35
“Look at that, a soul food truck!” my dad says, pointing at a row of colorful trucks parked near the famous Washington Square Park arch. “Just when I’d really started missing the South. Perfect timing.”
Yep, perfect timing. Should be an easy conversation segue. From soul food to blackmailing city council members.
“Oh wait. False alarm.” He stops at a spot closer to the truck and squints at the sign. “Seoul, like the city. In Korea.”
“Those are two very different cuisines.” Cold wind whips me in the face. I reach up to fasten the top buttons on my jacket, but my jittery stomach appears to have traveled to my hands, so I tuck them quickly back into my pockets to hide the visible shake from my dad.
“Different indeed,” Dad mumbles while eyeing the menu. “Pho…that’s like soup, right?”
“Isn’t Pho Vietnamese?”
“Yep, I’ve moved on. Next truck over. Try to keep up, sweetheart,” he says, flashing me the con man smile. “So pho?”
“You’re right, it’s like soup,” I tell him. “Really hot soup. So my answer is yes. I’m in.”
While we wait in line and then cart steaming bowls toward a vacant table partially covered in ice and snow, I form a plan to at least attempt to lead the conversation toward the desired.
“My boyfriend asked me to go see about a boy for him,” I say, and then instantly regret the out-of-the-blue approach. That never works. I know better. “He’s been texting all morning. Wants to know if Bruno asked where he was today.”
Dad leans over his steaming bowl, allowing it to warm his face, and I follow his lead, doing the same. “Did he skip out on the job today just to see if Bruno missed him?” Dad shakes his head and laughs. “Amateur.”
“He ‘says’ he had something to do.” I use air quotes and add an eye roll for believability. “Bruno didn’t ask me anything.”
“Nor me.” Dad takes a bite of steaming soup and immediately drops his spoon. “Damn, that’s hot!”
“Exactly why I haven’t touched my spoon.” That and the fact that my churning stomach likely won’t accept this food. I turn my gaze from Dad and watch a woman in bright-blue earmuffs and matching blue gloves being dragged past our table by a gigantic black Lab. “Do you think Freddy is okay hanging with Bruno?”
“Why wouldn’t he be okay?” Something that looks a lot like nerves crosses my dad’s face but quickly vanishes, and he picks up his spoon again. “I’m giving it another go. Hopefully my taste buds will remain intact after.”
“Dad.” I level him with a look. “We’ve already had this argument. Mobsters are, no matter what you say, something to worry about. Pretty much always. Remember that was one of Mom’s favorite sayings? ‘At least we’re not the mafia.’”
My mother’s words spilled out effortlessly without any planning on my part. Words I’d forgotten until now. Dad’s spoon pauses over his bowl, but then he dunks it right back in, gulping another bite, probably scalding the back of his throat.
“Huh,” he says all casual. “Well, your memory is probably better than mine.”
Okaaay? No, probably not. “Really? You don’t remember?” I press and earn a whatever shrug from my father. “She said that. All the time. And we both know Mom’s instincts and judge of character were better than either of ours.”
“I guess.” He stirs his soup and then points to a piece of meat floating at the top of my bowl. “The beef is amazing. Give it a try.”
I study him, trying to guess his angle. There’s no way he doesn’t remember those things. But then again, he is the man who wrote off his firstborn without a second thought, the man who dove right into planning this New York City con practically seconds after Mom was hauled off to prison. “All her sayings turned out to be true, you know? ‘A lie is so much better when it’s wrapped in truth.’ Do you remember that one?”
My phone vibrates in my lap but I don’t stop to look at it. I can guess Sheldon’s text without even looking: What are you doing? Where are you going with this? And the truth is I don’t know where I’m going. Definitely not anywhere near Jojo and his many dark political corners. I just want my dad to say that he remembers. Or maybe even to snap at me and tell me to give it a rest, because it’s too painful to think about Mom. But none of those things happen. He’s too busy pointing out floating meat in our Seoul Food.
“Maybe,” he says. “But you know me, I reserve my memory space for storing the words of drunken literary rogues.”
I shove my soup away and lean back in my chair, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at him. My game face is long gone. “You’re right. I do know you. I know that about you. Because you’re my family.”
I wait expectantly for him to say something, apologize or backtrack or at least acknowledge the point I’m trying to make. But as I fume more and more inside, he grows more relaxed. Which pisses me off royally. “You know about her sentencing, right?”
“Oh.” He finally looks up from the soup, giving me an ounce of hope that he cares. “Has that happened already?”
“Has it happened already?” I repeat. “Seriously? I know you’re off the grid by choice, but how could you not—”
“Look, Ellie,” he states, straightening in his chair. “It is what it is. Your mom of all people wouldn’t want me dwelling on details like number of months—”
“Months!” I suppress the urge to toss my bowl of pho at him. “Try years, Dad. Ten, to be exact.”
And if you keep that wall up, I may be joining her, too.
His eyes dart to the right and then shift to the left as if checking to see if I’ve created a scene. “Like I said, your mother wouldn’t want me dwelling.”
