My loft in Soho is a bit less optimally configured for unproblematic exhibitionism than the Sexton Hotel. There’s a reason a Superior Room there is usually well over a thousand dollars a night, more during tourist peaks when I avoid it like the plague.

In this neighborhood, I have to sacrifice height for quality of life, so the windows of my seventh-floor, not-so-humble abode look out onto the residential building across the street. Mostly, my near constant state of undress causes no problems in this neighborhood. Just one of those eccentricities that comes with living like a “real” New Yorker. Directly across from me resides the typical overworked, overpaid yuppie couple who are too busy and self-involved to give a shit about my state of undress. At least that’s the case while the male counterpart is up and about. On more than one occasion, I’ve caught the missus idly sipping her morning coffee while staring out the window at the morning view with a discreet smile on her face, hubby still sound asleep or taking a shower. The early bird catches the worm, so to speak. Not that what I’m packing resembles a worm in any way. Unfortunately, last week I saw them throwing one of those reveal parties—it’s a boy!—so I may soon have new voyeurs in that one-bedroom apartment.

I’m naked as usual Sunday night, still thinking about Prynne, mostly what she looked like in the throes of a climax, her hand furiously going to work between her legs in front of that window. The Knicks game on the TV is on mute while Black Sabbath is blasting from a set of speakers, the perfect soundtrack to accompany the vivid memories in my head. The combination is enough for me to almost miss the sound of my phone vibrating on the side table next to the couch. I pick it up, more irritated at the disruption of my thoughts—which I was just considering making good use of—than the music, which I turn off.

The name on the caller ID is enough to deflate any hint of an erection I feel coming on: Dad.

My morbid curiosity wins the battle against my wish to end Sunday on a good note. My father usually uses my mother as a conduit for any information he wishes to convey (“Your father and I wish you a happy birthday.” “Merry Christmas from both of us.” “Your father sends his regards.”). When he doesn’t, it’s rarely good news.

“Father dearest!” I answer in an upbeat tone, just to annoy him. Clark Connors is not an upbeat man. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s my understanding that your mother talked with you last week and told you the news about my running for Congress.” Clark Connors is well known for cutting right to the chase.

“She did,” I reply in a perfectly neutral tone as I get up and head to the fridge to grab a beer. My eyes catch my well stocked—but oddly enough, rarely used—bar in their periphery and I decide to make a detour. I think something stronger than an IPA is going to be needed.

“I’d like to meet with you in person to go over, in detail, exactly what I expect from you.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” I grunt into the phone.

His sigh on the other end is perfectly audible and I can’t help the smirk that comes to my face as I pour two fingers of bourbon. “Rhys, you’re going to be a part of this whether you like it or not. You might as well have a full understanding of what it’s going to be like.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to drag me along on the campaign trail with you.” For a brief, terrible moment, I wonder if that’s the case.

“Not to worry, I plan on keeping you as far away from this as possible. The less people associate me with you, the better.”

“Gee thanks, Dad.” I’m pissed to hear the bitter tone in my voice, even though what he said is just as ideal for me as it is for him.

“Do you want to be actively involved in this?” He asks, his voice laced with sarcasm. Though I’m surprised to hear the tiniest hint of sincerity underneath it.

“Of course not,” I respond truthfully.

“I thought not.”

“So why don’t we just hash it all out now over the phone?” I say before taking a sip of the amber liquid in my glass and heading back to the couch.

“There’s far too much to discuss over the phone. Besides, there are other people who need to be involved. My campaign manager, the attorneys, handlers—”

“Wait a second. My handlers or yours?” I ask, feeling that usual resentment begin to creep up on me.

There’s a pause on the other end before he answers. “Don’t be naïve, Rhys. You and I both know that there are certain…things that will come to light. We both need to be prepared for that.”

“Oh just come out and say it, Dad. The video. Princeton. Meghan. The fucking allegations. The—”

“Enough.” He uses that soft, stern tone that always got me to shut up. It doesn’t work this time.

“You know what, maybe this is a good thing. Maybe I can finally clear my name for once. Have someone finally listen to my side of the story, instead of throwing me to the wolves.”

“Oh grow up, Rhys!” he snaps. “That’s not how things work. Do you honestly think your side of the story matters? Truth doesn’t matter anymore. The only thing that matters is perception.”

“Does that mean you actually believe me?” Again, my voice is dripping with sarcasm, mostly to cover how absurdly hopeful I really am, grasping at that one word: Truth.

“It doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not.” He says it so matter of factly, so completely devoid of any emotion, that I’m actually hurt, even though I should be used to it by now.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.” This time there’s no underlying sentiment to my sarcasm.

“Again, Rhys, my opinion of you doesn’t matter.”

