Reflected in You

I made it back to my desk.



I worked industriously for the rest of the day.



During my lunch break, I stayed in and looked up things to do with my dad.



I decided on three possibilities - the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, and a Broadway play, with the trip to Ellis Island reserved for if he really had a desire to go.



Otherwise, I figured we could skip the ferry and just check her out from the shore.



His time in the city was short, and I didn't want to overload it with a bunch of running around.



On my last break of the day, I called Gideon's office.



"Hi, Scott," I greeted his secretary.



"Is it possible for me to talk to your boss real quick?" "Hold on a minute and I'll see."



I half-expected to have my call rejected, but a couple of minutes later I was put through.



"Yes, Eva?" I took the length of a heartbeat to savor the sound of his voice.



"I'm sorry to bother you.



This is probably a stupid question, considering, but .



are you coming to dinner tomorrow to meet my father?" "I'll be there," he said gruffly.



"Are you bringing Ireland?" I was surprised there wasn't a tremor in my voice, considering the overwhelming relief I felt.



There was a pause.



Then, "Yes."



"Okay."



"I have a late meeting tonight, so I'll have to meet you at Dr.



Petersen's.



Angus will drive you over.



I'll grab a cab."



"All right."



I sagged into my seat, feeling a spark of hope.



Continuing therapy and meeting my dad could only be seen as positive signs.



Gideon and I were struggling.



But he hadn't given up yet.



"I'll see you then."



* * *



Angus dropped me off at Dr.



Petersen's office at a quarter to six.



I went inside and Dr.



Petersen waved at me through his open office door, rising from his seat behind his desk to shake my hand.



"How are you, Eva?" "I've been better."



His gaze swept over my face.



"You look tired."



"So everyone keeps telling me," I said dryly.



He looked over my shoulder.



"Where's Gideon?" "He had a late meeting, so he's coming separately."



"All right."



He gestured at the sofa.



"This is a nice opportunity for us to talk alone.



Is there anything in particular you'd like to discuss before he arrives?" I settled on the seat and spilled my guts, telling Dr.



Petersen about the amazing trip to the Outer Banks and then the bizarre, inexplicable week we'd had since.



"I just don't get it.



I feel like he's in trouble, but I can't get him to open up at all.



He's completely cut me off emotionally.



Honestly, I'm beginning to get whiplash.



I'm also worried that his change in behavior is because of Corinne.



Every time we've hit one of these walls, it's because of her."



I looked at my fingers, which were twisted around each other.



They reminded me of my mother's habit of twisting handkerchiefs, and I forced my hands to relax.



"It almost seems like she's got some kind of hold on him and he can't break free of it, no matter how he feels about me."



Dr.



Petersen looked up from his typing, studying me.



"Did he tell you that he wasn't going to make his appointment on Tuesday?" "No."



The news hit me hard.



"He didn't say anything."



"He didn't tell me, either.



I wouldn't say that's typical behavior for him, would you?" I shook my head.



Dr.



Petersen crossed his hands in his lap.



"At times, one or both of you will backtrack a bit.



That's to be expected considering the nature of your relationship - you're not just working on you as a couple, but also as individuals so you can be a couple."



"I can't deal with this, though."



I took a deep breath.



"I can't do this yo- yo thing.



It's driving me insane.



The letter I sent him .



It was awful.



All true, but awful.



We've had some really beautiful moments together.



He's said some - " I had to stop a minute, and when I continued, my voice was hoarse.



"He's said some w-wonderful things to me.



I don't want to lose those memories in a bunch of ugly ones.



I keep debating whether I should quit while I'm ahead, but I'm hanging in here because I promised him - and myself - that I wouldn't run anymore.



That I was going to dig my feet in and fight for this."



"That's something you're working on?""Yes.



Yes, it is.



And it's not easy.



Because some of the things he does .



I react in ways I've learned to avoid.



For my own sanity! At some point you have to say you gave it your best shot and it didn't work out.



