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A strong, cold wind gusts down Clarkson Street. The bare tree limbs bend under the force of the wind, and I clutch my scarf and coat. The walk from my clinic to Delilah’s isn’t a long one. I lower my head as I barrel forward headfirst into the night. Delilah hasn’t shared much, she doesn’t seem to know much, and she needs me.
My mom graciously agreed to let Kara stay with her tonight. I can’t imagine how I would handle this single parent thing without my mom. It’s a wonder to me she managed as a single parent, always there for me but also working multiple jobs at times to keep a roof over our heads and food in the refrigerator. Then, less than ten years after I’m out the door and she gets to live her life for herself, I get drunk, don’t wrap it up, and she’s re-arranging her life for me, yet again, helping me out. If anyone has ever owed their mother, it’s me.
I open the heavy metal and glass door to Delilah’s apartment building, and dry heat blasts over me. As I loosen the scratchy wool scarf, I stride to the reception desk where a uniformed doorman in a pressed navy jacket with a narrow brass nameplate greets me. The nameplate reads T. Reids.
“How can I help you, sir?”
“I’m here to see Delilah Daniels.”
“One moment...” He dials the phone. “Ms. Daniels, there is a gentleman here to see you.” He listens for a few seconds. “She says for you to come up to the fifth floor.”
When he hangs up the phone, he directs me down the hall and around the corner to the Penthouse C elevator bank.
Penthouse? I’ve lived in the penthouse a few times myself, but always in a fifth-floor walk-up, without a doorman, and where we applied the name penthouse because it was on the top floor. As I follow the directions, ignoring the row of elevators for the masses, I mentally catalog some of the finer points of her building. Doorman. White marble everywhere. White lobby furniture. Fresh, white orchids. These details didn’t strike me exactly the same way when I didn’t associate the words penthouse and private elevator with Delilah.
A raised plaque and the words “Penthouse C” in script identify her elevator. Looking farther down the long hall, I see additional elevator entrances. Presumably other private elevators. I step into hers, and the panel offers a 4, 5, 6, L, P1, and P2. I press 5 and wait.
When the doors open on the fifth floor, I step out into an apartment. To my right, there’s a wall and a small table with a massive white orchid, and to my left is a long hall that opens into a haze of light. I turn left and follow the hall, bypassing a long built-in for coats, scarves, and a bench with a basket of gloves.
“Hello?” I call.
Delilah rounds the corner at the end of the hall, a small smile on her face. “You’re here. Thanks for coming over.”
She places her hand in mine, and I pull her close. I’ve been worried about her all day. I busied myself with patients, mostly a non-stop rush of well-checks mixed in with a few geriatric animals fighting the wear and tear of age. In between each patient, I’d check my phone for any new texts.
Color left her face when she read the text yesterday. The moment I stepped into the den, hot scrambled eggs steaming in the bowl, I sensed something was wrong. She clutched her phone, shoulders down, looking like someone sucker punched her.
I wanted so much to follow her home, to be there for her as she met her mother and learned more about what was going on. But I had Kara, and the scene that was bound to play out between Delilah and her mother was no place for a child. It also wasn’t the time or place for Delilah’s mother to meet Kara for the first time. These things I understood, but understanding didn’t make letting her leave any easier.
The tension in my shoulders subsides as I inhale Delilah’s floral aroma. Her long blonde mane sits at the nape of her neck today, instead of piled on top of her head, as if she’s signaling to the world it’s not a top bun day. Her gray sweater bears holes around the seams, and her jeans are riddled with artfully places tears, as if she bought them ripped. She’s wearing thick socks instead of shoes, and she falls much lower to my chest. She holds on to me as if she’s clinging to me for life. I want to wrap her up and promise to take care of her, to say her father will be okay, and we’ll find a cure. But, as a veterinarian, I know all too often there is no cure. All too often, the strategy shifts from seeking health to lessening pain and making the most out of the gifted days that remain.
In my practice, we light a candle when it’s time to say goodbye, so others speak in low voices. A lighted candle is our silent way of sharing what is happening behind a closed door. Someone is saying goodbye to a family member. It happens too often, and it’s never easy. I’m always grateful when an owner stays while I inject the medicine to end the pain because I know when they leave the room, their pet searches for them. In my core, I believe it’s so much better for a pet to be held by their owner as they fall asleep for the last time.
