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I don't know what he wants to say, but I don't want to have some big moment. But he is helping me and he doesn't have to, and I feel an irrational whisper of guilt. Not for judging the man he was—because I knew that man well, and he deserved my condemnation. But for never considering that he could have changed.

I'm not saying he deserves a second chance, and honestly, I'm not sure I have it in me to give him one, even if everything he's told me is true. But I could give him something.

"Thank you, Mitch," I murmur. The words don't come out easily, and I clear my throat awkwardly before I continue. "I do appreciate your help with Rory."

A small smile plays on his lips, and I'm surprised by how much satisfaction he derives from a simple
thank you
from me. He nods, but doesn't offer the simple "you're welcome" I'm expecting.

"You are right, Sammy, you know. Most people who fall in love at your age are naïve. It's not real. It's puppy love, and they're in for a rude awakening when life gets in the way."

I narrow my eyes at him. I did not ask for his love advice, that's for damn sure, and since he so adamantly defended his high school love story just a couple of hours ago, I don't even get where he's coming from.

"But this… you…" he gestures to me, "this isn't that. Life is clearly already very in the way, and look at you, you're no puppy." He shakes his head, and when he looks back at me, the persistence in his eyes unsettles me even more. "But then, you never were. I didn't allow you to be. You never really got to be a kid. For God's sake, you were defending your mother and sister when you were only thirteen." His hand rakes through his hair and I watch him flood with self-recrimination and shame.

It keeps me stunned into silence, unable to utter a single word.

"You need to know this is real, Sam. You being here right now, when I know very well it's the last place you ever wanted to have to come for a favor… I see you when you say you'd go to jail to keep this girl safe, and I know how serious you are. And you need to know that that is not high school puppy love. That is real. That is forever." He takes a step toward me, intent as I've ever seen him.

"Do not convince yourself it's anything less just because you're young, and do not think for a second that it comes around twice. Do not make the mistake of taking it for granted, and do not buy into your own bullshit about just being her friend."

I stare at him, open-mouthed. That is literally the last thing I'd expected to hear out of him.

Until this morning, I thought my parents were the poster children for avoiding high-school relationships, and now here he is, telling me what I already know about Rory and me.

But who the fuck is he to give relationship advice? This man beat his wife repeatedly, chose alcohol over her, and even broke her fucking nose. And now, despite the fact that he swore his undying love for her barely an hour ago, he's about to go meet another woman.
Fucking asshat.

"Not sure you should be giving out relationship advice," I grit out.

He nods, like he completely expected my snark. "Exactly. And nobody understands just what it is you have to lose more than I do. But you love this girl, Sammy, and I think you know it. And I'd bet my entire practice that she loves you just as much, and if there's anything good that can come from my mistakes, it's that I can tell you this:

"Don't doubt it. Don't second guess it. You
know
. If you're scared, that's okay, you should be. Love is scary. But not as scary as living without the one person who makes your life
worth
living. So whatever stupidity makes you think that you're
just friends
, resolve it. Tell her how you feel. Because I may deserve my fate, but you don't."

My father is unrecognizable to me. Passionate, frazzled, with no sign of the poised professional from upstairs in his office. I swallow the lump in my throat and try to ignore the weight in my chest, crushing my heart and telling me that I am looking at my own future. That no matter how successful I become professionally, without Rory, this is who I will be. A sad cautionary tale of lost love. And I'm equally to blame for my fate as my father is for his. Because though there isn't a single part of me that would ever hurt Rory, my inability to control my anger, and my propensity to throw fists, blew our relationship up in smoke before it ever had a real chance.

I want to scream. I want to rip out my own hair. I want to throw more fists.

Because it's too fucking late.

My father's advice can't help me. Because I've told her how I feel—I've tried. But he's wrong about one key thing, and I just about tell him I'll accept that bet and take the law practice he's always loved so damn much. Because I know now that Rory
doesn't
love me just as much as I do her. And there's nothing I can do with this advice. There's no help for me now. And part of me wants to hit the man in front of me even now, just for his role in making me what I am—in making me a man who throws punches first and asks questions never—a man Rory could never truly love.

My father gets ahold of himself, combing his fingers through his hair and patting it back into place. He apologizes for overstepping, but tells me to think about what he said.

"Sure," I tell him, and then before he can say another word, I turn and walk away.

I don't go far though. I make my way behind a food cart and turn to see what direction he heads in. He crosses Madison and heads toward Fifth Avenue as he'd said, and I make to follow him, staying half a block behind at all times.

He checks his watch repeatedly, obviously nervous about his punctuality, and it's out of character for someone with his arrogance. I rarely remember him ever being late to anything, but if he was, his bloated sense of self-esteem prevented him from concerning himself with the value of other people's time.

He turns north on Fifth and picks up his pace, and I have to dart around other pedestrians just to keep up. His fingers rake through his hair repeatedly, and I can practically feel his stress in my own muscles. Whoever this woman is, he obviously cares about her. And it's not business, either. Even some important client wouldn't have him on edge like this—he's pompous enough to know that professionally, he's worth waiting for.

When Mitch gets caught at a red light, I hold back behind some smokers under an awning by some random storefront. He's practically bouncing in place waiting for the light to change and I note that wherever he's headed must be on the East side of the avenue, or he would cross rather than wait, considering the impatience obviously coursing through him.

