Henry

The champagne is flowing, but I’m hitting the scotch.

Unfortunately, no amount of drinking will kill enough brain cells to make me forget what an asshole I was.

There’s a jazz trio on the other end of the lavishly decorated ballroom and Jana Jacabowski is trying to pull me away from the bar toward the dance floor.

“Not in the dancing mood,” I say, setting my glass down for the man to refill.

Because all I can think about is the hurt on Vicky’s face.

She never asked to play pet whisperer for my mother. She certainly never asked for that will to be changed. She thought she was getting money for taking Smuckers to some overpriced celebrity vet.

And I wouldn’t trust her.

Of all the women I’ve been with, she’s the only one who doesn’t seem to care about the Locke fortune, the only one who bothered to look behind my name and wealth.

And what do I do? Treat her like a grifter.

My texts stopped delivering to her. Blocked. My calls go to voice mail, and I doubt she’s been listening to those.

I stopped by the makers co-op. She wasn’t there. I probably seemed desperate. I’m not embarrassed. I’ll keep trying. I won’t give up.

Jana Jacabowski waits. We had an arrangement to be seen here together and talk up each other’s causes. She and her sister have been good allies for us.

Brett casts a warning look at me. “Brett’ll dance,” I say.

Brett puts on his most charming smile for her. What am I doing? Another dick move.

I snap the fuck out of it. The four of us have a deal. This is about the business. I down the scotch and take her out to the floor, moving on autopilot, dancing, chatting, spinning Jana around. She’s a force for good in the city, a woman I respect. A dip for the cameras. She screams and laughs. Another spin.

I let Vicky down big-time. It doesn’t mean I have to go on permanent asshole mode with people who need me.

Brett and Maddie Jacabowski spin by. I smile. If Vicky were here, she’d see right through that smile.

Jana and I do our time with the politicians. This is where she shines—the Jacabowski women are total movers.

A councilperson compliments me on the dog PR stunt. I laugh it off.

We discuss the Ten, the project everyone is excited about. “The Ten is transitional,” I tell him. “It’s forward-looking, yes, but I’m taking things much further now that I’m moving into leadership.”

Translation: it’s too late to make the Ten into the cool project it could be.

“Once you take over leadership from the dog?”

“Yeah, once I take over from the dog,” I say smoothly.

“You guys actually did a stock transfer. That’s ballsy.”

“He really is in charge. He and his advocate.” I wink. “We’re doing our best to guide him. Smuckers would be putting fire hydrants all over Manhattan if he had his way.”

Jana laughs. “The dog has more vision than some builders.” I suppress a smile, enjoying her dig at Dartford & Sons, assholes of the building community.

Brett’s there and we’re posing for photographs. Somebody grabs Jana away and I use the opportunity to hit the bar again, but then I see Renaldo, hanging out on the fringes of the place with one of the retired city managers.

They’re elderly guys who are still important for their wealth of knowledge, but they have zero power anymore. I go over, keep my back to the brightly colored dresses and black tuxedoes, so many peacocks peacocking it up.

Renaldo lumbers up from his seat and claps me on the back. “Henry!”

“He was telling me about the Ten,” the man says.

Through my scotch-fuelled haze, I scramble to remember my picture for him—a fish. A whale.

“Jonah,” I say, taking his hand, clapping mine over his.

The three of us take a seat at the edge of the place and talk development. Bonding. We talk about the Ten. I want another scotch, but I go for a club soda to avoid the famous Renaldo side-eye.

Jana Jacabowski waves from across the room—she’s leaving with a friend. I sit back and relax.

“So what’s really going on?” Renaldo asks me as soon as we’re alone.

“I fucked up. I didn’t go with my gut.”

“Tell me,” he says.

It’s been ages since I went to Renaldo with something. He knows about Vicky and Smuckers, of course. I lay it all out. I tell him about humoring her until the competency hearing. I tell him about taking her around the company, and how incredible it’s been. The bright, fun energy she brings. The goodness of working with her. I tell him about the makers space. “You would love it,” I say. “Spending just that time with her without all the bullshit, that was amazing. We were amazing. She’s special.”

I tell him I’m more convinced than ever that she accidentally fell into this thing. Lay out everything about that.

Then I tell him about the joke she made and he winces. “Ouch. A dog face?”

“I didn’t have to let it fuck me up. Like I couldn’t be strong for the firm and open-minded about her at the same time? I had to react.”

He smiles into the distance.

“What?” I demand.

“She hit your button,” he says. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Henry.”

I watch him warily, bright brown eyes and skin like leather.

“Your mother was a crazy bitch. She dedicated her life to smashing every sand castle you managed to build. My picture of your childhood is you sitting on the front stoop of your mansion, clutching that bear of yours, crying your eyes out because she’d left. Yet again. Bernadette was a narcissistic gold digger who blamed you for everything. And your father didn’t do shit to correct that.”

“Don’t,” I say. “That’s enough.” He’d always kept opinions like that to himself.

“Yet you always wanted her love. You’d follow her around. Remember how she always called you Pokey?”

Pokey. Her nickname for me. “I never could keep up with her.”

“Of course you couldn’t. You were a child.”

I shrug. “I'm glad for how she was. She taught me to be strong, to rely on myself.”

“You’ve never been a liar, Henry. Don’t start now.”

I turn to him. It’s been a while since Renaldo lowered the boom. “What?”

“Please.” He mimics my shrug. “Like you don’t care. You loved her and she broke your heart. These last few years, I know the Christmas gifts you’d send her would come back unopened. The cards returned, the calls unanswered. You never stopped trying to be a good son to her. You didn’t want to be made strong. You wanted a relationship.”

I frown.

He gives me a long look. “I watched you build this company, even with Kaleb blocking your best ideas. You sweat blood for this company. These people. Then your mother comes along and gives a strange woman absolute power over it. A woman who has zero reasons to care about it.”

Who seems to actively hate rich guys, I think, but I don’t say it. “Vicky’s starting to care about it. She’s starting to get what we’re doing.”

“Not the point.” Renaldo crosses his legs, face grim. “She makes a joke about repainting the cranes in some ridiculous image? That’s what your mother would do. Except she’d actually do it. You believed the worst because how else could it be?”

“I acted like she was my mother.”

“Your button,” he says.

“I need to apologize. I need to tell her…” Something. Everything.

“Do it, then.”

“She won’t see me. She won’t answer my calls and texts.”

“Think of something. You’re Henry fucking Locke, for crissake.”

That’s how I end up in the waterfront workshop at three in the morning. I'm up in the third-floor model room. My tuxedo jacket is slung over a drafting table. I have an extra-large coffee at hand, but I barely need it.

I’m awake. Sobered up. Somebody was fucking with my world, but it wasn’t Vicky.

She won’t answer my calls, but I can still talk to her—in a language she understands better than English. I work into the night and all through the morning.