We stand there, holding each other. She rubs her face into my shoulder, and as she pulls away, I notice dark, wet marks on my shirt. She tugs my hand, and I follow her around the corner then stop. Outside, it’s gray and dreary, but her kitchen is enormous and bright. White, shiny cabinet doors with silver pulls offset by a navy tile backsplash run down both walls of the kitchen with an enormous gray island in the middle. The end of her kitchen boasts glass sliding doors that open onto an outdoor terrace ensconced in floor to ceiling glass. Oversized rectangular gray ceramic tiles line the floor. An abundance of green plants fills the room at the end and provide the only source of non-white, gray, silver, or navy color. This one area might be larger than my entire apartment. She has not one, but two stainless steel chef kitchen refrigerators. Not one but two white porcelain farm sinks. The ceiling in the kitchen curves upward into a dome, and prominent silver pendants fall from the middle, cascading light throughout the spacious kitchen. The kitchen could easily grace the pages of Architectural Digest.
“Nice place.” No wonder she seemed so puzzled my bathroom wasn’t attached to my bedroom. Her reality differs dramatically from the majority of New Yorkers. And mine.
She points me to a stool and wordlessly offers me hot tea by picking up a white ceramic mug and angling her eyebrows at me in a questioning manner. She speaks volumes with her hands, eyebrows, and head. I nod to indicate I’ll have some.
With her back to me as she pours hot water, with a defensive air, she says, “I know. It’s a lot. My parents bought this place when I moved here. Or, well, my dad’s business did. My dad views it as a real estate investment. And any of the partners can stay here if they come to the city.” She opens a cabinet and pulls out a flat wooden box. She pushes the mug of water and the box toward me across the island. The box holds a restaurant’s worth of teabags. I pick Moroccan mint and close the box, sliding it back to her.
“What does your dad do?”
“Real estate. It’s a second-generation family business, but he’s taken it to the next level. He’s kind of big shit in Louisiana. But no one cares here. It’s nice.”
I take in the kitchen as she talks. I will never, ever be able to afford a place nearly as nice as this one in Manhattan. Ever.
“Did your Mom make it home okay?”
Her lips turn downward, and she sniffles. “Yeah. She texted right before you arrived.”
I rap my fist against the counter. “I didn’t know where to get chicken dumplings. I thought we could order dinner in. Maybe I should have picked up something and brought it with me.” She stares at me with a blank expression. “Do you have some menus?”
She leans across the counter, and the giant bun on the nape of her neck shifts. I miss the top of head bun and grip my coffee mug to prevent myself from reaching over and re-doing her hair.
“Oh, yeah, here are some menus.” She pulls out a jam-packed drawer stuffed with menus and flips through them. “Do you mind if we order Italian? I’m kind of craving chicken parm. This place, Mama’s, you’d never want to eat there because it’s kind of a hole, but, oh my, they have the best marinara sauce. Buttery garlic knots too.”
When she locates the correct menu, she whips it out, victorious, and catches my eye as if to ask if it’s okay. I give her a nod, and she tosses the menu my way.
“They have an app. It’s easiest to order on the app. They have so many freaking options, ordering by phone can take forever. Drives me bonanzas.” She flicks away on her phone then glances up at me, waiting. I tell her I’ll have whatever she wants, and she half waves her hand and shifts away from me as if she’s having an entire conversation in her mind, and something about the twist of her head and the attitude as she pounds on the phone has me suspecting I’m not faring well in the conversation.
She sets her phone down on the island and says, “Thirty minutes. Want any wine?”
I haven’t had much of the hot tea she fixed me, so I decline. She disregards me and opens the wine refrigerator, removes a bottle of red, and pours two glasses.
I frown as she slides the glass my way and says, “You can have it with dinner.”
She picks up her glass, leaving mine on the counter for me to take or leave, and strolls into the glassed-in room at the end of the condo. I follow. Lush, healthy plants fill the space. I estimate it would require at least thirty minutes to water all the plants in this room.
“So, how big is this place?” So far, I’ve seen a long hall, an enormous kitchen, and a glassed-in room, but no den or bedrooms. I did see a stairwell to the left of the kitchen farther down the hall. There are three floors, or, at least, three access points.
She shrugs and fidgets, bouncing her knees rapidly. “Fifty-five hundred square feet. Five beds, five baths. I can give you the tour if you like?” Her toe taps, defiant, as she awaits my response.
