Fall With Me

information about his father. If it wasn’t for wanting to know that, I’d probably still be hating him. The basis for our relationship is a lie, and I can’t help but think that means the whole thing is going to blow up in my face.
    He brings his hand up to the side of my face. “Does it feel like things are moving too fast?”
    “It feels like things are just . . . moving. In a direction that I never thought would happen. I mean, I didn’t expect for this to happen. None of this. I thought this was just going to be my boring summer before I went back for my last year of college. This was not expected.”
    He smiles. “Are you telling me you don’t like surprises?”
    “That’s one way of putting it.”
    “Jill, if you don’t want to go to New York, you don’t have to. Or, if you want to come to New York but not meet my family, you don’t have to. Or, if you want to come to New York and pretend the whole time you don’t know me, we can do that, too.” He leans down and kisses me, really just rests his lips against mine for a few seconds. “Mmm.”
    “It’s not that. I . . .” The words are there, on the tip of my tongue. I think your father had something to do with my dad’s death. And I need to find out. At the same time, I’m scared to, because if he does, what does that mean for us?
     

Chapter 25: Griffin
     
    SFO is one giant clusterfuck. I’ve never minded airports, regardless of the holdups, the delays, the bitchy TSA workers, or the shitty, overpriced food, but by the time we make it through security, Jill’s shoulders have inched their way toward her ears and she’s too wound up to even sit down.
    “Come here, sweetheart,” I say. “Let me give you a shoulder rub.”
    “No, I’m fine.”
    So I sit, and I try to envision exactly how this little trip of ours is going to go. I’ve talked with Mom about it, but haven’t had any further communication with Dad. Whether or not Mom passed on the specifics of our travel plans is hard to say, and really depends on her mood. It’s possible she told him everything—mistakenly believing she was rubbing in his face the fact that we were coming back to see her , but then again, it’s also just as likely she hasn’t breathed a word. That would actually be better; taking him by surprise might be our best option.
    I’m not exactly sure why I’m so eager for Dad to be there, other than I want him to see that I did get my life together. I have changed. You did not think I could, but look. I have.
     
    We take a cab to the penthouse. It’s early afternoon, so it’s hard to say whether Dad will be home or not, but when the elevator lets us off on the top floor and I hear Debussy being pumped through the speakers, I know that Dad is home.
    We leave our stuff in the entranceway, and I lead Jill through the maze of rooms, aware, for maybe the first time, how over-the-top everything is here. The Persian rugs. The marble, the crystal chandeliers. The fucking gold-framed oil paintings. I glance at Jill, but her expression is hard to read. She doesn’t look impressed, so that’s good.
    “I bet my dad’s in his study,” I say.
    “Great,” she says. “Let’s go there.”
    She seems rather eager to meet him, which should please Dad at least. Look, Carl, here’s someone who’s actually excited to see you. Though I’m sure once she’s been around him for a few minutes, that will change rather quickly.
    The heavy mahogany door to Dad’s study is open partway, and I push it open the rest of the way.
    “Hello, Dad. Looks like our paths are going to cross, after all. This is my girlfriend Jill.”
    Dad’s back is to us; he’s pouring himself some cognac, Hennessey XO, his favorite, which of course he won’t offer to us, but something very odd happens when he turns to face us. A strange expression crosses his face, and he almost drops his balloon snifter. This is interesting; Carl Alexander could be three sheets to the wind and he would never, NEVER fumble his cognac. He recovers, though, and holds out his hand.
    “Nice to meet you, Jill.” He continues to stare at her, and I continue to stare at him, because he seems completely ill at ease. Is he really so flummoxed by the fact that I have a girlfriend? That she exists? That this wasn’t just some little stunt I pulled?
    “Have we met before?” he asks. “You look very familiar.”
    He smiles as he says this. Jill does not return the smile. In fact, her mouth is set in a tight