As I head to a group of network execs to put in more time, my father strides over, intercepting me. Joan is with him. She looks regal, her chestnut mane swept up in a chignon.

  She smiles affectionately at me. “Let’s raise a glass in a toast to our star,” she says.

  “Of course,” Dad seconds.

  He doesn’t even have to clear his throat. He commands a room by his mere presence, playing the part he’s mastered. A modern-day Gatsby, complete with the slicked-back hair and semi-permanent grin. His eyes gleam with fatherly pride. “To my daughter. I’ve never been prouder,” he says to the crowd, then he wraps an arm around me. “Paris will be lucky to have you this fall.”

  I’m his prize, all right. I smile, the bright, shiny kind that charms his friends. Something else I learned from an early age. Be nice to Daddy’s associates and you can do what you want.

  “Thank you,” I say to the crowd that’s smiling at me but sucking up to my father.

  Except Bridger. He doesn’t need to suck up to my dad. He’s his equal. Equal shares in the company. Equal say. His dark eyes meet mine as the partygoers lift their glasses and give a collective Cheers.

  “Thank you so much,” I say.

  When the guests return to their networking, my father weaving back into the sea of black and white and gray, the paisley lady says goodbye to Bridger. Buoyed by Layla’s shot of confidence, I’m determined to snag a few minutes of his time before someone else corrals him. So he can see me as a woman, not my father’s daughter.

  Like that, I pass my drink to a waitperson and go to him.

  4

  Lucky New York

  Harlow

  * * *

  When I reach Bridger, I flash him a grin. “Want a refill?” I ask, eyeing his empty hands, taking a gamble with my offer.

  “No thanks,” he says, then his gaze travels to my legs, a smile shifting his lips. “You’re walking without help again.”

  A zing rushes down my back. He noticed my legs.

  I gesture to my high-heeled feet. “And I have a cool scar,” I say.

  His eyebrow lifts. “You do?”

  “On my ankle. I’m not sure if the bike cut me up or the cab. Either way, I got marked,” I tell him, a little playfully, then I turn to the side, hoping he enjoys the profile view as I bend, pointing toward the vicinity of the inch-long jagged scar, still pink. “Right there.”

  As he looks down, he swallows. Roughly, maybe. Or is that my imagination? “Yeah, that’s some scar,” he says, giving nothing away.

  “Guess we’re both cool now,” I say, then tilt my head, weighing the next thing on my mind. “By the way, I didn’t think you’d accept my drink offer.”

  He takes a beat. “But you made it anyway?”

  “I wanted to see if I was right.”

  His brow knits in curiosity. I’ve set the trap. He’s taking my bait. “I’ll bite. Right about what?”

  The next words come out cool, casual. Like I’m just this observant about everything. “You don’t drink,” I say.

  There’s a glint in his eyes. “You noticed?” He sounds mildly surprised, but I can’t quite tell if he’s making conversation to pass the time or because he enjoys talking to me.

  But now’s my chance. I meet his blue-eyed gaze straight on. “I notice things,” I say, nervous and thrilled over the admission.

  He’s quiet for a few seconds. Then he says, in that measured, even tone, “Yeah. You do.”

  It’s an observation. Maybe a curiosity. Almost impossible to read.

  “I do,” I say.

  He scratches his jaw, then says, “So NYU, and now a semester in Paris.” Like he needs the conversational shift. “You picked well.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say, a grin teasing at my lips. “I’ll be back in December. You can’t take the girl out of New York for long.”

  “Lucky New York,” he says, and I want to cup those words in my palms for the rest of the night. The rest of the year.

  I smile, buoyed by his response as I work out a reply to keep this going when Dad shoulders his way past me.

  The buzz-killer nods at the man I’m in lust with.

  “Bridger, I must steal you away. Lionel from the UK office is here,” Dad says.

  Yes, of course Lionel from the UK office would attend my celebration.

  I grit my teeth in annoyance but just smile like the good daughter. Even though Dad doesn’t even say a word to me. He just whisks Bridger away and that’s the end of that.

