We share a smile, and I can’t help but remember the conversation Banner and I had about my father that night at dinner. I’d never considered that he retired for me, but now I realize he probably did. I touch his arm to keep his attention before he goes back to opening more gifts from the pile in front of them.
“Hey,” I say, waiting for him to look at me. “I just wanted to . . .”
He lifts thick fair brows in silent inquiry, waiting for me to do something I never do.
“Just thanks for all you sacrificed for me,” I mumble, dropping my hand from him and feeling like an idiot. I glance at Susan, who is smiling and tearing into a brightly wrapped box. “I’m glad you found her. You deserve to be happy.”
I’m ready to move on, feeling awkward. Why am I so bad at being nice? My dad, though, excels at kindness, at connecting with people in a way, despite all my agent’s charm, I never could. He clutches my shoulder, his eyes not brimming with tears but with emotion all the same.
“Nothing I ever did was a sacrifice, Jared,” he said. “It was a privilege raising you, one I took very seriously.”
I usually hate this burning sensation in my throat and this pricking behind my eyes, but tonight I don’t. It’s evidence of the love I have for my dad, of the love he has always made sure I felt from him. There is an understanding in the grin we share that maybe we’ve never shared. Probably because I never took the time, but having Banner in my life carved out something in me that wasn’t there before. I’m not less of who I was, but she’s added something. One of the things I love about Banner is how she flips things around so I see them in new ways.
One of the things I love about Banner is different from saying I love Banner. I’d be a fool to let myself say that with things as they stand right now. I haven’t seen her in six weeks. We’ve barely talked. The whole world is planning her deathbed wedding to Zo. It’s morbid. I can’t stand it. I hate that they don’t know she’s mine. That everyone thinks she’s some tragic heroine so deeply in love with Zo she would never leave his side—when she touches herself at night and thinks of me.
God, I hope she does.
Or am I alone in this pathetic farce, the one in which I don’t even know the role I’m playing? Maybe I’m reciting my parts, hitting all my marks, the whole time thinking I’m the lead when I’m actually the chump pining for the girl, not the one who gets her in the end.
They open the rest of their gifts, and we cut a huge cake and there’s dancing and it’s all wildly romantic and the last thing I want to do. It’s a reminder of my limited options. The woman I want isn’t here meeting my family like I had planned, but she’s in Palo Alto with her . . . boyfriend? I don’t know what to call him. I don’t know what they are.
What if he’s won her back? I mean, six weeks in a house together, something has to happen, right? I wouldn’t be in the same house with Banner for a day without bending her over something and fucking her from behind.
But that’s just me.
I’m reminded every day that Zo and I are different people. He’s the philanthropist. He’s the patron saint. The goodwill ambassador. I’m not any of those things.
And I don’t give a damn. She’s still mine. Not Zo or all the commentators combined on Sports Center and Good Morning America will convince me otherwise. But what about Banner? Does she remember whose she is? And that across the country in Maryland, there is a black-hearted, horny motherfucker who, by some miracle, has convinced himself that he is hers?
I need some air or at least some space. I wander away from the herd of joyful partygoers and into the den, which is really my father’s man cave. There is never a time when the television isn’t on, and I’ve never seen it on any channel other than ESPN. I flop into the leather recliner usually reserved for His Royal Highness and settle in to check some scores.
Only it’s not scores they’re discussing.
“We have an update in the ongoing story of Alonzo Vidale,” the commentator says, his face appropriately grave. “Who, as most know by now, is fighting a rare disease called amyloidosis.
“A few photos surfaced on Instagram from a fellow patient at the facility where he’s being treated,” the co-anchor says, blinking her false eyelashes like she’s trying not to cry. “I think we all send Zo our best wishes and prayers.”
As they’re talking, the photos that were posted come onscreen. Again, people suck. Who does this kind of shit? Sees a man being treated and posts pictures of him at his lowest for the whole world to see? His face is gaunt in a way you immediately recognize is due to illness. Obviously his height hasn’t diminished, but when he and Banner walk out of the hospital, she seems to be holding him up, even though she’s only holding his hand.
Why is she holding his hand? Is that really necessary?
I hate feeling this way. These thoughts are awful—even for me. He’s fighting an against-all-odds, u
phill battle for his life, and the only thing I can care about is the fact that he shouldn’t be holding Banner’s hand when I don’t even get to see her.
“You okay in here?”
I glance up, pulling myself out of my selfish musings to nod at August.
“Yeah, just tired.” I drop my head back against the recliner and close my eyes. “Long flight.”
“Oh, good,” he says. “I thought it might have something to do with Banner Morales and Zo Vidale.”
I open my eyes and turn my head slowly in his direction.
“Excuse me?” I ask, eyes narrowed on August’s face.
“Just a wild guess.” He shrugs and offers me a Stella. “Want one?”