freelance work?”
My conscience mounts a belated attack. “Let me check with her.”
“Sounds good. Thanks again for the tip on Mitchell. You saved me a crapload of money, Crawford. Almost enough for me to forget you stole Businessman of the Year from me.”
I say something rude in reply, the two of us share a laugh, and I hang up with a grin. Then my smile fades.
I’ve just screwed over Denton Mitchell. I’ve killed his biggest deal, and in doing so, I’ve weakened him so badly that he’s in no position to buy my casino. I should be feeling triumphant. Ready to take on the world.
Instead, my thoughts keep circling back to Gabby. In the shower, I’d replayed the conversations I’ve had with her, and I reached a conclusion. Both Carter and I want a real relationship with her. I need to brace for rejection and put my heart on the line. I might not like her answer, but on Tuesday, I need to tell Gabriella we want more.
You haven’t even taken her out on a date.
Guilt prods me. I might make a dozen excuses, try to convince myself that I’ve been preoccupied with Denton Mitchell, with the way Ed Wagner is entangled in Mitchell’s web, with Carter’s custody battle, but it doesn’t change anything. I’ve been treating Gabriella like a sordid secret. Secret meals in my apartment after midnight, followed by fiery passionate sex. I haven’t taken her out. I haven’t introduced her to my friends, I haven’t asked to meet hers.
Words are cheap, but actions matter. Time to change up some things.
24
Carter
The weekend feels empty.
It’s not as if I don’t have things to do. I do. The toilet in Noah’s bathroom needs to be replaced, so I brave the crowds in the home improvement store and install a new one. It rained most of the day yesterday, and while my grass still looks half-dead, the weeds have sprung to life everywhere on my lawn. I kill a few mindless hours getting rid of them. I go for a run along the ocean. I watch some TV. I get groceries.
I do my best to ignore the Gabriella-sized hole in my life.
I’d thrown Renata Causi’s business card in the trash, but thanks to the Internet, it only takes me a few seconds to find her phone number. Saturday afternoon, before I get the opportunity to change my mind, I call her and leave a voicemail. I don’t expect to hear back from her before Monday, but to my surprise, she calls me back in a few hours. “Megan said you’d reach out,” she says briskly. “What can I do for you, Mr. Hughes?”
I’m not sure. Dominic seems to think that this is the right thing to do. Maybe he’s correct, and maybe Ed’s not a complete douchewipe who took off to ‘find himself,’ not giving a fuck about the toddler he left behind. I’ve tried doing what I think is right, and I’ve fucked up the situation so badly that I’m forbidden from seeing my nephew for six weeks. Maybe it’s time I stopped listening to my own instincts. “Megan’s probably filled you in on the situation,” I begin. “I’m seeking sole custody of my nephew Noah, but Ed, Noah’s father, is fighting back.”
“And you want me to resolve the problem.” Her voice sharpens. “Mr. Hughes, mediation only works if both sides are willing to compromise. If you insist that the only acceptable outcome is sole custody, then I feel compelled to tell you that hiring me is a waste of both your money and your time.”
I can see why Megan and Dominic recommended Renata Causi. She doesn
’t pull her punches. “Noah’s well-being is my priority,” I reply. “However, I’m not sure Ed would be willing to give mediation another shot. I guess I could ask him.”
When Ed came back to Atlantic City and first broached the idea of regaining custody of Noah, he’d suggested mediation. I’d told him to go away. Back then, I hadn’t been willing to entertain the idea of him playing any role in Noah’s life.
Now, I don’t have a choice. It’s either try to find an arrangement that works for both of us, or risk losing custody of Noah. Two shitty choices.
“From what Megan tells me, that’s not a wise idea,” she replies. “I’ll contact Mr. Wagner.”
Monday morning, I show up for my first mediation meeting. Ed is already there. “Hello, Carter,” he says warily. I have to admit—the wariness is justified. The last time I saw Ed outside of a courtroom, I nearly punched him. I’m not proud of myself.
