It’s senseless, but this senseless moment pounds against my heart more than a sound fact.
“We’re going up, Jane,” I tell her, pointing at the ceiling.
She giggles and looks up, her headband sliding back. I adjust it and she pats her head. She says a word that’s very close to da-da and points up too. When she swings her head to me, I cover my eyes with my free hand.
“Where’s Jane?”
She gasps, and I remove my hand, her face breaking into the fullest, purest smile. She claps at my reappearance. I hide my eyes once more, and her gasp pulls my lips higher. “Where’s Jane?”
I drop my hand. “There she is.”
Jane giggles and touches her cheeks, discovering her own overwhelming smile that accompanies joy. I kiss her forehead, and she tries to speak but ends up babbling certain syllables and sounds again.
“One day, Jane,” I whisper, “you’ll surpass me in all ways. I hope you do.” I think about more children, a fog of a future. “I hope you all do.”
The elevator beeps.
“Now, let’s see Frederick. He has some information I need about your Aunt Daisy. How does that sound?”
Jane points at the ceiling and tries to form the word that I once said.
“Up,” I repeat, always in my usual voice. “We’re going straight now, Jane.” I point at the hallway. “Straight ahead.”
Her eyes blink in confusion.
“In time,” I smile. “You’ll understand in time.”
* * *
Frederick collapses in the leather seat adjacent to the couch, a coffee mug in hand. He dyes the gray strands of his hair by his temples, only in his early forties, his jaw square and his nose proportionate to the rest of his features, a born-and-bred New Englander. He could’ve sailed the Mayflower with Christopher Jones and jumped into a time machine to reach present day, if you’re a believer of the ridiculous.
The purple shadows beneath Frederick’s eyes suggest lack of sleep, and the textbooks and file folders towered on his desk suggest the source.
“Stop analyzing me, Connor. I’m not the patient. I’m your therapist.” He sips his coffee.
On the leather cushion next to me, Jane plays with a children’s book, textures and audio buttons keeping her fixated.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t present yourself like you’ve had two hours of sleep, Rick,” I advise. I distinguish the book titles from here, most about PTSD and depression. “Her case is that difficult for you?”
“It’s complicated—” He catches himself, stopping short. “We’re not discussing Daisy.”
He hasn’t cracked yet, but his exhaustion gives me an advantage this afternoon.
“What’s new with you?” he asks, resting his ankle on his thigh and leans back.
I usually tell Frederick everything. He’s ethically obligated to keep my secrets, but saying Scott’s name aloud creates permanence that’s hard to consume without a grimace. He’s across the street from my wife and daughter and four other people that belong in the epicenter of my world.
Frederick fills the brief silence. “Jonathan Hale called me again today. He still wants a list of who’ve you been intimate with, and he wants my notes and professional opinion on what you are.”
I tilt my head with a fragment of irritation. “What I am?” My lips rise. “The greatest mind the universe will never understand, smarter than ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the world’s population, unabashedly arrogant and grossly tired of Jonathan’s punitive measures to undermine me.” I nod to Frederick. “That’s what I am.”
“You may not think your sexuality is important,” Frederick tells me, gathering that fact from all that I’ve said, “but he does, people do, and it’s something you have to accept.”
“I accept it,” I say calmly, tugging down Jane’s dress that bunches at her waist.
“Bullshit,” he calls me out. “You don’t talk like you just did without feeling passionate about something, Connor.”
“What should I do then in your professional opinion? Should I go to Jonathan and have a one-on-one conversation, slitting my heart open to a man that I find manipulative in his own right? You think he’ll revere me, Rick? You think he’ll understand me?”
“You’ve already made up your mind,” he says, listening to the tone of my voice. “And I wouldn’t suggest going to Jonathan for anything. Of what you’ve told me, it sounds like he’d use the information against you. I just don’t understand why he’s so hell-bent on exposing your past relationships.”
I do. “He’s afraid that I have emotional control over his son, something that he used to have. He’s just threatened by my friendship with Loren, and now that his son is running his company, he’s worried I’ll have more sway with Hale Co. than he will.” And Jonathan wants more evidence to blackmail me with, so I’ll stop being a force in Loren’s life.
Even if I’m a positive force.
But I hold more cards than Jonathan, so whatever blackmail he wants to throw my way, it’s a useless ploy. Jonathan Hale may have money but he is beneath me, a human invertebrate. He doesn’t even control Hale Co. anymore, which makes him further and further out of my league.
I’m too connected to the people he cares about—Loren Hale and Greg Calloway—for him to make a move against me. It’s suicide. And Jonathan Hale is all about self-preservation.
Frederick takes another sip of coffee. “So you were quiet when I asked you before, so I’m going to ask you again. What’s new? And it has to be easier to talk about than this.”
I roll up the sleeves of my white button-down, heat blowing through a vent above my head. I still try to construct that five-letter name aloud.
Frederick sits up, resting his forearms on his thighs as he cups his mug. He watches Jane attempt to flip a page in her book, but the thick page slips from her weak clutch. She turns her head and looks to me for help. I lean forward and flip the page for her. She mumbles.
“You’re welcome,” I say with a growing smile.
She lets out a high-pitched giggle and returns to her book.
“She’s advanced for her age,” Frederick notes.
“Marginally. She’s probably a month ahead, but Lo’s son tries to keep up with her. I think he may walk first.” I’ve been observing their milestones—speech, dexterity, cognizance, mobility—and when Jane first rolled onto her stomach, along the living room rug, Moffy watched and followed suit. I’ve seen him attempt to stand, as she does. He has more power in his movements, and he’s one month younger.
I’m proud of that baby, and he’s not even mine.
“Did something happen with the press?” Frederick asks. When he begins blindly guessing, he shows his cards. He’s nervous for me, drawing conclusions around the worst possibilities since I won’t talk.
“Scott Van Wright moved in across the street.” I detach myself from these words and present him the facts, GBA’s involvement and pressure to renew the reality show.
When I finish, Frederick sits back like I’ve slammed him hard. He’s quiet for a full minute, processing everything.
“And?” I ask, needing his guidance. He’s nearly as smart as me, and I wouldn’t come here weekly if I didn’t need reminders of things sitting at the back of my brain, the emotions that I stuff in drawers and the facts I set aside.