Bryn
Mrs. Ford wants to go to Central Park with Milly on Saturday. It’s a sunny but windy day, and we take a car up to the lake, then spend the afternoon by a bench, playing with Milly. She asks if I don’t mind if her grandson meets us here. “It’s such a lovely afternoon, I don’t want to go home yet and he’s visiting.”
“Sure.” I glance at the time. “Though it’s getting late, do you mind if Sara joins you to help with Milly? I have a date tonight.” I flush.
“A date. Oh goodness, go!”
“I will, once Sara’s here to help you.” I text Sara our location, all while Mrs. Ford grills me about my date.
“Who is he? Is it serious?”
“He’s a boy I knew in high school. We recently met again and we’ve been going out for two weeks.” I pause a moment, then admit, “It’s serious. It’s the most serious relationship I’ve ever had.”
Her hand feels warm as she gives me a gentle pat on the cheek. “Don’t let that one go, if he’s the One. You hear?”
“I won’t. I won’t let him go,” I promise.
I’m smiling, but then I shift in my seat, because all of a sudden it’s embarrassing to admit that out loud—I suppose we’re not used to expressing the feelings we feel deep inside. Not in a way that’s comfortable. “You have a grandson?” I then say, switching subjects.
Her gaze instantly acquires a new, dreamlike warmth. “Yes, I do. But I really never see him. He’s been in the middle of an ugly divorce and you know how those things are. Though you’re very, very young, so maybe you don’t?” she asks me, then rambles on with a growing frown on her face. “He stays away from the city as much as possible, and goes out on business to avoid seeing her.” She says “her” like she’d say the most loathed word in the dictionary, and I instantly feel bad for her grandson.
“So he lives in Manhattan?”
“Yes, but he’s currently quite homeless, dear,” she says, sighing sadly, still looking angry and worried. “I asked him to move in with me, but he likes his space and stays at a hotel when he’s in town. Seems unfair he’s stuck in a hotel when his soon-to-be ex-wife has his gorgeous apartment up in West End.” She purses her lips tightly and reaches down to stroke Milly in a move that seems more like petting Milly gives Mrs. Ford more comfort, almost, than the pet gives Milly.
“You know,” she says, straightening slowly, “as you age, you realize how much you wish your offspring to have it better than you did, and it’s rather frustrating when they don’t.” A new little glower wrinkles her face and sparks up her eyes. “I’m an old-fashioned woman, I was born in Kansas! I’d have liked to see him happily married before I go.”
“You’re not going anywhere yet, Mrs. Ford,” I warn her, serious about this—she’s too much a sweetheart and she wears her years so wonderfully well. The world would be a sadder place without her, that’s for sure. She just smiles and chuckles a low, raspy sound, as if glad that I want her to hang around here longer.
I’m opening my water bottle and refilling Milly’s plate when I see, out of the corner of my eye, Mrs. Ford wave to someone in the distance.
“Oh, my Ian,” she says under her breath, obviously excited.
I follow her line of vision to a tall, dark-haired man of around thirty heading toward us. He’s quite…well, quite attractive. He’s wearing a white dress shirt and formal black slacks, and he’s got a serious, rather handsome face, and shiny black hair that gets ruffled by the breeze. He looks straight out of a Suits episode—he’s even got that untouchable, workaholic air stamped all over him.
Milly’s barking and leaping at him before he even reaches us, which draws out a smile from the guy.
“Bryn, this is Ian, my grandson,” Mrs. Ford introduces.
He gives me a brief nod. “Bryn,” he greets a little formally, then he smiles at his grandma. “Gran. How’s my favorite girl doing?” he asks her in a very nice, appreciative voice, and she giggles.
“Oh, you cad. Sit down.” She pulls him in next to her. I’m glad to spot Sara walking over, and I leap to my feet, too eager to head home and change for my date. “Looks like my replacement is here. I’ll see you next weekend, Mrs. Ford?”
“Yes, Brynny,” she says.
That’s when I realize Ian is rising to full height, his dark stare fixed on Sara. Sara stops walking and gapes.
The silence becomes so awkward that I feel compelled to help Sara, for some reason, even though I have no idea what exactly it is I’m helping her with. She just seems…pale. Like she’s seeing a ghost, or worse.
“Um. Ian, this is…” I begin to introduce, but he cuts me off. His tone a little different. Surprised, I think. Low, and a little questioning maybe.
“Sara. We’ve met.” He looks at her with a brief, stiff smile, and Sara just stands there with her jaw open. That’s when it hits me—I think she’s found her one-night-stand man.
I hurry into the apartment to get showered and dressed, then stress about what to wear. I slip into a comfortable pair of dress pants and blouse, with a thick belt, and a long gold necklace. I check the time, and once I’ve spent 20 minutes waiting, I text him.
Are we still on for tonight?
No reply.
I grab my sketch board and try to make some drawings, then call his number and get voicemail. “Hi. Is everything okay? Call me, please, I’m worried.”
Two hours pass. I stiffen every time I hear an ambulance outside, and I keep replaying the time I got a phone call to let me know my parents had passed. The news is on to ease my paranoia.
He’s all right, I tell myself, fighting my subconscious fears from surfacing.
I fall asleep with my sketchpad in my hand, still dressed, with my heels on.
Sara doesn’t come home until the next day.
“What happened? Did the whole city get lost last night?” I rant, worried about her too.
“We got a hotel room. We fucked, okay? End of story. He’s gone again.”
Wha—?
“Sara!” I say as she heads to her room, lightening up with the news. “You have his name now. Ian Ford.”
“Yes. He’s some mogul/magnate I couldn’t resist, but it’s done with.” She then notices my attire. “Where are you going?”
“Was. I got…I got stood up. God, I can’t believe he stood me up.” I bite my lip and shake my head. “Something is wrong. I can feel it.” I clutch my stomach.
“You’re just paranoid. He’ll call.”
But he doesn’t.
On Monday morning, I call his office. By the afternoon, when there is still no word, I head over to Christos and Co.