My cheeks burn with anger even in this cold temperature. How can you pledge to love someone forever, have children with them, and then not dwell on their ten-year prison sentence? Is this how Miles does it? How he can just be with me one day and not the next? Like, “Okay, we can’t be together, guess it’s time to get on with the next big job”? If only it were that easy for me. I wouldn’t have to worry about my thoughts drifting to Miles or constantly fighting the desire to sniff the sweatshirt he loaned me way back in November. If I were like Dad, I wouldn’t even be here right now. I’d still be back at home with Harper, enjoying some corny—and free—Holden Prep January session course. But based on the fact that he’s barely given Mom a second thought while I’ve been obsessing over how to get Mom out of jail, I’m not anything like my father. My heart beats a painful bloody rhythm, oozing guilt and love and hurt while his seems to be made of steel or ice. Something that shields him against all these feelings I can’t keep at bay. Maybe that’s why I can’t shake that admiration for him. Maybe I just wish my heart were cold like his so I didn’t have to care.
But I’m not built like him. And I do care. Far, far too much.
“Did you ask her?” I challenge. “Did you ask her how she’s doing? If she can survive ten years—” My voice catches; my throat is clogged. I swallow back tears, determined not to shed any in Dad’s presence.
“I can’t ask her that,” he says quietly. “You know I can’t go and see her.”
“Because it’s you they really wanted to catch,” I blurt out, and finally earn a reaction from him. I flinch slightly as the words hit him and turn over in his head.
Those were definitely not the right words. Sheldon is probably having a heart attack. But it’s not like it isn’t common knowledge. The plan had been for him to walk into the bank that day. He has to know I’ve thought about that, even if he doesn’t know I’m the one who tipped off the FBI.
Instead of denying or commenting on my accusation, he pushes his chair back and grabs both our bowls, not even bothering to ask me if I’m finished. While he’s striding toward the garbage can, the anger bursting and fighting inside me like a caged animal evens out into a more controlled, deliberate rage offering the potential for premeditated use. I flip over my phone in my lap and punch a quick text to Sheldon.
ME: only him. Promise?
The answer comes less than ten seconds later, my dad still on his way back from tossing our barely eaten lunch.
SHELDON: yes. Only him. U have my word
I push my chair back and stand right in front of my dad. “If it were you…instead of her,” I say, watching his face for signs of some remorse, but he looks like he might attempt a joke any second. “She would be a wreck and would do anything to—” I stop, my voice about to crack. I close my eyes for a split second and breathe. Maybe he doesn’t deserve to know what she would be like if things had gone as planned that day in the bank. I’m done hoping for the best with him. I’m always disappointed. “Mom would have never let our family partner up with mobsters. She’d never want the risk or to put anyone in danger. She definitely wouldn’t approve of threatening and blackmailing an important political—”
His eyes widen in surprise. He grips the sleeve of my coat, tugging me closer, and then leans in, his voice low. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“No?” The thick scent of confession rises into the cold air, offering an insatiable high, and soon any remaining doubts I had about today’s plan are long gone. “The Zanettis made you come up with this talent agency con? They made you take compromising photos of a New York City council member? That’s surprising, considering the fact that planning for the Zanettis usually doesn’t go much further than carrying an extra magazine and silencer.”
“You’re right,” he says in a low voice, looking stricken, his eyes checking the perimeter again.
Clinging to that high, I hear Sheldon’s voice inside my head: More, we need more.
“About which part?” I say, and coat the words in as much teenage sarcasm as possible. “The fact that it’s your fault I won’t have a mother again until I’m nearly thirty? Or that the Zanettis are too gun-happy to come up with a multilayered blackmail plan?”
“Keep your voice down,” he orders. “You’re right about the plan. It was my idea to get those pictures of Jojo. But as for your mother? It needed to be her. Not me. Because we both know she isn’t strong enough to lead this family, to hold everyone together, to make the tough decisions.”
For a moment I’m paralyzed by shock. I did it. I actually freakin’ did it. And then his words hit me like a smack across the face. I stumble back, wanting nothing more than distance between us. I let the anger take over, mask the hurt. “You know what? I don’t need this. Maybe you can just move on, decide to cross lines our family swore to never step over, but I can’t. I definitely don’t want to be around when this giant bomb you’ve so carefully built explodes.”
It all makes sense now. The mixed signals from him, the way he let me join the team but kept me in the dark about the biggest parts. He’s okay with me being around if it’s easy, if I don’t ask much of him. But when things get too hard for my dad—like keeping in touch with a wife locked up in federal prison or accepting a daughter who wants a different life—he moves on to the next location, the next con.
I’m not about to let him know how much he hurt me. Not about to watch him walk away. Without another moment’s hesitation, I turn my back on him and walk away. The phone in my hand vibrates. I take half a second to glance at it.
SHELDON: that’s a wrap.
SHARP: Nicely done.
My second successful job as an informant. And this time, I’m not carrying even a drop of guilt. I did exactly what I came to do.