The Pool Boy(40)

I hate the fact that I’m here at all, and he’s the cause. He’s not in his office when I go, but he steps in right at ten. I have to control my glare.

“Good morning, Vera,” he says, sounding for all the world as if this were a normal day. It strikes me that he never questioned whether I would be here. He assumed that I would make a fuss, but do what he said—and he was right. I think I might throw up.

“Good morning,” I say, making a point of keeping my voice utterly neutral.

“Everything settled with your office and your pass?”

I clear my throat. “Yes, thank you.”

“Good. We’re going to meet some clients today. They want to show us the property they’ve bought and walk us through their preferences.”

He leads the way out of his office, and I follow. We’re met by my father’s driver in a sleek black sedan. The thought of spending a car ride in awkward silence makes me cringe, but I get in the car. The driver takes us across L.A. toward the coast. Traffic is horrible, and about an hour later we pull up to an empty lot at the beach. The couple from dinner the other night is waiting for us. I don’t remember their names.

My father greets them as Sharon and Alan. How did I miss their terrible names? They walk us across the property to where they want the house to sit. It’s on the top of a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and I can’t deny it’s beautiful. Sharon describes in detail what she’d like, and as much as I find her annoying she has good architectural taste. We walk along the grounds to the north and she describes the kinds of grounds she wants.

Her ideas include a significant guesthouse and a tennis court, among other things. Eventually we reach some houses, smaller than the typical mansion. They don’t seem to be abandoned, but Sharon and Alan keep walking. “Down here, there’s a lovely little cove where I think a boat house would be just lovely,” she says.

“How far does your property extend?”

“Oh, another few acres or so.”

Setting aside how rich they must be to afford this much beachfront, the houses bother me. “Who lives here?” I ask as we walk by. My father clears his throat in warning, but I ignore him.

Sharon waves a hand. “Oh, doesn’t matter. They sold the land years ago. Couldn’t afford not to, I think. People who inherited some money and then lost it all, probably. I’m sure they had it coming. We’ll evict them as soon as construction starts.”

My mouth falls open, and in that moment, I know that I can’t do it—I can’t be a part of this—not just this project, but my father’s company. These are the kind of people he deals with every day, and I don’t want to do it. I want to help people who need it. I have no interest in people who think the poor had it coming.

James was right. I can choose.

And I will not choose this.

I walk away. I just turn and start walking.

My father calls after me. “Vera, come back here please.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m done.” I keep walking.

“Vera,” he says, warning in his tone. “We talked about this.”

I turn around and look him straight in the eye, defiantly. “No. You talked and you didn’t listen. I’m done. I’m not doing this.”

He stalks toward me, lowering his voice. “You live in my house.”

I laugh. “That’s your threat? I don’t need your house.”

“If you walk away from this, don’t bother coming home.”

Those words settle in my gut with a heavy finality, but also a relief. I feel like I always knew this moment would come. I just didn’t know what I would choose. I do now.

“Okay. I’m sorry, Dad. But I need to do this my way.”

I don’t look back, and on the way toward the road I call another cab.



I go straight to the construction site, and I feel light as air. I have nothing. And it’s totally fine. I know that I’m going to be okay. Because even though I’m scared, I know that I have somewhere to go.

I pay the cab driver and go into the house, listening for the telltale sounds of a power drill or hammering. There’s nothing though. I walk my way through but there’s still nothing. No one is here, and my heart sinks. I was sure that this is where he would be. He’s not working at my house anymore. Did he have another contract? I don’t know. I didn’t ask.

I don’t even have his phone number because our relationship was a secret at first, and then we were together so much we never even asked. Even if I did have his number, though, I know that this cannot be fixed with a phone call. I sit down on the steps outside the house. It’s early, maybe he just hasn’t gotten here. After an hour of waiting, my anxiety rises. After two, I know that I can’t stay anymore.