92.
Days passed. Milly saw Rian again. Then again. Visions arrived like scenes of movie montage. Their budding relationship, an admittedly handsome coupling, was of the kind paraded in bridal magazines: picture-perfect.
They weren’t actually married, thank g—
I meant, like those models, did they even know each other?
Phew. No demerit.
Their shared time was similarly stamped with a price tag on the cover. They dined at exclusive private restaurants serving increasingly expensive farm-grown food and real champagne. Not since that tour with Damien had Milly lived such a high life. She took to Rian’s extravagances like a cat kneading a blanket but made herself available only two days per week. Tinges of irritation crossed his face when she checked her schedule.
When Milly stayed over, she selected music.
🎵 “Wouldn’t it Be Good” – Nik Kershaw 🎵
She laid out two of Rian’s shirts each morning.
He chose one, put it on, and presented his silk tie.
“I don’t know the knot,” she said.
“Learn,” he said.
Milly nodded demurely. “Whatever you like.”
Rian took her to the jeweler. “Whatever you like.”
Milly chose quickly.
The jeweler complimented her taste. “So modest.”
The pendant necklace held two one-karat diamonds, arranged vertically. Clear and crisp up top; smokey and dark below.
In his office, Rian presented two dozen roses, deep red — except one.
“It’s yellow.” Milly studied his face.
His head tilted at the single rose.
Rian’s female secretary pointed. “There’s a card.”
Milly unfolded it and read aloud: “Milly, you’re one of a kind — Rian.” The handwriting was rounded and feminine like Milly’s own.
Rian nodded. “Exactly.”
Milly blushed. Hugging him, she made eye-contact with Rian’s secretary. “Thank you.”
The secretary nodded with a professional smile.
Milly let go.
Rian plucked one blonde hair off his jacket. “I’m meeting some people. You’re coming.”
Plants dotted the rooftop bar. Sitting with Rian and his business friends, Milly fondled a fern. “It’s real …”
🎵 “Time to Pretend” – MGMT 🎵
Eyes gravitated toward Rian as he kept the drinks flowing. Wyatt asked one patron not to take photos. The men chattered: humble-bragging, one-upmanship, straight-up flexing, casual racism, golf tips, and witty banter.
Milly chimed in. “I’ve seen the new Arison advertisements.” She quoted the announcer with sass, in her lowest voice. “ABI: tearing down the Old World and building hope, one floor at a time!” Milly swung her fingers like a wrecking ball, clicking her tongue for impact.
Rian’s friends chuckled. One said, “She’s funny, too — nice catch.”
“Actually”—Rian shrugged—“my father handles all the reconstruction stuff and military contracts. My division is AI.”
Later that night, Milly and Rian had a chat.
“I hope I didn’t cause embarrassment by quoting your father’s advertisement.”
“Not at all.” Rian poured whiskey. “Reconstruction’s just the old man’s thing.”
“But I am interested in your business.”
“Do you want a tour?”
“That would be nice. Also, I’m not sure how to ask, but please — a favor?”
“Maybe.”
Milly dipped her head. “Your friends are amazing but …”
Seriously?
Rian squinted. “But?”
“And I like parties, but I’m a private person.”
He nodded. “Not so much going out in public, then?”
“The spotlight belongs to you. That’s a man’s place.”
“Most girls want the limelight — with me.”
“That’s not what this is about — for me.”
“Then I’ll make accommodations — for you.”
Rian shielded Milly from the paparazzi. But during their lengthy, twice-weekly dates, he demanded her undivided attention. Luckily for both, her attention span was off the charts. He relished it. Rian set strict rules on every situation, time, and location — always in control. Milly accepted his terms with quiet grace — then went home.
They seldom texted between dates. She told Rian she worked a bit in real estate and finance “to stay busy,” went to the gym, and cared for a lady in her building who was “very sweet but very old.” He expressed little curiosity about what else Milly did.
She kept working the route with Turtle and Bingo.
Rian had met Milly’s friends only once, at Ambrosia. As weeks passed, it wasn’t clear if Milly had seen her friends much, either.
This isn’t an ask for sympathy, as this isn’t supposed to be about me, but try to imagine knowing your daughter only as an observer while your existence is unknown to her. The point is this: one thing Milly and I share is a certain numbness. Though of a different nature, this numbness makes inhuman situations bearable.
When Milly didn’t know what game Damien was playing — I did — and watched for years. Now, with Rian, it’s my turn to be baffled.