Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
I gulp out the horrible truth: “He’s…Daddy Bancroft?”
15
NO COINCIDENCES
Nick
Way back in high school statistics class, I learned that in a room of at least twenty-three people, there’s a little more than a fifty percent chance that two of them will have the same birthday.
It’s not entirely a coincidence. It’s a mathematical law that says life is random, the world is unpredictable, and when shit happens, it’s rarely fate. It’s probability, statistics, even inevitability.
There’s a certain sick logic to this latest twist. We orbit in the same circles—tech, money, risk, New York.
But even though I’m a goddamn fucking student of the likelihood of coincidences, I’m still standing here, scratching my head like this just can’t be.
My Lola is his Layla?
The Layla my son’s been building his charity with? Layla, the college girlfriend he’s still tight with? Layla is the one my son texted me about a little while ago and wanted me to meet?
But I don’t need to ask again to be sure. She is clearly his Layla, and I need to deal with reality, stat. I fucked my son’s ex-girlfriend, who’s now his pal. I fucked her several times, including on the phone last week. And I need to manage this situation like it’s a sensitive business deal.
First, with due diligence.
Did he see us hug like lovers? Maybe. But if so, I can recover, starting now. “It’s a pleasure to officially meet you, Layla,” I say, trying to mask the what-the-fuckery in my voice.
Like, why the hell did she keep her real name from me?
She extends a hand, too, and everything about this moment is a terrible lie—one I’m telling in front of my son.
I am a bad, bad daddy.
“Good to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you,” she says, the picture of Upper East Side charm.
I’ve never heard that tone from her before. It’s not even a professional tone. It’s more like a polished one.
Why the hell would you have heard it? You’ve never met her on her turf. You don’t even know who Lola, or Layla, really is.
“And David has told me about you,” I say, the falsehood strangling me.
The truth is I know very little. I was living in San Francisco when David went to college here in New York. He had attended prep school in San Francisco, since Rose had been working there when David was a teen. I stayed there when he went back east, and I was still working in San Francisco when he told me one night on the phone that he was dating his college tutor.
She’s a great girl, super smart and pretty, and I’ve got a huge crush on her…Then a few months later he said, Yeah, Layla and I decided we were better off as friends.
That was it. Fast forward to a week ago, when he accepted my job offer on the condition he could still work on his charity, the one his pal had been helping him launch with the first fundraiser. She’s a badass, and she’s helping me with A Helping Paw.
So, yeah. I knew three things.
But when life hits you with the law of mathematics, you need to deal, not whine. With intros done, David flops down into the booth. “We just ordered. But take a look, and you can get some food too,” he tells me.
Lola—I mean, Layla—takes her seat across from us, sitting primly straight, like she’s posing for a family portrait.
It’s showtime. I sit and peer around for a server to ask for a menu. David laughs, thrusting a Lucite frame at me. “Dad, it’s on your phone.”
Great. Fucking great. I look old and like a tech loser. But I know how QR codes work, thank you very much. I just…wasn’t thinking.
“Right,” I say, then take the frame so I can scan it. But screw it.
I know how menus work, too, and if you’ve been to one diner you’ve been to them all. When the server stops by seconds later, I ask for a house salad and a chicken sandwich.
“Perfect. I’ll add that to the ticket,” she says and then takes off.
It’s the three of us again in the most awkward meeting of a kid’s ex-girlfriend ever.
But David doesn’t seem to notice. Maybe Layla and I are great actors, since my son says, “I kept thinking last week that you should meet Layla, since she has this baller makeup app.”
I know. I watched her videos. I flirted with her on her app. “That so?” I ask, like this is the first I’m learning of her business.
David gestures to Layla, giving her the floor. “Tell him about The Makeover app. He’s a VC. I can’t believe I didn’t think about introducing the two of you sooner, but Daddy Bancroft was in London, and he does tech, not content,” David says, then stops short.
Maybe realizing what he just called me—by my ex-wife’s last name. Like Layla did earlier. “So, this is a thing? You call me Daddy Bancroft?”