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“I’ve been trying,” he says. “I’ve done everything.”
I bite my lip, nervous to imply it. But I’ve come this far. I power through. “There isn’t one person you know who he might have told?”
“I don’t know any of his friends,” Nick says.
“I’m not talking about his friends,” I say.
He stares at me, head cocked. Then his features freeze when he realizes who I’m talking about.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”
“Jack might have told him,” I say.
Nick turns away from me and walks to the window, pressing his forehead against it and looking down to the street below. I wait, giving him the time he needs.
Finally he says, not moving from the window, “Will you come with me?”
I pause. On one hand, it’s about as far from professional as you can get. But ultimately it wouldn’t change anything, right? I’m still leaving, and it’s the least I can do. I want to part on good terms. I do still care deeply about him.
I nod. “Of course.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d be happy to,” I add.
Nick laughs ruefully. “You’ll regret saying that,” he says. “Dad hates women.”
There have been few times in my life that I’ve been more nervous than I am sitting next to Nick in the prison visiting area, waiting for his father to come out.
The process of entering the prison alone was enough to set my teeth on edge. We’d been searched, gone through metal detectors, gotten sniffed by dogs. One woman was turned away for wearing a shirt that was deemed “too revealing”. All our belongings had to be stored in lockers lest we try to smuggle in contraband.
The entire time Nick’s jaw had been stiff, his eyes far away. He was barely there.
Nick had given me very little warning of what to expect with his dad other than “not much”. Also “don’t take anything he says personally”. What exactly he’s going to say remains a mystery. I’ve worn my hair conservatively, dressed professionally, worn a minimal amount of makeup. But then misogynists tend to not need much to get them going.
Funnily enough, I have the same amount of nerves meeting Nick’s father that I had meeting Brent’s parents. On that memorable visit we’d gone to an expensive restaurant on the Boston Harbor, and I’d been grilled about my future plans and intentions for two incredibly uncomfortable hours. I’d caught Brent’s father looking at my tits twice.
So Nick’s dad doesn’t have a lot to live up to there.
Of course, you’re not here as his girlfriend, I remind myself for the billionth time. I’m his work friend now, at best. Just here for some friendly support after a completely amicable split.
Is it possible to be friends when you know what each other tastes like? A question for Cosmo.
“Visitors for Remnick Madison?” a guard calls through the room.
Nick raises his hand.
Nick and his father share a name? And it’s Remnick? I have no time to further contemplate this new fact when Remnick Madison, Senior, is led out to take a seat in the metal chair across from us.
The family resemblance is uncanny, like if in an alternate reality Nick had a pack-a-day smoking habit, drank a pint every night, and let his dark hair grow out to hang loose and graying around his shoulders.
Remnick has the same dark eyes that Nick and Jack share. They squint, hard as steel, at Nick and then linger on me. The gaze is not friendly at all, but at least he doesn’t look at my tits.
“Son,” he says. “And guest,” he adds pointedly.
“Dad, this is Evie Davis. A work friend. Evie, my father, Remy”
I shake his hand. It’s freezing cold, like one belonging to a corpse fresh from a refrigerator.