It does to me! I want to scream into the phone. I know it will fall on deaf ears, just as it did the first time. I take a long sip of bourbon to silence it.

“This is a different era,” he continues. “If anything, things are even more precarious than ever. This whole ‘me too’ movement has everyone walking on eggshells around this sort of thing. If I want to get the female vote, we have to be sensitive to their opinions on the matter.”

“I can’t tell whether that’s you being progressive or patronizing. Knowing you, I’ll go with the latter.”

It rolls right off him like all of my barbs. “The onus will mostly fall on you, Rhys. I expect you to at least do your part. Not just for my sake—I should dare hope for so much goodwill from my only son—but for your own conscience.”

A sharp laugh escapes my lips. “Are you fucking serious? First, let me assure you, Dad, my conscience is quite clear. Second, as far as goodwill goes, it’s a two-way street. Had you given me at least a bit of benefit of the doubt, we wouldn’t even need to have this conversation. I might have just swallowed my pride and played ball. Now, I just—”

“We’re arranging a meeting with Meghan.”

That’s enough to shut me up. I sit straight up from the couch, going rigid with surprise. Mother already told me that they had been talking with her parents, who have always been more than happy to air their grievances, quite loudly. Since first “confessing” what happened to her, Meghan has always remained completely tight-lipped about the whole affair.

“She agreed to meet and talk?” I ask warily, not bothering to get my hopes up. The idea of meeting her face-to-face and looking her dead in the eye—something I never got to do the first time around—is too much to hope for.

“Not yet, but we’re working on it. Her name is bound to be revealed soon enough and I’m sure she realizes how much her life will be affected. Frankly, it’s best for everyone if we create the narrative instead of the press, in a way that’s a win-win for everyone involved.”

“Why do I suspect this win-win situation doesn’t include yours truly?” I say, falling back into the couch, my cynicism returning with full force. “In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion, my role is the sacrificial lamb.”

“This is why I’d like to meet with you in person, Rhys. No one is getting sacrificed, but this has to be managed in a way that just can’t be done over the phone. With my team we can—”

“No.” My eyes are dead as I stare at the TV and take a sip of bourbon.

“Excuse me?”

“I said no, Dad. You do what you need to do. Feel free to throw me under the bus. Heaven knows I’m used to it.”

His voice is tense, with a definite hard edge when he responds. “Like I said, Rhys, there will be no sacrificial lambs here. Throwing you under the bus would hurt me almost as much as it would you.”

“That’s almost enough to tempt me,” I say, my sarcasm coming back to thaw out the numbness that threatened to take over.

“So you’re going to be stubborn enough to not even want to try and fix this, all for the sake of your pride?”

“There’s nothing to fix, Dad. My life right now is grand. Dealing with you, your handlers, Meghan and her family? That would just make it worse. I prefer to maintain the current status quo.”

“How long do you think that will last once the press gets its hands on the story?”

“I’ll deal with that when it comes.”

“I think you should reconsider.”

I pause for a moment before responding. Talking with Dad has this habit of making me spit out the first sharp retort that comes to mind (in this case, a hearty “fuck you”) instead of a more appropriate response. “I’ll tell you what. If you manage to connect with Meghan and get her to talk, I’m in. But…I have conditions.”

“Which are?” he asks warily.

“I meet with her alone. No handlers. No parents. No one but her and me. Alone.”

“Why on earth would she agree to that?” he asks with utter disbelief.

I rub a little salve on that wound before replying. “I think you’d be surprised.”

There’s a pause on the other end before he responds. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I’d like you to reconsider meeting with my team and me. I really do think it’s for the best.”

“Gotta go, Dad. The Knicks game is on.” I hang up before he can respond. I toss the phone back onto the side table, knowing he won’t bother calling back. If anything, the next time I hear from him will be through mother, soothing over the burns in the hopes that I’ll just do what he asks. Good luck with that one, Dad.

My mind focuses on what I’d say if he actually does manage to get Meghan to agree to talk to me. I’ve played it out in my head so many times, each scenario wildly different, that the possibilities are endless. I’ve imagined everything from a sort of hidden camera gotcha! moment, complete with public vindication, to simply reaching across the table and throttling her. Five years down the line, those thoughts still linger, but right now I simply want an answer: Why?

I sigh and take a sip of my bourbon. As much as he has a tendency to make me dig in my heels, Dad does have a point. This fun little zit on the ass of my life is about to come to a head again, turning my world upside down, hopefully not as bad as the first time around.

My glass pauses at my lips as I factor in another consideration. Prynne. She’s bound to learn about what happened eventually, colored by whatever “narrative” Dad’s people come up with, which may not necessarily work in my favor. I wonder how she’ll take it.

Of course the solution is obvious. I have to tell her myself what really happened.

“Fuck me,” I growl before finishing off the rest of my bourbon.