Right?" Dr.



Petersen's head tilted to the side.



"And if you don't, what's the worst that could happen?" "You're asking me?" "Yes.



Worst-case scenario."



"Well ."



I splayed my fingers on my thighs.



"He keeps drifting away from me, which makes me cling harder and lose all sense of self-worth.



And we end up with him going back to life as he knew it and me going back to therapy trying to get my head on straight again."



He continued to look at me, and something about his patient watchfulness prodded me to keep talking.



"I'm afraid that he won't cut me loose when it's time and that I won't know better.



That I'll keep hanging on to the sinking ship and go down with it.



I just wish I could trust that he'd end it, if it comes to that."



"Do you think that needs to happen?" "I don't know.



Maybe."



I pulled my gaze away from the clock on the wall.



"But considering it's nearly seven and he stood us both up tonight, it seems likely."



* * *



It was crazy to me that I wasn't surprised to find the Bentley waiting outside my apartment at quarter to five in the morning.



The driver who climbed out from behind the wheel when I stepped outside wasn't familiar to me.



He was much younger than Angus; early thirties was my guess.



He looked Latino, with rich caramel-hued skin, and dark hair and eyes.



"Thanks," I told him, when he rounded the front of the vehicle, "but I'll just grab a cab."



Hearing that, the night doorman to my building stepped out to the street to flag one down for me.



"Mr.



Cross said I'm to take you to La Guardia," the driver said.



"You can tell Mr.



Cross that I won't be requiring his transportation services now or in the future."



I moved toward the cab the doorman had hailed, but stopped and turned around.



"And tell him to go fuck himself, too."



I slid into the cab and settled back as it pulled away.



* * *



I'll admit to some bias when I say my father stands out in a crowd, but that didn't make it less true.



As he exited the secure security area, Victor Reyes commanded attention.



He was six feet tall, fit and well built, and had the commanding presence of a man who wore a badge.



His gaze raked the immediate area around him, always a cop even when he wasn't on duty.



He had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and wore blue jeans with a black button-down shirt.



His hair was dark and wavy, his eyes stormy and gray like mine.



He was seriously hot in a brooding, dangerous, bad boy sort of way, and I tried to picture him alongside my mother's fragile, haughty beauty.



I'd never seen them together, not even in pictures, and I really wanted to.



If only just once.



"Daddy!" I yelled, waving.



His face lit up when he saw me, and a wide smile curved his mouth.



"There's my girl."



He picked me up in a hug that had my feet dangling above the floor.



"I've missed you like crazy."



I started crying.



I couldn't help it.



Being with him again was the last emotional straw.



"Hey."



He rocked me.



"What's with the tears?" I wrapped my arms tighter around his neck, so grateful to have him with me, knowing all the other troubles in my life would fade into the background while he was around.



"I missed you like crazy, too," I said, sniffling.



We took a cab back to my place.



On the ride over, my dad asked me the same sort of investigative questions about Cary's attack as the detectives had asked Cary in the hospital.



I tried to keep him distracted with that discussion when we pulled up outside my building, but it didn't do any good.



My dad's eagle eyes took in the modern glass overhang attached to the brick fa?ade of the building.



He stared at the doorman, Paul, who touched the brim of his hat and opened the door for us.



He studied the front desk and concierge, and rocked back on his heels as we waited for the elevator.



He didn't say anything and kept his poker face on, but I knew he was thinking about how much my digs must cost in a city like New York.



When I showed him into my apartment, his sweeping gaze took in the size of the place.



The massive windows had a stunning view of the city, and the flat- screen television mounted on the wall was just one of the many top-of-the- line electronics on display.



He knew I couldn't afford the place on my own.



He knew my mother's husband was providing for me in ways he would never be able to.



And I wondered if he thought about my mother, and how what she needed was also beyond his means.



"The security here is really tight," I told him by way of explanation.



"It's impossible to get past the front desk if you're not on the list and a resident can't be reached to vouch for you."