Phillip

The party is winding down, but there's one more person I must meet before I leave. I spot the Dean in the middle of the thinning crowd of fellow alumni and their plus ones.

"We can't only show them the academic route," the silver-haired man I don't recognize gesticulates widely in apparent displeasure with Dean Kaas.

The Dean throws me a look I interpret as a plea to give him a minute as he finishes what sounds like an unpleasant conversation. I motion to the bar and let the man do his job. Placating people is rarely fun, but something I know a lot about. Tends to take time. If I weren't driving, I'd get a Romos Gin Fizz from the open bar. But I'm still on duty. Alcohol and clear head don't mix. I hail the bartender. "Virgin Cucumber Gimlet."

"That drink is better be the only virgin thing about you." A sporty blonde with a face that reminds me of Chester's wife sets her cocktail next to mine. Definitely not virgin.

Company wasn't part of my plan tonight, but my overreaction on the rooftop might be the indication I needed that my short stay in Chicago could be a perfect opportunity to break my dry spell before I fly back to New York. I bite my lip and check as much of her body as I can see without moving my head.

She catches me in the act and brushes my elbow with hers in what could be mistaken for an accidental touch. "Are you here alone?"

"Not anymore." I dole out a lazy grin that triggers her to lower her eyelashes and bite her lip. She's mirroring me. A classic move. Whatever she's interested in tonight, I'll deliver. Mutual benefits is what I'm all about. "Thank you for not letting me sit here by my lonesome."

"Glad to be of service"—she sets her hand on the sleeve of my shirt—"Mr. Van der Heuvel."

She knows who I am and what I'm about. My reputation is well-earned, ever since I was fifteen and onto my third girlfriend. Conquering women has been the easiest way to validate I'm exceeding everyone's expectations.

"So am I," I say in my flirtiest tone. "So am I."

Or at least I should be. This beautiful's woman's interest in making my bed warmer tonight was so easy to achieve. My breaths are even. My heartbeat normal. I peek at the Dean, still chatting with the same man. If I remember correctly there's a decent restroom on the other side of the building that has a lock. No need to involve beds.

Maybe that'll wake me up more than the liquid death by sugar Nata insisted on calling a coffee. Tomorrow morning, I'll text her about our meetup at an appropriate time for an old friend to reach out without appearing overzealous. A spot behind my ribs fizzes as I imagine her narrowing eyes and some sarcastic remark about me sticking with tea again. My heart makes itself known, pulsing in the bottom of my throat.

Why am I more excited about coffee with Nata than whatever this interaction is going to lead to? Because Nata was a friend. And the woman whose soft finger is tracing phantom letters on the back of my hand is a stranger. I can't compare apples and oranges.

"You're an alumni as well?" I start up a conversation the details of which I will not remember by tomorrow morning. A bathroom quicky with a beautiful stranger and a long-overdue heart-to-heart with a long-lost friend are not comparable

My father stopped dating altogether and lived like a monk after Mom died. He said no other woman would ever fill her shoes. I could never understand that.

I didn't need anyone to fill Mom's shoes, but having a warm, supple body, someone who can't keep her hands off me, and who I can make cry out my name with the tip of my tongue or my fingers, is not about lacking a mother-figure in my life.

After Mom's funeral, Dad took me to the best therapists and child psychologists in Chicago to ensure he was raising a well-adjusted human. He did well. Dad's always been there for me: my first days to school, basketball games, band concerts until I was too cool for the sax. He took me on vacations and shopped for my clothes until I begged him not to.

With all the wealth at his disposal, he wasn't outsourcing being a father. My dad is a parent every kid would want. Growing up with money was an added bonus to having a parent who told me he loved me and was proud of me every single day of my life.

Two Virgin Cucumber Gimlets later, three rounds of the flirt-the-dress-off game, and one firm agreement to meet at the bathroom, I rise and step away from the bar, when a hand lands on my back.

"Phillip. Thank you for waiting." Dean Kaas shakes my hand and switches his attention to the blonde. "And who is your lovely lady here?"

We've been chatting, but did she tell me her name? I lower my gaze to the lanyard to read it. Dammit. It's backward.

The unnamed blonde sees exactly where I'm looking, and the interest in her eyes changes into a pissed off "I'm outta here" expression I'm also familiar with. Better to find out now that we're not on the same page about our expectations for the night than have a much less pleasant discussion after the fact.

"I'm not with him," she says to the Dean, takes her drink, and leave us.

"I thought she was with—" Dean Kaas clams up. His stiff put-on happy expression is not convincing he knows how to pretend this didn't happen. The best way to get us onto the track I'm after is give him what he's after.

My smile does the job his failed at. I ooze calm and confidence when I say, "I was hoping to increase Van der Heuvel Industries' involvement in the support for the college. In your last email you mentioned your students need for paid internships in the biotech industry, especially those considering less academic and more corporate applications for their degrees. Would you be interested in VdH as a partner in that?"

"Very much so. Very much." Stiffness gone, the Dean smiles broadly and returns to the back patting with a lot more force. "I know just the man you should discuss your proposal with." He points at the retreating back of the guy he was talking to. "Professor Mallard has just expressed concern over the lack of practical internships."

"I might've overheard him mention it."

"Promising him the right places for his students to intern was one of the things I employed to lure him back to UChicago. He used to work here as an adjunct years ago. Adding VdH to the list of opportunities for our students would be an honor—"

A melodious tune interrupts Dean Kaas. A ringtone I recognize and don't want to hear. I reach for my phone. "I'm sorry I have to take this."