I grunt a greeting. Before I can ask him who’s watching Noah, Renata Causi enters the room. She’s a short, white woman in her mid-forties. “Gentlemen, good to see you. Before we get going, can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Soda? Water?”
I get a bottle of water, more to avoid the moment when I’m going to have to be civil to Ed than because I’m thirsty. Ed opts for coffee. Renata pours some hot water into a mug and chooses a teabag, and then surveys us. “Thank you both for being here,” she says. She directs her attention to Ed. “Mr. Wagner, why don’t you go first? What brings you here today?”
Ed exhales in a deep breath. “Noah loves Carter,” he says. “I care about my son’s best interests.”
“Bullshit,” I snap. “Was it his best interests you were thinking off when you took off after Chloe died?”
I told myself over and over on the way here to keep calm, no matter what the provocation. But Ed’s words rub salt into old wounds that have never healed. Chloe was my sister. Our parents were useless; it had been my responsibility to keep Chloe safe, and I hadn’t. I failed so badly that she died from an overdose. So badly that Noah’s needed years of therapy to overcome the nightmares that overtake him.
“Mr. Hughes.” The mediator’s voice is icy. “You will have a chance to share your views. Please let Mr. Wagner finish.”
Ed sets his mug down on the table with a thud. Coffee sloshes over the edges. “I don’t have anything more to say.”
I feel a grudging sense of respect for Ed. He didn’t need to come to this meeting. He’s pissed off, but he hasn’t stormed off. In his place, I’m not sure I could show the same restraint.
“Okay.” Ms. Causi turns to me. “Mr. Hughes. What brings you here today?”
“Noah loves his father,” I admit reluctantly.
“That’s good,” she says encouragingly. “Both of you care about Noah. Both of you want to see him happy. You have that in common, yes?”
I nod.
“I would like our mediation sessions to accomplish three things,” she continues. “First, this is about Noah. I’d like us to come up with a parenting plan that is in his best interests. Second, I think it’s important to acknowledge that Noah wants both of you in his life, and therefore, our parenting plan should allow him to spend time with both of you. Yes?”
I don’t see how it’s in Noah’s best interests to live with a former alcoholic, but I bite back that sentiment and nod agreement again.
“Finally,” she says. “I hope to give you tools and techniques to deal with any lingering sense of anger and resentment.”
Ed looks skeptical. For once, I’m in complete agreement with him. Chloe is dead. All the tools and techniques in the world aren’t going to bring her back. The anger and resentment are necessary, because without that, I’ll have nothing.
Still, using Herculean willpower, I don’t reply.
“You’ve tried joint custody, yes? Why didn’t it work? Mr. Hughes, why don’t you go first this time?”
“Because it takes more to be a parent than some sperm,” I bite out. “Ed didn’t change diapers. Ed didn’t read Noah bedside stories. He didn’t take Noah to day care for the first time. He doesn’t know how to take care of his child. Ed wants life on the easy setting. If it were up to him, he’d let Noah eat pizza and drink Coke and spend all his time in front of a screen. In six months, the kid’s teeth will rot.”
“One time, I didn’t know what to feed him,” Ed responds tersely. “One fucking time. He wouldn’t eat the soup I made.” He turns to the mediator. “I didn’t want him to go to bed hungry, so I got him pizza.”
“He doesn’t like carrots,” I shoot back. “If you were actually his parent, you’d know that. You have to puree them or pick them out.”
“Gentlemen.” Renata’s voice cuts through the recriminations. “We are all adults here, not bickering toddlers. Can we act like it?” She looks at each of us for a long instant. “Let me be blunt,” she says at last. “Neither of you has a slam-dunk custody case. Mr. Wagner, you effectively surrendered custody of your son when you left Atlantic City. Mr. Hughes, you have not endeared yourself to Judge Bass. Relying on the courts is a lottery. Is that a gamble you’re willing to make?”
