Phillip

My parents' bedroom has seen every stage of my life.

Even though it's been Dad's for longer than my parents', that's what I call it in my head. Mom's favorite peonies are on the small table for two by the window. Photos of her line the dresser, like a gold-and-crystal shrine. The pinkish cream colorscheme she chose hasn't changed, even though I persuaded Dad to upgrade the wallpaper and flooring to their modern versions.

This is the room I was born in, the room I slept in wedged between my parents for the first three years of my life, the room Mom died in two years after I agreed to sleep in my big-boy bed down the hall. The heart-shaped locker that takes up space in my chest rattles with familiar shards of what I'd never have.

I turn on another floor lamp, close the massive shutters, and sneak in a yank to my ear. The pain migrates from between my ribs into my burning earlobe. My memories tell one story. The photos that take over most of the walls and all the flat surfaces tell a different one. Each item has something in common: me.

By the bed, there's an oval frame with a baby Phillip swaddled in blue blankets in Mom's arms with Dad standing protectively over her. On the makeup table is a square photo of a toddler me hanging between my parents' legs, holding onto their swinging hands.

Behind it, is the image of my first day of preschool, bracketed by graduation photos, including Dad's favorite: my UChicago BIOS college commencement with me laughing next to my then-best-friend Chester and my gap-toothed tutor Nata. Above them-my Booth MBA certificate framed in platinum.

Like torn up pages from the longest photo-book, my birthdays and every other milestone you can think of stare at me. As if Dad was documenting them to send Mom every glimpse of me he could catch. As if she wasn't gone-gone. I stifle a sigh. Even with Dad's candids, this is a much more idyllic photographic version of my life than the faded Polaroids I sift through in the dusty boxes of my brain.

The longing in my heart overpowers the burn in my earlobe. I locate the crystal Waterford carafe, focusing on its solid weight in my grasp instead of the dull ache behind my breastbone, and pour some water into a mauve plastic hospital glass that clashes with everything this room represents.

"Are you sure you'll be okay on your own?" I pass the non-glass glass to Dad.

He takes it with both shaking hands and brings the straw to his mouth. "I don't think I've ever been on my own in this house. We have staff." He isn't wrong, but his housekeeper, Mrs. Buckingham, and his driver, Robert, are closer in age to him than to me. Dad needs an aid to perform the physical tasks he can't do on his own. Dad's brown eyes peer at me over the rim of the mauve container. "Hiring Tristan was highly unnecessary," he says as if he's reading my mind.

Dad taught me well, and I'm not going to jump in and give him the upper hand. I let the charged silence hang. He squints at me. The kind of squint that made me squirm as a child. "I can still wipe my butt," he says.

I tighten my fists. I won't give into him. "He's not here to wipe your butt." I take the water from his unsteady hands and place it on his bedside table. "He's not a nurse. He'll just make sure you don't fall over on your way to the bathroom, that you take your pills, and that you don't decide you feel well enough to run off on another adventure, like the one that landed you at the hospital in the first place."

"Life's short." Dad rests his head on the pillow behind him, his face even paler in the lamplight.

"Don't feed me that." I scoff. "I've heard you say it every day of my life. I know it's short, but that doesn't mean you need to make it shorter by disobeying your doctors."

"Disobeying"-he parrots my scoff-"like I'm a petulant child." Dad crosses his arms and looks so like me in the photo to his left: a candid of a six-year-old me after Dad explained we couldn't keep the pony that visited for my birthday.

"You're worse." I cross my arms and glare back at him. Two can play this game. Even at seventy-two, Dad's broader than me, with a thicker neck and wider shoulders. Our body types might differ, yet you can't mistake us for anything but father and son. Our identical mannerisms have been caught on camera one too many times. I shake my head. "I almost had a heart attack when I got the call."

"I told you, there was no reason for you to leave New York to come babysit me. I might be sick, but I'm not on a deathbed yet. Go, have fun while I can't." He gestures to the door. "I won't take no for an answer."

I roll my eyes. "A fifteen-year college reunion is the opposite of fun."

"You're here. You have the invite." He brandishes his hand at me. "You're the face of Van der Heuvel Industries." He points at the photos of me receiving an award for humanitarian support on the company's behalf. "Go, do what you do so well: mingle and charm the pants off your former classmates. Half of them are in the medical or pharma business. I've yet to meet a person who can resist your charisma."

"I have no faults in your eyes." A smile fights its way onto my lips.

"Maybe one." Dad motions me over to his side. "Your ability to tie a bowtie properly is still underwhelming." He undoes my rushed knot and keeps me bent over his bed as he takes his time, making sure even a man's clothes expert wouldn't find fault with my attire. He sweeps imaginary dust off my sleeve. His whole face lights up. "Take one of my cars."