  Later, I’m still feeling bold from his Lucky New York, like I’ve been shot up with a feel-good drug. Something that makes me feel bigger than the world. I slide into bed, under the covers, touching the wooden box of letters I keep on my nightstand. It’s safe. Then, I place the phone on my pillow, just inches from me. I run my finger along the necklace I wear every day, feeling the shape of the I that hangs from it.

  I for the French word intrépidité.

  Then, as if champagne is bubbling through me—but it’s not, not one bit—I tap open my text messages. At last, I have a reason to use that number.

  I’m brave. I’m intrepid.

  * * *

  Harlow: I notice other things too. Like how good you looked in your shirt.

  * * *

  Then I hit send, a little high, a lot on top of the world.

  As I get ready for bed, I check for a reply.

  Nothing.

  After I slip into a pair of sleep shorts, I look once more.

  Silence.

  I close my eyes, but sleep is so far away it might as well be in Indonesia.

  In the morning, I wake to a blinking icon. I catch my breath.

  * * *

  Bridger: Thanks. Bespoke makes great shirts.

  * * *

  Hmm. Well, it’s not what I wanted but it’s something. It’s more than a thanks. Maybe it’s even an opening.

  Once I’m up and out of bed, I find my dad in the kitchen, brewing a cup of tea and nuzzling Joan’s neck.

  “Morning, love,” he says to me when he pulls away from his fiancée.

  “Hello, Harlow,” Joan says with a slightly embarrassed grin, like they were caught doing more than neck kissing.

  I’ve seen so much worse, honey.

  “Hi Joan. Hi Dad,” I say breezily, then head for the fruit basket to grab a peach. When I finish it, I say, “I’m going for a bike ride.”

  It’s my first time in the saddle since I broke my ankle, and my scar makes me feel intrepid as I ride.

  5

  This Color Would Look Good on You

  Harlow

  * * *

  A week later, I’m shopping in the Village with Layla and Ethan at a trendy boutique. He needs a sexy shirt for our last weekend in the Hamptons. Layla needs a barely there top. I need nothing—I’m not trying to impress anyone at our final party before we fan out to universities around the world next week for our senior years.

  When they head to the dressing room, I wander around the men’s clothing section, running my fingers over the shirts.

  Then, my gaze catches on the brand name on one tag.

  Bespoke.

  I glance around, furtive.

  This would be risky. A little wild.

  But the risk fuels me. I hold up the teal button-down shirt in front of me. It’s too big, of course. It’s a men’s large.

  Grabbing my phone, I angle the camera just so.

  I don’t show my face. Instead, I snap a pic of the shirt fabric laying against me.

  That’s all. Before I can think better of it, I send it with the caption: This color would look good on you.

  I tuck the phone away, resisting its insistent pull for the next hour. But when I’m nibbling on a chickpea dish at a sidewalk café Ethan picks for lunch, my phone buzzes.

  Immediately, my chest zings.

  It has to be him.

  When I grab it in less than a second, Ethan smirks. “Hot new date?”

  I scoff, but then I sizzle when I read Bridger’s note. Thanks for the fashion tip.

  It’s just a chaste note. It’s just a thanks.

  But it’s also a response.

  I feel elated and defeated at the same time in equal measure. “Just a friend,” I say, then set the phone facedown.

  Layla arches a perfectly groomed brow. She’s not taking this one lying down. “Just a friend?”

  “Just a friend,” I repeat, since I’m not sure that he’s anything more.

  “Are you sure?” she asks, staring at me, like she can extract the truth with her eyes.

  “Is there a reason Harlow would be unsure?” Ethan asks curiously, jumping in.

  “I’m positive,” I say firmly, then flip my hair off my shoulder. “So, what do we want to do first when we hit East Hampton on our final weekend?”

  Layla’s blue eyes say she knows what I’m doing but her mouth says, “The beach, of course.”