But he doesn't stand out. Not among the hundred or so men and women just like him—professionals in expensive suits, all in a rush on their way somewhere they believe to be more important than the destinations of everyone else around them. The entire square block reeks of self-importance and over-indulgent egos. This is Mitchell Caplan's world and he fits right in. It's only his apprehension that's out of character, and it fuels my curiosity even more.

I glance down at my own watch, the Tag my Grandma Lena, Mitch's mom, gave me for my bar mitzvah barely a month before I kicked her son out of our lives. But not her, never her, and I make a mental side note to call her before she starts employing her personal brand of expert Jewish guilt and I have to hear about my terrible neglect for the next month. My watch tells me it's only one o'clock now, which means unless my father is planning on walking up to Harlem, he can't be more than a few blocks from his destination.

He's halfway down the crosswalk before the light even changes and I have to break into a jog not to lose sight of him. I cross in the middle of Fifty Eighth and watch as he passes the glass encased entrance to the Apple Store. The lunchtime crowds are remarkably dense, the air thick with the smell of hot pretzels and horse manure from the hansom cabs that line Central Park South, and I skirt around FAO Schwartz and through the plaza rather than the main sidewalk.

It's then that I realize where he's headed, and I'm surprised that it's taken until he was nearly there for me to recognize the obvious. He pauses outside of Harry Cipriani, the upscale Italian restaurant he's always frequented and where he's taken us all to countless lunches and dinners. In fact, it used to feel kind of like our place—our family's, mine and my father's, his and my mother's. And even though I know it's just a restaurant, enjoyed by many and conveniently located near his office, it still feels like a betrayal.

He takes a quick moment to compose himself, combing his fingers through his hair again and regulating his breathing. But he can't be more than a few minutes late, and it doesn't account for his agitation.

My curiosity shifts to something deeper—a need for information that rivals paranoia and a contemptuous desire to confirm this sense of betrayal. I can't even fathom who he could possibly be meeting that would warrant such emotions, but I want to catch him doing something wrong. I want to prove to myself that he's still a bastard, despite the supposed strides he's made toward being a decent man in the past five years. I want to give myself this chance to slam that door shut, an excuse not to have to examine these unsettling possibilities any further.

I feel off balance. As if my foundation has shifted, and now I can't quite catch my footing. My hatred for my father is such a deeply rooted part of my identity that I'm not even sure who I am without it.

In the past few months I've already been shaken to my core and turned inside out by a girl who forced me to reject everything I've ever believed—or didn't believe—about love. And now, the mere possibility that Mitch Caplan is not who I so fervently believed him to be, the inkling of a chance that I might have a father worth knowing… it's tilting my world so far off of its axis that I fear I may just slide right off.

So I find myself silently praying that I was right all along—that I will somehow prove to myself, inexplicably, that he's the asshole I always knew him to be. Because it would be so much easier to right the world I know than to have to navigate my way through a new, unfamiliar landscape.

When he finally enters the restaurant, I rush to the northeast corner of Fifty Ninth and Fifth and press my back to the window, leaning casually against it. I turn subtly toward the restaurant and scan the bar and dining room. I spot him almost instantly and anger rises like a tide in my belly, though in the back of my mind I know it isn't rational.

His back is to me, and it mostly shields my view of the woman who faces him, but there's no question that this lunch is, in fact, a date. Her manicured hands are clasped around his waist, and he appears to be holding her face in his hands. Wisps of blonde hair peek out from my blocked view, as do thin, shapely legs below the hemline of her skirt.

He certainly does have a type, and the thought makes me even more resentful. Does he think he can just replace my mother by finding some woman with a similar build and hair color?

I almost leave. After all, I've confirmed what I came to find out, and though it isn't the scandal that will allow me to unequivocally condemn him, it's enough to give me an excuse to ignore his speech about undying love, and at least remain doubtful of everything else he's told me today. Because whatever lines he spewed about loving my mother every day since their teens, he certainly seems over her now.

Whoever this woman is, whatever their relationship, I can read body language enough to know it isn't remotely casual. Their stance is romantic, affectionate, and if you consider the way they're standing with my father's anxiousness over being three minutes late to a stupid fucking lunch date, I would even venture so far as to guess my father may very well love
this
woman.

The maître d' taps him on his shoulder and I look away before he turns in my direction. In my peripheral I see them all embrace like old friends, exchanging handshakes with my father and a kiss on the cheek with his date. I face Central Park as they pass through the dining room, but before I leave, I turn back to get one good look at this woman who's replacing my mother in his life.

And I stop breathing.

My father's fingers are laced with her finely manicured hand as he leads her to their table, and before I even see her face, I realize my mistake.

This woman isn't replacing my mother. This woman
is
my mother.

I stand there, gaping, too stunned to concern myself with my covert operation. My father pulls out her chair, allowing her to sit before taking his place not across from her, but beside her, and scooting his chair closer to hers. The way lovers would sit. I realize I have no need to try and remain hidden—they are far too caught up in one another to notice anyone else, least of all their son stalking them from outside the restaurant.

I can see my father perfectly, and my mother's profile, her lips stretched wide in a contented smile. My father says something and she laughs, and my father's pleasure at her joy is palpable. He looks at her like he used to during the good times—as if there isn't another soul in the room, or anything that matters besides her. As if his primary purpose in life is making her smile.

It's this adoration that was always dulled by his drinking, that was always the alcohol's first and worst victim. It blinded him, made him forget who he was. Made him jump onto some random, seemingly innocuous slight or offense and clutch it with both fists, until suddenly it was the most important thing in the universe.