Dilemma

The waiter asks whether we’re eating too.

I hesitate.

Drinks first? Dinner too?

Hell, I don’t even know why I’m the one who’s here.

“We’ll start with drinks,” I say.

He nods. Leaves the menus.

I stare at the cocktails. Think about ordering something strong.

My hands already shake enough.

—

He’s late.

Of course he is.

My wife should be here instead. She’s the composed one. Always was.

When we first dated, I had spent years reading Stoics to survive myself.

She had never read any of them.

Still calmer than all of them combined.

I loved her for that immediately.

—

Fuck.

He’s here.

I stand too early. Smooth my tie. Regret it instantly.

He looks immaculate. Suit. Tie pin. Cufflinks.

“Rector. Thank you for coming,” I say.

“Please. Al,” he says warmly.

We sit.

He studies the drinks menu.

“I could do a Negroni,” he says.

“Sounds good.”

The waiter comes.

“Two Negronis,” Al says.

A beat.

“Each.”

—

“How’s Dana?” he asks.

“Good. Busy.”

I drink too quickly.

He asks about my writing.

Says he liked my novel.

I almost think he’s mocking me.

Instead, he offers me an agent’s number.

Says my publisher failed me.

I feel excitement.

Then shame for feeling it.

That’s not why I came.

—

“Al,” I say finally. “I need to discuss something sensitive.”

“Oh no,” he says. “Did my wife put you up to this?”

He laughs.

Orders another round.

I’m already light-headed.

—

“Are you alright, Rob?” he asks.

“No,” I say truthfully.

Not at all.

I stare into my drink.

Then force it out.

“My son missed admission by one point.”

Silence.

“He was first below the line.”

Al watches me carefully.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to.”

He nods slowly.

“Rob,” he says quietly. “What you’re doing right now must feel awful.”

I say nothing.

“My hands are tied,” he says. “I can’t manipulate admissions. Not for anyone.”

Something caves in my chest.

The waiter brings the bill. Al pays it.

I just sit there.

—

He stands. Walks around the table. Crouches beside me. Mimics tying his laces.

“There are three students above your son waiting on responses from other schools,” he says softly.

I look up.

“If one declines, your son gets in.”

Hope hurts more than rejection.

“I’ll do what I legally can,” he says.

Then he smiles.

“You’re a good father, Rob.”

He squeezes my shoulder.

“And call that agent.”

He leaves.

—

I sit alone with the final Negroni.

And cry.

-ck