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“Mind if I take the chocolate croissant?” she asks. “They’re my fav.”
“It’s fine. I’m not hungry,” I mutter.
She takes the croissant. “Thank you. As for you, you’re not doing Blaze any favors by acting like a sulky toddler. Man up and eat a scone.” She pushes the plate toward me.
I push it back toward her and stand up. “Sorry. Look, I appreciate you being nice, but I know I’m not good company right now. If you hear from Blaze, could you please tell her to get in touch with me?”
“Sit.” Gigi gives me a glare, and I find myself sitting again before I realize what I’m doing. “We have a job to do, young man.”
I remember how short-staffed Blaze is and wonder if I’ve let myself in for a morning of re-shelving books. “Listen, Gigi, I just got off a shift that ended at seven this morning—”
“Suck it, sunshine.” She fixes me with a stern look. “You and I have a library to save.”
32
BLAZE
I survey the view from the balcony, the late-afternoon sun casting a warm golden glow over the Lake Michigan shoreline. Dad lives in a high-rise apartment in an upscale building, with a sweeping view of the city and lake, a far cry from Mom and Marty’s cozy, cluttered little house in Welkins Ridge.
I booked a ticket to Chicago the moment I got home from the council meeting and was in the air before the sun was fully up. I’d already talked to Dad about staying a few days in between my interviews at the University of Illinois and the one in New Orleans. He’s not the world’s most spontaneous guy, but he was a good sport about me showing up early.
While Dad was at work, I spent the morning in his spacious apartment making phone calls, sending emails, and booking flights. I now have five interviews lined up across the country over the next three weeks. Technically, there’s nothing stopping me from going home in between them, but I decided to fill in the days between interviews getting to know the areas they’re in and chilling out, away from all the drama back home.
Kind of like the vacation I haven’t taken in years.
Behind me, the sliding glass door opens, and Dad steps out. He’s taken off his blazer, but he’s still wearing a tie, a button-down shirt, and his dress slacks.
Ever since I was in college, we’ve had a custom of having a cocktail together before dinner whenever I was visiting him. I think he was relieved that I finally wasn’t a kid anymore and he could treat me like an adult. He hands me an Old Fashioned.
“Thanks, Dad. How was work?”
“Not bad. We’re helping a client prep for an IPO, so that’s keeping us busy. How was your day?”
“It was good. Got all my interviews and flights organized for the next few weeks.”
I don’t share that I also had a long nap preceded by a good cry and followed by a heart-to-heart with Joyce. She was supportive, but I can tell she’s not convinced that Jeremy is at fault.
And maybe he’s not. I don’t know. I’m not sure it even matters at this point.
“If you’d given me a little more notice, I’d have taken a day or two off to show you the sights.”
Dad definitely prefers it when things are laid out well in advance. How he and my mother ended up together, even briefly, is one of the chief mysteries of my life.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “I’ll be passing through this way again at the end. Maybe we could do some sightseeing then?”
His expression relaxes. “Three weeks is perfect. We’ll have wrapped up the IPO, and it’ll be nice to take a day or two off to spend with my favorite gal. Now, you want to tell your old man what brought you out here on such short notice?”
“Well, I’ve got that interview on Monday at the U of I, and I thought it would be nice to get in a few days early and spend a little time with you.”
He chuckles. “Sweetheart, I may be a numbers guy, but it’s my job to know when people are hiding something. I’m glad you’re making time for me, but there’s something more going on here than just interviews and social calls.”
How is it that it’s my uptight, number-crunching dad who’s the more perceptive parent? Another one of life’s mysteries.
“Oh, fine.” I take a seat at the little wrought iron table and Dad sits down opposite me. “I met a guy,” I begin.
As I drink my Old Fashioned, I spill the whole story—Jeremy, Walden, the library, the Addison, and Jeremy’s betrayal at the end. I drain the rest of my drink, the dregs mixing with the bitterness in my heart.
Dad sips his own cocktail more judiciously. “You sure this Jeremy fellow pulled a fast one on you?”
