Georgie chewed on my words as a biting wind whipped through the window and I rolled it up.
“Maybe I’ll talk to her,” she murmured.
I shrugged. “Okay. Just remember she has to unhook herself.”
Halfway through the car ride, Georgie had fallen asleep—an impressive accomplishment for the bumping road and hum of the engine. I watched her with some level of bitterness, having flashbacks to a night spent with her elbows in my ribs and her dog on my legs.
On the bright side, losing my beauty sleep left me with an entire evening to dwell on everything I’d been avoiding. Not Teddy—himI was still dodging at every turn—but the idea of confronting my estranged father and finally saying what I’d swallowed for years. The thought grew more tempting by the hour.
With an unexpected free evening, I knew exactly what I was going to do.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He was downstairs.
Andrew Wade waited downstairs, sitting in a booth at my mother’s diner, stewing in the stifling discomfort of Bluebell Cove’s gossip microscope.
I took my time getting ready. I didn’t even need to—still fresh from Port Camden, my hair looked practically untouched after I ran a brush through it. Still, I slowly peeled off each item of clothing, steaming out every infinitesimal wrinkle that appeared from half a morning spent on the floor of a dressing room.
While I touched up my eyeliner, I imagined the cold glances from my mother’s regulars and the hushed whispers as he entered. Sure, he’d won over a group of tourists. Maybe that ridiculous balloon distracted Mrs. Henderson—I never liked her that much anyway.
But I knew Bluebell Cove.
Nothing would change the fact that he was still the guy who left Ruth Wade and her daughter one night and never came home. He could use his unknowing little girl as a shield from thedisapproval and judgement, but we all remembered the truth. I wouldn’t let him forget it.
I fixed my maroon lipstick in the hallway mirror and padded across the office.
He would never fool anyone with half a brai—
The door to the diner swung open, I stopped cold in my tracks at the bottom of the stairs. Seated at a booth in the corner, looking more like a King holding court than a deadbeat dad, was my father. The image I clung to all afternoon—Andrew Wade alone and ostracized, just as he should’ve been—dissolved and fell like ashes to my feet.
Dot, one of the owners of the Button Jar, hovered at the edge of his table and hung on his every word. Neal Callahan leaned on the booth behind him, an uncharacteristic grin twitching beneath his beard. I’d forgotten they used to be best friends.
In an instant, whatever confidence I had vanished from my body and was replaced by a pounding heart and buckling knees. The hum of conversation and clatter of dishes grew muffled beneath the buzzing in my ears. I gripped the door jamb, pressing my palm over my chest and willing my pulse to calm down.
Without thinking, I rummaged through my pocket for my phone and jabbed out a blind text.
My father looked up then. His smiling eyes settled on me as he bid his audience goodbye. “Margot!” he called, standing and spreading his arms wide.
I focused on keeping my footsteps steady as I approached.
“Hey,” I murmured, slipping into the booth and ignoring his cue for a hug. I shoved my trembling hands under my thighs, mumbling, “No Camille?” and scanned the diner for my mother.
He flexed his hands at his sides before sitting across from me. “I hired a local sitter—thought we’d need a private conversation.”
“Responsible parenting,” I mused sarcastically.
When he set his hands on the table, I tried not to fixate on the gold wedding band on his finger. My mother had gotten him a silver ring. “I understand the hostility, Margot. Really—I do.”
“Do you?” I snorted. “Because you showed up after eleven years and thought a hot air balloon would make a nice olive branch for your estranged daughter. I don’t know where you’ve been living,Andrew, but it hasn’t been reality.”
My voice sounded even firmer than I hoped. Straightening my shoulders, I stared at him, unflinching.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, and something sharp and sour curdled in my gut. My ribs ached like they were closing in on themselves. I never knew that I got the habit from my father. How many other ways was I unconsciously mimicking him? The taste of bile burned the back of my throat. I swallowed hard, once, twice, as if I could force the resemblance away.
A silence swelled between us, thick and airless, until he finally said, “Your mother and I got married young, alright? We both changed more than we expected. And when I left… I shouldn’t have leftyou, Margot. I know that now.”
My pulse thudded in my ears. “Funny,’” I said, each syllable scraping my throat raw in protest. “That didn’t sound like an apology.”