  Ethan shakes his head. “No, the pool. Your pool is unfairly obscene,” he says, emphatically.

  “But is something obscene truly unfair?” she counters, like they’re having a philosophical argument.

  Thoughtfully, Ethan taps his regal chin, the perfect match to his classical nose. He’s a looker all right, all blue-blood, Upper East Side, matinee-idol pretty. He’s attracted all the guys and gals in college.

  As they debate the semantics of obscenity, I hide a smile rising inside me.

  Maybe this text is just the start of something.

  On Sunday night, we cruise home from the Hamptons in Layla’s sweet sports car, exhausted from the sun, the water, and our last time together for a while.

  “I’ll miss you all,” I say after she pulls up in front of my brownstone and gets out.

  “I’ll miss you more,” she chimes in, throwing her arms around me.

  “I’ll miss you the most,” Ethan says, not to be outdone.

  “Group hug,” I declare, and we smoosh each other until tears are rolling, since the end of summer is always sweet and bittersweet.

  Finally, I tear myself away from my friends and say goodbye.

  Later that week, I’m in my room packing my suitcase for my semester abroad—clothing, a few books, a couple keepsakes. My father ordered his limo driver to take me to the airport tomorrow. Dad’s so extra, but I can’t complain.

  I FaceTime Hunter, even though it’s late in London. “You better come see me,” he says. Hunter has an English mom and mostly grew up in London. But his accent is less posh than Dad’s.

  “Same to you,” I say. “You’ll only be a Chunnel train ride away.”

  We chat some more then I say goodbye, and after I zip my last bag, I flop back on my bed, checking the time on my phone. Eleven.

  My phone blinks with a text from my dad. He’s downstairs, but he always texts me goodnight.

  I’m off to bed. Sleep well. Joan will be back in the morning. Xoxo

  I smile faintly, a vague sense of appreciation for his note floating past me as I drift into sleep.

  But in the middle of the night, I’m dreaming of takeout cartons of Thai, and Vietnamese, and tacos. My stomach growls, and I wake with a hungry start.

  I blink my eyes open.

  I wish my mother were here to send me off. Even though I remember her less and less, I still wish she were here, especially since Paris was our dream. She loved the city she lived in when she attended college. We’d visit as often as we could, traipsing around museums, lingering in chocolate shops, playing in the Tuileries Garden. Even after so many years without her, there are moments when the missing coils inside me. But then it unwinds seconds later. It’s weird, grief. Weird the way it lingers sometimes, like a trailing scent of faint perfume long after the wearer has left the room. Sometimes you notice the scent. Mostly you don’t.

  My stomach growls again. I focus on the practical matters rather than faded memories. I didn’t eat dinner, so I go downstairs.

  The brownstone is eerie and still, as it should be after hours. I pad quietly to the kitchen. In the fridge, I snag hummus and carrots. As I dip a carrot, I hear footsteps and turn my head.

  Seriously?

  I learn two things in the next few seconds.

  My father has a new lover.

  And she sleeps topless. She wears only boy shorts. Her magnificent tits fly free as she walks past the dining room table, toward the kitchen before she stops short, startled.

  “Oh my god,” she says, her hands shooting up, covering her breasts.

  I grit my teeth, swallowing down my disgust. I show nothing. I am the portrait of unflinching as I lean against the kitchen counter. Impervious.

  “Hungry?” I ask as I crunch into the carrot.

  Even in the dark, I can see her face turn red. “I’m so sorry.”

  But she’s not moving. Perhaps her bare feet are stuck to the floor of the entryway.

  “I had no idea you were going to be in the kitchen,” she says, stumbling on words.

  I smile. All plastic. “That’s clear.”

  She spins around, rushes off.

  I finish the carrot in the silence, then return to the upstairs bedroom. I can’t wait till I don’t live here anymore. If I could never set foot in this house again, it wouldn’t be soon enough.

  When groans slink up the stairs and curl down the hallway, I grab my headphones, punch up the soundtrack for Ask Me Next Year, a little-known Broadway musical, and let it help me blot out the sounds of my father’s sex den below.