Goddamn it, she’s right. Neither Ed nor I are guaranteed the outcome we want. And what is that outcome anyway? At the start, I would have said I just wanted Ed to disappear. But things have changed. If Ed left, it would break Noah’s heart, and I can’t do that to my nephew. He deserves all the best things in the world. He doesn’t need the only remaining members of his family to be at war with each other.
“No,” I admit. “It isn’t.” I take a deep breath. As Dr. Causi reminded me, I’m an adult. I will never like Ed, but I can at least be polite to him. What doesn’t kill me will make me stronger, right?
“I’m sorry,” I say grudgingly. “Let’s try this again. This time, I’ll behave.”
25
Gabriella
My weekend sucks.
First, there’s an accident on the highway, and I don’t make it to Park Slope until two. Then, I have to drive around the block eighteen times, looking for a street parking spot. Obviously, I don’t find one, so I park in an underground lot, paying the teenager at the entrance sixty bucks for the privilege. Ah, New York. Then again, parking in London is hell too.
When I finally get into my apartment, it’s stiflingly hot. My window air-conditioner makes sputtering noises but refuses to cool the room. I open my refrigerator for a welcome blast of cold air, and of course, my milk has gone bad.
It’s like the universe is giving me a sign.
No, it isn’t, I tell myself firmly. I take a lukewarm shower, change into a tank-top and shorts and head to the bodega for milk, eggs, and bread. That done, I text the Thursday Night Drinking Club. I’m in town, I tell them. Anyone have plans for the evening?
It turns out that everyone is busy. Piper has to work. Daniel, Sebastian, and Bailey are in the Hamptons for the weekend. Katie is driving her kids to a soccer tournament, and Wendy is working late. Sorry, Gabby, she writes. I’d love to grab a drink, but my client load is insane. See you on Monday?
Sure, I reply, adding a smile emoji to the message.
It isn’t like I don’t have things to do. If I wanted to do chores, I have plenty of laundry to do. If I wanted to talk to people, I could call my mom. And if I chose entertainment over laundry—who wouldn’t?—this is New York City; there are literally a zillion things to do. I could catch the F train into Manhattan. Check out the Met, maybe even trek uptown to the Cloisters to look at the tapestries. If I don’t feel like braving the subway, there’s bound to be a bunch of things happening near Prospect Park. The last time I walked by the Grand Army Plaza, there was a new brewery opening up. It’s a perfect day to sit on a patio, read a book, and drink a pint of ice-cold beer.
But I can’t seem to summon up any enthusiasm. I feel hollow and anchorless, disconnected from the world, and though I can hear all my neighbors through the paper-thin walls, I feel very, very alone.
I go into work on Mon
day. Paul seems surprised to see me there. “Is something the problem?”
“Nicky doesn’t need me in Atlantic City until Wednesday,” I reply. “I thought I’d come into the office. It’s easier to work from my desk than from a hotel room.”
“Oh, okay.” He shuffles his feet. “About that… You’ve been away most of the week, so you probably haven’t heard the rumors.”
I snap to attention. “Layoff rumors?”
He frowns. “No, why? What have you heard?”
God, we’re all a paranoid bunch. “I’ve heard nothing,” I say reassuringly. “What rumor should I have heard?”
“We’re downsizing down the Manhattan office,” he replies. “It’s a cost-control move. Head Office ran the numbers. Rent in Manhattan is expensive, even more so than London. They want almost everyone to go to a remote work model.”
“Working from home?” If I stretch my arms, I can touch both walls in my studio apartment. I will lose my mind if I’m cooped up there all day. I can’t work from a coffee shop either—I’m on the phone a lot.
“Sure.” He takes in my expression. “You’re not excited?”
Not really. Football—or soccer, as the Americans call it—is a boy’s club. It’s hard enough for me to make inroads at work. If I’m stuck at home, everyone will forget about me.
My career at Karpis is already going nowhere. Now it feels like I’ve been shunted into the fast lane to failure.
I’m not stupid enough to say any of that to Paul. He didn’t make the decision; that was done by the London office. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
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