Spill Over (20 page)

“I’ve written two.”
The words spill before I have time to check myself.

Silence.

“
Novels
?” Dad asks.

I nod.
The surprise and pride in his voice fills me in a really good way. There’s something different about having a dad proud rather than a mom. With moms it feels almost like an obli
gation. With Dad, it just…
I feel guilty even thinking this, but it carries more weight.

“Your mom didn’t say.”

Your Mom
. My mom. S
ucks that I was afraid to tell her.
“She didn’t know.” I check our speed again, and the heading. “She’s read parts of both, but…”

“
That’s where Amber’s comment came from. About you writing your mom’s story.”
His eyes are on me. My eyes are everywhere but on him. Too personal.

“She’s reading my stuff,
”
I say.

“Feel weird?” Dad asks with a chuckle.

“Makes me
naked,” I admit.

“I remember that—
and while we’re on the topic of naked, you and Amber…”

“Are taking things very, very slow.” My eyes are
still
fixed on navigation.

Dad clears his throat.
I’m hoping it indicates a subject change. “
What kind of writing do you do?”

Funny that talking about my writing is easier than talking about Amber.

“I write fiction that I hope reads more like a literar
y memoir. I’ve done one set in E
astern Europe, one in Moscow and the one I’m working on now is set in South Africa.”
Dad and I are talking…
about something we have in common. And I
’m sailing his freaking million-
dollar boat. Six months ago I would have rolled on the floor with laughter if I thought for a second I’d be doing what I’m doing now. Although, if six months ago someone had told me I’d be living without my mom, I wouldn’t have believed that either.
A chill runs up my spine, but again, I’m getting good at shoving things away.

“The trave
ls with your mom helped you out,
”
Dad says.

“It’s why I started to write. It’s just another way of telling the story of
the
people that mom wanted to tell.”
Really
, if it was all so connected to what Mom and I did together, why couldn’t I tell
her
?
She knew I was writing, but didn’t know I was making them into books.

I’m switching screens from close up charts and wind speeds, to charts that show from Alaska to Oreg
on and our small speck of a boat in
-
b
etween.

“That’s really amazing,” he says.
“
I’d uh…
love to read one.”

I check our heading again and then check the sails. Our two knots are holding.
And I know what I’m about to say, and I can’t believe it’s about to come out of my mouth.
“I’ll email you the docs.
”
Mostly I want him to love them. Maybe part of me even wants him to see some of himself in me. That’s a new on
e—
and definitely is o
n the list of stuff I never saw coming.

“Thanks.” There’s something almost reverent about Dad’s voice as he speaks.
“I’m proud of you.”

I laugh. “Well, you haven’t read them, Dad.”
And now I’m sort of terrified about what he’ll think. I may think the kind of writing he does is beneath me, or whatever, but what if mine are crap? And I just think they’re good?

“Is this what your trip is about?”

“Part,” I tell him. I’m not sure if I want him in
on the whole thing yet. T
he idea of writing Mom’s story is daunting.

I check our headings again and adjust the autopilot a couple of degrees. I’m slowly learning not adjust more than that. Navigation’s a tricky thing.

Fifteen

I’m in a cab. In New York. No Mom.
Being here without her
hurts
like a weight that follows, digs and jabs at every opportunity. Oh, and no Dad. The crazy thing is that I don’t even feel like taking advantage of it.

Finn’s
trouble. Gem’s trouble. David’s in California. And the more I think about it, the more I just don’t care enough to try and get together with anyone else.

Now I’m wishing I’d had the guts to ask Amber to come with me.
I held her when the cab came to get me from the marina
,
and the thought of letting her
go
was torture, but
I did it anyway
.
I’m
not
sure this is my home anymore. My place. The air is heavy with memories.

The cab
slowly get
s
closer to my building. MY building. Not the one I share with Mom. Mine.
The
nagging in my gut starts penetrating my head, my heart.
I don’t
think I can do this. It’s late. M
y meeting with
Mel
Gladsman, Mom’s agent, is tomorrow. I imagine walking into the apartment alone
,
and my stomach tig
htens threatening to relieve me of th
e airpl
ane food I had on my trip cross-
country.

I open my mouth to tell him to take me to the plaza, but that’s where Mom’s services were. Now what?

Think, Antony, think.
“I changed my mind,” I say.

The cabbie glances at me in his rearview mirror.

“Uh…
Waldorf please.”

“No problem.”

I lean back in the seat and pull out my phone. I think
about how fun it would be to have a group over to my room at the Waldorf, but I don’t think I could take the stress. The thing is that I care what Amber thinks, and something like that would piss her of
f. And neither of us
have
said,
“W
ill you go out with me
.”
B
ut at the same time, I feel like we’ve shared a lot, and I’m at least smart enough to know that counts for something.