  The next morning when I go downstairs, still humming the bittersweet tunes, I brace myself for a run-in with the new lady. But the amply endowed woman is nowhere to be seen. Instead, my father is brewing tea and listening to NPR’s morning report, dressed for the day in a polo shirt and beige slacks.

  He turns my way and smiles. “Ready for the big day?”

  “Yup,” I bite out.

  “What’s wrong, poppet?”

  I’ve had enough. I’ve swallowed years of lies, and I’m done. “I’m not here that often,” I tell him. “Just summers and breaks. So, do you think you could ask your sleepover guests to, I dunno, wear clothes when they wander around the house at night?”

  A slow grin spreads across his face, and he rolls his green eyes—the same shade as mine. “Poppet, it’s nothing. You have all the same parts.”

  That’s his argument? “So if you were queer, and had a half-naked man as a guest this would be not okay. But because you’re straight, it’s okay?”

  He furrows his brow, trying to work out my logic. “Is this about orientation or identity?”

  I huff. There’s no point. He doesn’t get it. I grab a bagel and bite into it, ripping off a hunk.

  As I chew, the front door creaks open and Joan sails in, just arrived from Boston. “I couldn’t miss sending you off to Paris for the semester, sweetheart,” she calls out, kind and oblivious.

  My throat squeezes. My father fucked someone else while you were out of town. Her tits are perkier than yours. Instead, I say, “Thank you for coming.”

  I know better than to tell her the truth.

  When I was thirteen, and my father was married to Roselyn, wife number three, I let slip at the dinner table that his friend Graceanne had spent the night a few weeks before. I’d thought she was simply sleeping over in the guest room.

  The next day, Roselyn checked into a spa. My father sat me down in the living room and told me I needn’t have concerned myself about Graceanne. After all, he and Roselyn had an arrangement. An understanding. “Darling, I know you’re trying to be helpful, but it’s better you don’t get involved. Roselyn doesn’t need to know about my guests. It’ll only upset the delicate balance of an adult relationship.”

  But that left me more confused. “Okay, but you said that woman was your friend. Graceanne?”

  He’d patted my knee. “Exactly. Just a friend. So we don’t need to tell Roselyn these things again. They can send her over the, well, the edge.” A fatherly hug. An unspoken warning. “Best to just keep things that happen in the house…in the house.”

  Let sleeping dogs lie.

  Roselyn moved back in a month later. “She’s so much better now,” my dad had declared. Like her stint wherever she’d been had erased the memory not only of his cheating but of my big mouth.

  They stayed together for another year, then my father left her. I knew what was coming when he switched from a rainforest scent to a spicy one. He always picks out a new cologne when he’s ready for a new woman.

  Perhaps Roselyn had upset his delicate balance, because he soon moved on to Mariana, marrying her for a few years, then changing his cologne again when he met Joan.

  I’d learned my lesson. It wasn’t my place to breathe a word. There would be no more accidental mentions of friends.

  So I keep quiet now. Even when my dad wraps Joan into a warm embrace, cooing, “Love you, darling,” I just keep smiling. I could nab a statuette in Hollywood with my cheery smile.

  When we slide into the back of the town car, my father takes her hand, and bile rises in my throat. I stare out the window, fingering my necklace as the limo swings south on Fifth Avenue, en route to the airport.

  I count down the seconds till I’m out of the country and far, far away from him.

  Though, admittedly, I’ll miss seeing the one person I liked bumping into around my father.

  The man whose shirts I adore.

  But missing him is ridiculous. This is just a foolish little crush. Bridger’s shirts don’t matter, our bonding over Broadway doesn’t matter, and my wicked feelings don’t matter.

  I vow to get over him while I’m in Paris.

  Mostly, I do just that in France. It helps that my father mentions offhand in an email that Bridger’s started seeing someone. Someone named Emma he met online.

  I ignore the burn in my chest. I ignore it for all of September.