“No, that’s okay. It’s gorgeous.” I continue looking around. This place has every appearance of being professionally decorated. Yet another stark contrast between her home and mine.
She sighs and sets her drink down on the coffee table. “Yeah. Surprise.” She holds her arms out and shakes her fingers doing her jazz hands wave.
I squint, studying her defensive posture and half-hearted attempt at lightening the awkwardness between us. “Did you mean to keep this from me?”
She takes a sip of her wine before responding. “Maybe. Back home, everyone treats me differently. When I moved here, everyone assumed I was just like them, the same kind of background, living with roommates, struggling to make ends meet in an entry level position. I hardly ever bring anyone here. It’s not like having all this makes me different from everyone else, but I guess I’ve always assumed some people back home were nice to me because of my parents. And that’s not a whacked assumption. People did a lot for me because of them. Because they wanted something. People kiss ass when they want something. Moving to New York gave me a clean slate. A chance to be normal. Where my name didn’t automatically fill in blanks for people about who I am or what they could get from Dad by being nice to me.”
I swallow my tea as she takes long swallows of her wine. I lean back on the sofa and observe her, sitting across from me. Red eyes and swollen cheeks give away she’s been crying, but she’s stiff, and her shoulders are back. Her posture reminds me of an animal that hasn’t yet decided if I can be trusted. “How much does a place like this cost?”
Her cheeks flush, a vibrant pink tone overtaking the pale cast of white skin. Her chin juts out as she answers, “Ten million. My dad believes Manhattan real estate holds its value.”
“So, this is your parents’ place, then? You rent from them?”
Her gaze finally meets mine. “No. Technically, it’s the firm’s. Decorating it, being allowed to live here, that was a graduation present.”
I cough. “That’s a really nice graduation present.”
“Yeah, it is. So what?” she snaps. “Having money doesn’t make me a bad person. Nor does it make me different.”
Anger seeps through her words as they fly out of her mouth. I put my palms up in the air, defensive. “I didn’t say it makes you different.”
She stares at me for a moment, then puts her elbows to her knees and rests her forehead on her palms. “I’m sorry. I’m emotional. You haven’t done anything.”
“But you expect me to do something? What do you expect me to do? Has someone done something bad to you because your family has money?” I don’t say because she has money, because while she probably has a ton in her bank account, all signs point to it being her parents’ money. Something she grew up with but didn’t earn.
“No. If anything, good things have happened because of it. I was invited to every birthday party growing up, accepted onto every sports team, even if I’d never held a lacrosse stick or had any experience in the sport, almost never had to introduce myself because everyone seemed to know me. My parents can be generous, and they make the party rounds, and I was always in tow. It wasn’t bad.” She pauses and releases a dramatic sigh. “But moving here, being a nobody, I loved it. When I say my last name, no one bats an eye. The friends I make here, they see me, not my family. When I enter a party, people don’t crowd around to greet me like I’m the guest of honor.”
“I have no idea what any of that would be like, but I believe it’s possible for someone to know about your family and still see you for who you are.”
The buzzer sounds, and she gets up. I take my time following her back into the kitchen. She’s on the phone, an old model hanging on the wall, similar to the one used by the doorman downstairs. I wander into the hallway over to the stairs. Holy shit. The sleek, black banister curves gracefully at each landing, and where I’m standing on the fifth floor, I can look up and see the sixth and down and see the fourth. This unit has three floors, a rare find in New York. Her palatial pad is on the fourth, fifth, and sixth floors of this building, and I can’t help but wonder how extravagant the penthouse on the top floors must be.
Hand blown, teardrop lights cascade in a chandelier with a triage of lengths so bulbs artfully scatter the entire way from the sixth floor ceiling to below, extending the length of three floors. I hear Kara’s voice in my head. “Daddy! Look! So pretty!” She’d go bananas over this, and rightfully so. If someone snapped a photo and showed me, I’d assume it was from a museum or possibly a high-end hotel, and this is Delilah’s home.
Delilah calls from far away, “Let’s eat in the kitchen.”
I head farther down the hall, past the staircase, and peer up to the landing above, then down. Moving boxes are stacked all around the landing downstairs. I head back into the kitchen. “Are you moving?”
She focuses on setting out the food, plates, and dinnerware. “Movers are coming tomorrow. I’m only packing clothes and personal items. We’ll leave the furniture in, as it will sell better furnished. People can envision the space better when it’s furnished.”