Dad knows how to sweeten the deal. I take two steps at a time to descend into the downstairs foyer. Tonight will be the first time I'm attending an event without a plus one. The knot of my tie that seemed perfect a minute ago strangles me.

"Should I set up the guest bedroom, just in case?" Mrs. Buckingham, who's arranging a fresh vase of pink Gladioli on the marble entrance table, saw every girlfriend I had in middle and high school. She loved my ex-wife Linda, hated my almost-wife Brenda, and fed breakfast to some of the only-benefits-and-no-friends-blondes I would have a hard time recognizing if we met.

"No need." I peck the paper-thin skin on her cheek. I'm not bringing anyone home tonight.

Parked in Dad's garage is a line of high-end cars in pristine condition. New York life confined me to the back seat, with my drivers navigating the traffic while I prepped for the day or took my calls. In Chicago, I can drive. And drive in style. I pick the keys I want and slide into a red Lamborghini SVG Roadster.

When I arrive on the UChicago campus, the valet, a student dressed in black slacks and white Henley, takes the key and points me toward the entrance of the International House. Last time I set foot here was for an alumni fundraiser. I was happily married at the time, Linda leading the way and being a perfect bright pink accessory to my penguin suit.

Not happily.

Even during the best months of my marriage, I wasn't happy, but I was content. Everything seemed as it should be.

For the first time since Mom's death, Dad wasn't worrying that I'd be a childless bachelor with no one to continue the Van der Heuvel line. Linda was supposed to be the answer to our prayers: excellent pedigree, coming from the New York high society family that opens doors to places where our self-made status wasn't always welcome.

When I make my way to the bar and order a mock gin and tonic, the party is in full swing. No alcohol for me tonight. I want to drive back; plus, this is work. I'm not here to have fun with my former pals, but to see who and what can be used to further VdH Industries' agenda. I might not be ready to take over Dad's role as a CEO, but with the way his health is going, I might have to do it sooner than later.

The room brims with men in shades of rich and women in designer dresses. My eye goes to a petite brunette in a red silky dress, whose loose hair flows below her toned butt. Cute. Hot even, but not my type. I only go for blondes.

A strong pat on the back sends me a step forward, sloshing the drink in my hand.

"You made it, bro. I was sure you'd stay away. I haven't seen your face in tabloids for what, months? Feels like forever."

"Chester, I always knew a gossip-magazine-reading sorority girl was hiding behind your tough exterior." We complete the complicated handshake all my frat brothers learned first thing after rush. "It can only feel like forever if you're willing to admit how old we are."

Chester's fist hits me in the shoulder, but I'm prepared this time. "Always loved your sense of humor." He leans to the tall blonde with an elaborate updo that matches the ornate necklace, which is probably worth more than the car I took here. She's very much my type. Chester slings his arm over my shoulders. "Why didn't you tell me you were back home? How long are you in Chicago for? We should totally go out and get wasted, for old-time's sake."

The expression on his date's face sours by the same degree Chester's face brightens as I imagine his mind scrolls over the images of every raunchy thing we did during the years of our college friendship.

I slide from under Chester's arm. "It wasn't as wild as he might make it out to be," I say to the woman Chester has failed to introduce me to. "I'm Phillip Van der Heuvel. And you are?" I take her hand where a diamond the size of an almond decorates her finger and kiss it in the most gentlemanly manner my college self would've mercilessly made fun of.

The corners of her lips turn up. "I'm Abigail, Ches's wife and the mother of his children."

Wife. Children. The words pinch a nerve. My back tingles with jealousy. I straighten a little too fast but keep hold of my smile. "He's one lucky guy. I see why he put a ring on your finger. No reason someone as fine as you should be walking this earth unattached."

I pour the praise on sweet as honey, but she doesn't seem to get a toothache from all the fructose and glucose I'm dishing out. Her makeup is thick enough that even if she is blushing, I wouldn't see it under the layers.

Chester's face grows red and blotchy as he tightens his grip on his wife's elbow. "We should go mingle." All joviality leaves his voice. "I'll message you." He turns himself and his wife in a jerky semi-circle and drags her away from me, as if I'm going to declare them divorced and pounce on her all within a second or two.

Welcome to Love Expectations!

Have you met Phillip in Love Graduate?

If yes, what do you think of him now vs then?

The beginning of every story is such a tricky balance of characters, settings, and plot (and there is a lot of plot in this book), but I hope I hit just the right balance to keep you interested in learning more.

Come back next Friday for chapter 2.

Thank you for reading this story. I appreciate your comments 😍 Please, hit the star button if you're eager to find out what's next.

Love,

GR