"I'll make sure you hear from Professor Mallard." Another pat on my back from the Dean, and I'm free to push the talk icon on the screen.

"Phillip here."

"Your father fell." Tristan's voice is somber. "The ambulance is on its way."

My stomach lurches. "Again? Is he okay?"

"I'm not a doctor, but I don't think he's broken anything. But his dyspraxia seems to be getting worse not better."

"What does that—"

"The ambulance is here. Meet us at Northwestern Memorial."

Walking out of the International House, finding the valet, getting my car: everything takes so much longer than it should. My blood pumps overtime, the drinks threaten to come up, my teeth might crack from how tight I'm squeezing them. Time however is dipped in molasses, even when I get into the car, gun the pedal, and do my best imitation of street racing. Chicago highways are nothing like German autobans, but I enter the ER only thirty minutes after I received the call.

"Where is he?" Tristan is sitting on a chair in the waiting room. Every bad case scenario competes for attention to cut airflow to my lungs. "Why aren't you with Dad?"

"Mr. Van Der Heuvel is getting X-rays to make sure his hip isn't broken."

"He broke his hip?" Breaking bones at his age is a disaster.

"I don't think so. But if he keeps deteriorating and refuses help, he will." Tristan's tone is calm.

Why the fuck is he so calm? My dad was injured on his watch. "That's your job. You were supposed to supervise. What am I paying you for?"

A muscle ticks in Tristan's jaw, but he remains even keel. "I went to refill the water. He was watching TV. I didn't expect him to sneak out."

I wave my hand in the air. "He did sneak out before, and that's exactly why I hired you. Call Mrs. Buckingham, she'll bring you everything you need. You sole job was not to leave his side."

"Phillip?" Dr. Lutz enters before I get a chance to fire Tristan.

"How's his hip?" I almost shout my question.

Dr. Lutz sends me a worried glance. "We won't know until after the X rays are done, but there's something I need to talk to you about. Let's go to the room Mr. Van der Heuvel will be in."

I follow him past the reception that issues me a stick-on badge, and into the part of the ER where patients wait in glass rooms and nurses and doctors in scrubs talk in hushed tones. It's probably close to midnight. No wonder the bags under the doctor's eyes seem grayer than usual.

"Sorry I woke you up," I tell Dr. Lutz.

"I told you to call me if anything happens. Sit." He points to the only chair in the glass room without a bed but a wall full of medical gear.

I shake my head. "I'm fine."

"Sit. I don't need to do X-Rays on you too."

"That bad?" I sit. "Is he dying? Is it cancer?"

"No cancer, thankfully." I swallow the bile in my throat. Dr. Lutz's thin lips press into an even thinner line. "But I suspect this is more than the consequences of his recent stroke." He punches a code into the computer on a movable workstation on the other side of the room and reads the information on the screen. "Physical therapy and medication he's been on for the last three months should've improved his stats, and they're only deteriorating. We ran some test last week, and there're more tests to run before we can confirm the diagnosis, but I'm suspecting that stroke was in addition to a different condition."

"A condition?" hairs stand on my neck.

"Have you heard about Parkinson's disease?"

My tongue refuses to voice my thoughts. My mouth gapes a couple of times before I manage, "Is that what Michael J. Fox has?"

"A version of it, yes." He clicks on things with his mouse, this expression focused on whatever's in the files he's going through on the computer. "Most people don't get the symptoms until their sixties, and your dad is seventy-two and is ticking off a lot of those boxes."

The information swirls in my brain. "Does it cause strokes?"

"No. These are concurrent issues that are not uncommon."

"Is it genetic?"

Dr. Lutz turns his gaze to me. "Could be." He approaches my chair. "I'd like to test you just in case, but the majority of cases are environmental. I'm not worried about you. Your dad, however, he'll need a lot more help if it is Parkinson's."

More help we can do, as long as he's alive. As long as I get to spend a lot more time with him. My years in New York away from him feel like selfish indulgences. "How long does he have to live?"

"That I can't tell you." Dr. Lutz gives me a tight smile. "We've made a lot of progress in recent decades. Life expectancy is ten even twenty years for men your father's age."

That's good news, all things considered. "Can he be cured?"

The doctor shakes his head, and my heart sinks. "No. There's no known cure but managed—absolutely. With your resources, the focus will be on making accommodations and persuading your dad to slow down."

The orderly wheels the bed with Dad in it. His tired faces brightens with a weak grin when he sees me. "What are you doing here? I'm sure the party is still going on."

I tilt my head and glare at him. "Like I care about a party when you're in a hospital."

"Hospital-shmospital." His hand shakes as be beacons me to his side. "I'm perfectly healthy."

Dr. Lutz and I exchange a glance. "About that."

The explanations of what I already heard wipe the grin off Dad's face. Ten to twenty years. I don't allow myself to feel the relief because even if there's no imminent danger, this changes everything. New York. My job. My life.

Everything has to change.

Author's Note

10.20.22

I had lots of doubt on how deep to go into Parkinson's in this chapter and not scare you away, but the disease will play a role in this story (spoiler!), so I wanted to be sure the stakes for Phillip are clear.

There'll be plenty of funny bits in this story, but also lots of sad ones. This is your warning. Get on this rollercoaster of emotions at your own risk. If you'd like a lighter read with giggles and chuckles, try my other ongoing story Love Words.

Next chapter is in Nata's POV and you get to met her BFF Kate.

Love,

GR