I pull a chair out and sit down. I didn’t pay for this food, and I meant to, but it doesn’t really matter, so I don’t say anything about my meaning to pay. I stare at my empty plate. There’s a thin gray line traversing the white china plate, and I focus on the crack.
Delilah says, her voice shaking, “My parents need me.”
I close my eyes and breathe then flex my jaw. “Right.” I understand. She needs to be there for them. “What’s going on with your dad?”
She fills her plate with chicken parmigiana and angel hair pasta. “My mom was too emotional to answer my questions.” I snap my head up and watch her as she picks at the melted cheese. “I gave up on getting answers from her. It hurt her too much to tell me. She did better once we started making plans on moving forward. That’s the way she is. She does better when she’s focused. Once I get home, I’ll sit with Dad. Find out more.”
“But you’ve already decided you’re moving home? For good?”
She sets her fork down, and the sound of the utensil hitting the glass table echoes through the quiet room. “My mom and dad need me.”
We eat in silence. I decide I do want wine and keep our glasses filled. Her father is dying. If it was my mother, I’d be a wreck. I would rush to be by her side. Like a methodical scientist, I run through the indisputable facts. We haven’t known each other long. We’ve barely had a conversation about where our relationship is going or what it means. Yes, I did use the girlfriend word. She agreed. I introduced her to my daughter. I opened the door into my life.
I flex my fingers wide then ball them up into a fist, examining the veins lining the back of my hand. I opened the door into my life, but as I’m seeing now, she never opened the door into hers.
It makes sense she wouldn’t discuss her moving plans with me. For her, we’ve had a fling. A temporary relationship. One in a string of relationships. It’s called dating. I stand and pick up my plate, heading to the kitchen and searching the bottom cabinet doors for one that might house the trash.
“But I’d like to still see you. And keep in touch with Kara.”
“How would that work?” I ask as I continue my quest for the garbage.
She toys with the cloth napkin in her lap, twisting it between her fingers. “You have, what? Thirteen years before Kara goes off to college? And it’s not like you could move to New Orleans. Her mom is here.”
I mutter, “My Mom is here.”
She continues. “It’s one thing to try long distance if there’s an end in sight. But thirteen years, that’s not an end. That’s...” she trails off and doesn’t finish her thought. I understand what she’s saying, though. Thirteen years is an eternity. “Friends, though?” she asks in a high-pitched voice, a tone that rings unnatural and immature.
Friends? She can’t be serious. I want to take this pain in my chest and rip it out and toss it away. Throw her away into the distant recesses of my memory. Forget all about this girl and my short time with her. I huff. But she’s hurting. She’s going to need a friend. And Kara isn’t going to want Delilah to disappear altogether. Kara will be happy with FaceTime calls. “Yeah, friends. I can do friends.”
I stumble out into the hall. I can do friends, but right now, I need to get out.
“I’ll text you, okay? Or you, you text me. Let me know when you’ve landed tomorrow. And when you find out more about your dad’s situation.”
I press the elevator button, and she joins me, hands down by her sides, and a lone tear runs down her cheek. I surge forward to close the distance and comfort her.
“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry about your Dad. I’m sorry you have to move home. I hate it. But I understand it. If it was my mom, I’d do the same thing. I would.” My shirt pulls tight as she grips it, hard, and buries her face into my chest, sobbing.
Somehow, I’m kissing her and pushing her back against the wall. Frantic. She wraps her legs around my waist as I lift her and rut into her like a wild animal. She kicks the table, and the orchid goes crashing to the ground, sending brown bark across the white pine floor. The contrast of dark and light catches my attention and slows my breath, then I kiss her slowly. Her thumb wipes a tear from my cheek.
She pulls back, caressing the edge of my jaw. “Bedroom.” Her feet fall to the floor, and we step around the broken mess down the spiraling stairs to her bedroom.
She unbuttons my shirt and tugs it off my shoulders. I lift her sweater, and she raises her arms as I raise it over her head. I unsnap her bra, and it falls to the floor. Her breasts—god, those breasts. I fondle one, my thumb brushing her nipple as she works my belt buckle and unzips my jeans and pushes them down to be trapped by my boots. I step back and sit on the bed to remove each shoe, then the jeans. My erection sticks out into the air, painfully hard and stretched. She stands still, watching as I rid myself of clothes. Then it’s my turn to unzip her jeans. I maneuver her to the bed and have her sit as I kneel on the floor before her, naked, cock in the air, fumbling with the side zipper on her high-heeled boots, then pull at her jeans.
