The Hot One(16)

I weigh what those might mean and if they harbor any insight into what the next date will be like.

But as I sink into bed, the day washed off, I spot an email and my mind switches to a whole new topic. In a split second, I turn off the music. I can’t listen to the hair bands I love while I read this note. I straighten, my nerves snapping tight as I slide open the message in silence.



* * *



Dear Ms. Stewart,



* * *



Hope you’re having a good week. I expect to have some information for you soon on the whereabouts of your father. Hang tight.



* * *



Best,



* * *



Joe Thomas, PI



* * *



My stomach roils as I read the note. It’s been more than eight years since I’ve talked to my father—courtesy of that pivotal “congratulations on law school” phone call—and sixteen years since I’ve seen him. The last time I set eyes on the man was the afternoon he shut the door behind him.

He kept in touch—if you can even call it that—with emails on holidays and birthdays. So thoughtful, I know. But that contact dwindled after college. The last I heard, he’d moved to Oregon and shacked up with a new woman. Then he married her and didn’t invite us to his wedding. I would have been the worst flower girl anyway, considering I’m no fan of the groom, so that wasn’t a huge loss in the scheme of things.

The loss, though, was the end of contact with my father.

I don’t know if he’s in Oregon, or if he and his new bride decided to, say, set sail across the seven seas. Move to Peru to build homes. Escape to Canada.

I’ve no clue.

But since I’m turning thirty in a few more weeks, I decided now was as good a time as any to find out what had become of the man who gave me his last name. Watching someone who’s supposed to love you to the moon and back slam the door on his family can give you a warped sense of, well, of everything. My recent dating woes surely cast their lines back to the day that I heard the screech of his tires backing out of the driveway.

I don’t wonder if he’s dead or alive. If he’d died, news would have traveled back to me.

That’s not why I’m on the hunt.

I’m searching now because I want to know what happened to the man who left. Maybe then I can better understand what to make of the moment with the plastic bag and Trevor.

Not to mention the salad and the lilacs from Tyler.





6





Tyler



* * *



Details are my friends.

Loopholes are my bedfellows.

And detours are often the way I get where I want to go.

I’ve mastered all three for work. While my cousin has often said I charge out of the gate when it comes to work, he’s also acknowledged that I’m in love with details, and they counterbalance my relentless pursuit of unconventional deals.

All those tools are in my arsenal on Thursday morning.

I dress for work. Charcoal gray slacks. A black leather belt. A crisp white shirt. And a forest green tie. It’s too warm to wear a jacket, and who needs one these days anyway?

I grab my phone and wallet and leave my apartment, sliding on my sunglasses, since the big yellow orb in the sky is shining brightly. I take that as a good sign as I walk across town, passing the usual neighborhood haunts—the bodega on the corner, the dry cleaners, the organic café.

All around me, New Yorkers are talking, walking, moving. I was born and raised in Los Angeles, but this city energizes me like no place else as I put one foot after the other on the pavement. I’m not a car person; I’m a man who gets around by foot, quickly and with purpose.

Today’s goal is singular.

Some might call it a Hail Mary.

Some might say it’s a leap off a cliff.

I say it’s a strategic bid for a second chance. The past week on the phone with Delaney—however brief—has only cemented this desire. I loved her like crazy in college, and when we talk now, I can still hear the parts of her that I fell for. The way we connect pulses with its own energy.

The chemistry is still there. I just need her to know I’m sorry.

So it’s time to say it like I mean it.

When I reach my destination, I yank open the door and walk inside. Nirvana Spa is the opposite of the crisp, quick, do-it-now-ness that pervades my law offices, and that makes it perfect for a spa. It’s soothing from the second I enter. Lotions and potions perch on shelves. Lavender eye pillows flank them, along with yoga mats, a tray of jewelry made from recycled glass and metal—there’s a sign that says so—and greeting cards featuring photos of faraway island enclaves, snow-capped mountains, or sandy beaches.

I check in at the front desk. The receptionist peers at the screen, her nose-piercing shining in the morning light that filters through the windows. She looks up and smiles. “Mr. Pollock,” she says. That’s the first detail—the name I gave when I booked my appointment. “Welcome to Nirvana. Delaney is finishing with someone else right now, but she should be with you shortly.”

“Excellent.”

“Have you been to Nirvana before?”

Considering Nirvana is a synonym for heaven, a perfect place, or one’s happy zone, I’d have to say yes. “In some ways. But not this spa. I hear it’s the best.”