Page 92 of We Could Be So Good
“Oh, you know.” He waves a hand vaguely uptown, not wanting to admit that he’s going to stay in his dad’s spare room and probably cry about Nick and his mom and a dozen other things.
He even manages a smile before he leaves because it won’t do Nick any good to know that he’s falling apart.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When Andy lets himself in to his father’s apartment, it’s empty. He drops his suitcase, turns on the lights, helps himself to a gin and tonic, and settles on the sofa with a copy of last month’sNational Geographic. But he can hear the clock ticking, the drip of a faucet in the bathroom, and the apartment is so quiet and empty that each sound seems to echo.
He thinks about calling Nick, but the next conversation they have ought to be face-to-face. Andy will make things right when he sees Nick; he thinks he might already have gotten most of the way there. Nick wasn’t upset when he got home. They’ll figure out how to talk about things sensibly and probably manage another baker’s dozen equally inane fights before they get anywhere. That all makes Andy sick to his stomach, but it isn’t what he’d call a crisis.
The crisis is that Nick doesn’t think they can stay together. And if staying together means living together, Andy might have to concede the point. Being roommates isn’t an excuse that will stand up to much scrutiny—not indefinitely, at least. But they could be together without sharing a roof. Andy would miss theshared bed, the morning coffee, the hours of watching Nick cook. But it’s better than nothing.
Andy’s notion of happiness has always hinged on sharing a home with someone, and he might not get to have that. The past few weeks with Nick have been the first time he really felt like he had a home—not an empty apartment, not a dormitory. A home. He’s been fixating on the notion of settling down, of having someone to come home to, but that’s only possible in a world where you’re allowed space to settle. Maybe Nick’s known this all along.
But maybe what Andy needs is to learn to be alone. Maybe he needs to get used to the idea that he isn’t going to have the sort of life he can share with anyone. Maybe what he needs is to make peace with a life of waking up alone and learn for that to be enough.
***
At the sound of a key in the lock, Andy turns to see his father leaning heavily on his cane. He looks awful.
“Andy,” he says, sounding surprised but not displeased to see his son. “Everything all right?”
Andy’s already on his feet. “Where’s the chair?”
“Coat closet.” Andy has the wheelchair out and next to his dad in seconds. His father collapses into it with a sigh. “I’m going to need to start having bridge games here,” he says.
For lack of any better ideas, Andy pours his father a scotch.
“What brings you here?”
There’s no point in lying. No point in being anything other than perfectly honest. “Nick’s fourteen-year-old cousin is paying him a visit, so I needed to find somewhere else to stay.”
“You’re always welcome here. Did you, ah, talk to Mr. Russo?”
Mortified, Andy remembers that he had fled from his father’s office in an obvious state that morning. “Yes, and I was an enormous baby about it. It’s fine now,” Andy says.
“He should have told you himself about that job offer,” his father says, and Andy remembers Emily on the fire escape threatening to break Andy’s knees. His father wants to be in his corner, Andy realizes, touched. “He’s a very good reporter, though,” his father adds, as if that covers a multitude of sins.
“He really is,” Andy agrees.
Once they’re settled in the living room, Andy waits for his father to finish his drink and then refills it. He figures this is as good a time as any to bring up what he wanted to talk about after the meeting that morning.
“Has anyone suggested investing in the Sunday supplement?” Andy asks. “Turning it into an actual magazine?”
“It came up a few years ago,” his father says carefully. “At the time we decided it was too costly. We’d have to bring on new staff, of course, but also invest in new printing presses.”
That’s not a refusal, though. Andy seizes on it. “Can I draw up a potential budget? Just to get your opinion,” he adds. “Something has to be done to increase circulation, even if it’s only Sunday circulation, and people who don’t care about newspapers still read magazines. If we’re willing to invest, we could attract talent—essays, features, long-form pieces.”
“You don’t need to persuade me. In less than four months I’ll be retired and you can do what you please.”
Andy feels like he’s going to scream. What he really doesn’t need is a reminder that his father is effectively abandoning him—again, some very unhelpful voice in Andy’s head whispers. “No,” Andy says.
“I’m sorry?”
Andy takes a breath and starts over. “I know you aren’t up to running the paper. I respect that. I want you to look after your health. And I want to run theChronicle.”
This part is mostly true.
The fact is that he doesn’t particularly want to be a newspaper publisher. He knows it’s his legacy, and a good legacy at that. He and his father are each all the other has by way of family, however distant their relationship, and theChronicleis their point of connection. Andy wants to at least try to maintain that.