Tears fall on both of our cheeks. I reach back for my jeans, pull out a condom, spread her legs, and claim her. Her nails scrape my back as I drive into her, and she cries out. The emotions eat at me, tearing me up from the inside. She hurts. I see it in her glassy eyes and tearstained cheeks. I hurt. Her teeth sink into my shoulder, and I welcome the physical pain because I can’t bear the emotional. It’s too much. We take and take and take from each other, twisting on the bed, and I bleed from her nails and her teeth until we both tremble and cling to each other long after our orgasms rip through us.
Trickles of blood stain her sheets. My blood. She rains soft kisses and apologies as her naked body presses against me. “I was falling in love with you.”
Her lower lip slips out in a pout, and tears rush down. I don’t expect a response, but when she says, “Ditto,” her confirmation is a balm to my pain, and I cling to her, pressing kisses over her hair and forehead as I hold her.
Eventually, she slips out of bed to go to the restroom, which is naturally conveniently located a few feet away in an en suite. When she returns, I head into the bathroom. The marble space is enormous and mind-blowing. Again, white shines everywhere. The shower is enormous, the freestanding tub something Kara could swim in.
I slide back into bed and pull her naked body to me. She rests her head on my chest and drapes a leg over mine. I play with her hair which flows down her back, free. I’m not sure when it fell out of the bun, but I love it like this. Soft, golden silk. I love this woman. It’s an impossible situation. We live on two different planes, and soon to be two different states. But I can’t bear to let her go. Not today.
“We could try long distance. See how it goes?”
She kisses my chest and fingers the dark brown curls. “For thirteen years?” Her soft breasts press against my side, and I reach around to cup her smooth ass.
“As long as it takes for us to find a solution. It’ll take time. I can’t move in a day. The clinic is expanding, and we’re in the process of taking on more debt. One of my partners is planning for a round of friends and family financing. I don’t know how many weekends I’ll be able to get away for quite a while. Finding someone to buy me out at this stage would be tough, and I can’t leave my mother. But none of that means we can’t find a solution eventually. And, you don’t know what’s going on with your dad. It’s possible the best doctors are here in New York, and it would be better if they moved here.”
She rests her head on my chest, but her muscles are tight. I work the knots with my fingers. “I have to return to New Orleans. It’s always been the plan. My dad’s business? I’m his successor. If I don’t step in, it falls out of the family.”
“You said it’s a real estate firm?”
“It is. I’ll hardly be an asset. But Dad’s partners are already reaching out to me. Probably because he’s sick. It’s kind of a done deal. Mom thinks I can manage the marketing.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Mason, what I want doesn’t matter. I’ve been postponing the inevitable for years. This has always been the plan. It’s time I grow up, enter that adult world that everyone with half a brain always bashes.”
I chuckle. “Mmm. I’ve been living in that adult world for quite a while, and it’s not all that bad.”
“Yeah, says the guy who hadn’t been out on a date in four years.”
I kiss the top of her head. “This sucks.”
Her full, swollen lips curve into a slight smile. She leans forward and presses her lips to mine. “Let’s try long distance.” She places her index finger over my lips, as if shushing me. “I can’t make any promises, but let’s see. You can’t easily get away, but maybe I can. For weekends. It’s not like you had this raucous social life a long-distance relationship is going to impact.”
I hold on to her, grateful for the chance. Grateful for another day with her. Even if she’s far away, she’ll still be mine. And maybe, in a couple of years, the clinic will be in a better position for me to find someone to buy me out. Then I remember Amber, and it hits me that I’ll be taking my daughter away from her mother if we move. My daughter would have her own back window moment, watching her mother drift into the distance. And there’s my mother too. A woman who has given me so much when I had no one, as a kid and as an adult. I should be making love to Delilah one last time before she’s gone for an unknown length of time, but instead I lie with her in my arms, sleepless, staring at the white ceiling, running through options in my head.
As morning breaks, I find myself selfishly hoping the best doctors for her father are in New York. Because while I’m grateful Delilah and I haven’t ended everything, I find it hard to be optimistic about a long-distance relationship without any sort of path to close the distance.