Page 34 of Courage, Dear Heart

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Neither do I, but you don’t have to stop loving CJ to love Elliott, too. Did you love CJ any less when you had Jamie? No. Your capacity for love grew.”

I release a breath with an exaggerated sigh. “Are you sick and tired of my pity party yet?” Because I’m tired of feeling this way. So effing tired.

“No, never. I’ll always be here for you. But I’ll also call you on your BS and kick your ass when it needs kicking.”

Something else shifts inside me. Little by little, the walls I’ve built are cracking, and a sliver of light streaks in. “That’s what real friends are for. Thank you for kicking my ass when I need it. I have a feeling your foot will be busy in the near future.”

She cackles.

“But enough of me. What have you been up to? Did you sign up for that summer class you told me about?”

“Yes. I’ll probably suck at it. It’s been so long since I’ve done any sculptures.”

“You won’t suck. You’re an amazing artist. And maybe you’ll meet a hot guy with big hands,” I joke.

She sighs. “If only. It’s been so long. I can’t even rememberwhat sex is like.”

“There’s always the internet if you need a reminder.” I laugh, feeling lighter than I’ve been in a long time.

Her eyes widen. “Jillian Elizabeth Heart, did you suggest I watch porn?”

I put a hand to my chest. “What? Me? Never.” I scoot my chair closer to her, even though there’s no one else here to hear us. Not even Daisy. She’s downstairs, and Jamie is at a birthday party for one of his schoolmates with the sitter I sometimes hire for occasions like this when work prevents me from being present with him. Sheila leans in closer to me.

“I did hear Angela talking to someone on the phone yesterday about this great webpage that’s dedicated to women’s...needs.”

“What?”

“She said it’s called ethical or feminist P-O-R-N.” I spell it out of habit.

“Did you watch it?” Her voice is low.

“No! I don’t want that stuff on my phone or computer. Jamie uses both to play games. And seriously, why would I do that to myself?”

She shrugs. “There’s always incognito search.”

I laugh. “You try it and let me know.”

She looks like she’s thinking about it.

FIFTEEN

Elliott

My father bargesinto my office—shoulders squared, exuding arrogance in his custom-made suit. No knocking on the door for him. Not in his own damn building as he likes to remind me often enough. He goes straight to the minibar set up along one wall and makes himself a scotch. Neat, no water or ice to dilute the flavor. He rounds my desk and stops to my right, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows. I turn in my chair and wait for what’s coming.

My father likes to savor his criticisms like he does his drink. Sit with it for a bit, let the anticipation build, then speak with carefully chosen words to create the biggest impact. Words chosen to burn, to cut, to cloud judgment, like his favorite scotch, a bottle of which he keeps in my office for these occasions. A subtle reminder that he owns everything I see, and in his mind, perhaps even myself.

I stand up and pour myself a glass of water. Something that irritates him.A real man should know how to hold hisliquor.How many times have I heard him say that? Dad and his real men ideas. I walk to the windows and stop a couple of feet away from him. He glances at my drink of choice and the barest of sneers curls his upper lip. I take a long gulp of my water to hide my smile. Point one goes to me. Something I’ll surely pay for. A real man never shows weakness of any kind. Never let them know they got to you.

Twenty floors below, traffic moves slowly in the streets of Manhattan, yellow cabs like bright pops of color among the gray and black and muted tones of asphalt, cement, and other cars. I hold my tongue. Wait him out, let the seconds tick by. My shoulders relaxed. I’m enjoying this game. His silent intimidation tactics stopped working on me many years ago.

He finally takes a sip of his scotch. “How was your date with Kate?”

Kate? Is that what this is about? “That was weeks ago, Dad. Why are you asking about it now?”

His eyes never leave the windows, but I doubt he sees anything other than his own reflection. He brushes a nonexistent speck of dust off his shoulder. He looks younger than his sixty years. If it weren’t for the mostly gray hair, he could pass for a man in his early fifties. He’s tall and fit and proud, and it shows in the way he carries himself, in his clothes, and the choices he makes. Even the choices he makes for me. Like Kate.

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