The crazy thing is that I really want it to.

The cab
drive
s
up the familiar streets with the ever
-
changing billboards
, and sea of cars and people, even on this late, rainy night
.
I climb out of the car at the hotel, grab my bag,
and I know, outwardly (
even
with my lack of a haircut)
I blend in.
I’m wearing my nice shoes, my expensive pants,
my
Armani coat
…
But inside, do I still belong here?
I have no
idea.

I step up to the counter. A young woman, not much older than me
,
smiles wide. “You’re Mr.
Preston
, is
that correc
t?” she asks.

I’m stunned into silence for a moment. “That’s me. Yes.”

“Do you have a reservation?”

C
rap. “Uh…
no. My trip to town was last minute, I…”

“It’s no problem.” Her fingers tap, tap, tap on the keyboard. “Preference for room size?”

“It’s just me.”

“Double or single suite?” she asks.

Shit. I have money, right? I’m only here for a night. “A double would be great, thank you.”
Just because.

“No problem.” Her efficient smile, fingers, and mannerisms make me remember what it’s like to be in real civilization. “Can we help you with your bag?”

I chuckle. “Nah, I got it. Thank you
, again
.” We trade
a
credit card
number
for my key
,
and I head to my roo
m. Alone in the Waldorf Astoria, feeling like an adult and like a kickass New Yorker.
So, maybe part of me could belong here still.

As soon as I step inside, I pull out my phone and send Amber a text.
MISS U. NOT STAYING
IN NY
. TOO WEIRD HERE.

I
wish she
was
here with me because I want
t
o share this with her, show her
New York
.

And it is weird
being here
, even though right now things aren’t too ba
d. Also, I figure it’ll help Amber
feel better about me being gone if I don’t actually want to be here.

Amber’s text back brings a smile to my face
.

SEE U SOON. CALL ANYTIME

Is this what it’s like to be dating someone? Where that person is just sort of
there
for you?
Like I can text her when I’m sad or can’t sleep, or just want to
talk
.

I have no idea what to do with myself
,
so I
strip down my boxers and my
T-shirt and start flipping channels on the TV. It’s been forever since I just vegged out and watched TV.
Living out a boat definitely changed what I do with my veg-out time.

My stomach starts to rumble, so I order room service. I realize my pants and shirt are wrinkled from the flight, so I ask to have them pressed. I stifle the urge to ask someone to run to Armani and pick me up a suit. I’m sure
they’d do it. Sort of amazing
what I
can get while in boxers, in my
hotel
room
.

- - -

I lower myself
back
into bed,
now the proud owner of
a nicely pressed shirt and pants, and a full stomach,
but
it
all
seems a bit ridiculous.

Dad and I do fine on his b
oat. Granted, I just learned
it
s
a million dollar boat, but still. The everyday stuff just isn’t that hard. Why do I miss this? Not that Mom
and I ever spent money for these
kind
s
of extras. But still, what was it about being here that I loved so much?

Mostly the idea of it. The image of it. Of knowing I blend in to a city that feels like the center of everything.
The middle of the rest of the world.
But
in the long run,
does that even matter?

To me, it matters that Mom is gone, a thought I have to quickly shove away. It matters that Dad loves me, even though he’s weird. It matters that I have Amber
, or that I’m part of whatever’s between us
. David, even with his…
eccentricities or immaturity, or whatever
,
is a good friend. Hélè
na, such a part of my past, also adds to who I am. Now I kind of feel like shit over Gem. Dad was probably right. She probably did want more, but she was willing to do more, with a lot less than I should have given her.

I leave
the TV on, and try to drift off, but give up.

This place
feels off
without Mom. I don’t belong here anymore.
I feel it, the weight of the knowledge that things are different. My life is different, changed, and will never be the same.

Two AM, and I know I’ll be leaving for Seattle tomorrow. I can’t stay here.
Not with this weight hanging over me.

- - -

“Antony?” Gem’s voice is unmistakable.

I spin around in the lobby of the Waldorf and almost run into her and her parents. “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Griffin.” I reach out my hand.

“Antony. It’s great to see you,” her mom says. “We’ve missed seeing you around.” And then her sympathetic face hits me.

“Yeah. I’ve missed being here,” I tell her
, just trying to hold onto some measure of politeness when every sympathetic
looks
sends splices of something sharp through me
. “Gem, do you have a sec?” I ask. And what the hell am I
thinking
?

Her e
yes flit from me to her parents. H
er carefully straightened blond hair swishes around her as her head turns. “Uh, sure.”

I step in next to her and we walk to the nearest set of small chairs.