"I'm Malia," she says simply. "Vince's oldest daughter."
Of course. I see it now in the shape of her eyes, in the curve of her smile—an echo of Vince, unmistakable.
"Oh!" I blurt, practically jumping to my feet. "Hi!"
Before I can second-guess myself, I rush around the counter and pull her into a hug. She lets out an amused laugh, covering her mouth with one hand.
"Sorry," I mutter, suddenly realizing how forward that is. "Is this weird? Should I not hug you?"
Great first impression, Andrew. Hi, I'm the guy who ruined your dad's last relationship. Nice to meet you.
The thought ricochets through my mind, sharp and unforgiving. I pull back from the hug, my hands hovering awkwardly between us, suddenly unsure where to put them. Malia's smile doesn't waver, but something in her eyes shifts—a flicker of recognition, maybe, or curiosity that feels too knowing for comfort.
"No, no, it's not weird," she says, her voice warm, but I can't help wondering if she's just being polite. "Vince talks about you all the time."
All the time. The words land like stones in my stomach. I rack my brain, trying to remember if Vince ever mentioned having kids. He talks about his daughters, sure, but always in this abstract way, like they're characters in a story he's telling, not real people who might show up at my yoga studio unannounced. Real people who might hate me for what happened with Sam.
"Does he now?" I manage, my voice coming out tighter than I intended. I clear my throat, trying to recover. "I mean, that's nice. I hope he says good things."
Malia laughs, a sound that's so much like Vince's it makes my chest ache. "Mostly about how you're stubborn and terrible at taking compliments," she says, nudging me playfully with her elbow. "And how you make him get up at the ass-crack of dawn to run, even when he's hungover."
I can't help but smile at that, the tension in my shoulders easing just a little. "Well, someone has to keep him in line."
Her expression softens then, her gaze turning serious. "Look, I know about what happened with Sam," she says, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "And I know my dad can be... well, my dad. But he's been happier since he met you, Andrew. Happier than I've seen him in years."
The sincerity in her voice catches me off guard, and I have to look away, focusing on a stack of registration forms on the counter. "I'm glad to hear that," I say, the words feeling inadequate. "But I think I might have made things worse."
Malia reaches out, her fingers closing around my wrist. Her touch is gentle, but firm, like Vince's when he's trying to make a point. "Hey," she says, waiting until I meet her eyes again. "Sam wasn't right for him. Anyone could see that. You just helped him see it faster."
I want to believe her, I do, but the weight of guilt still sits heavy in my chest. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know," she interrupts, her thumb stroking the back of my hand in a gesture that's so much like Vince's it makes my breath catch. "But sometimes the things we don't mean to do are the things that need to happen most."
The bell above the studio door chimes, pulling us both back to the present. A group of chattering women files in, their yoga mats tucked under their arms, their laughter echoing in the small space. Malia drops my hand, stepping back as if suddenly aware of how intimate the moment had become.
"He used to be my best friend," she says, her fingers twisting the strap of her bag, the worn leather absorbing her agitation. "But after the split with my mom, he just started working all the time. He still treats me like I'm a kid." A heavy sigh escapes her lips, and she brushes her hair behind her ear with a flick of her wrist. "I'm almost eighteen, and he treats me like I'm Tina's age. I'm not his buddy anymore, not his partner in crime, not his equal. Just a kid. I hate it."
Her words land like stones in my stomach. "I'm here for you, anytime," I offer, my voice soft, barely rising above the studio's ambient hum. "But why did you want to talk to me so badly?"
She winds a strand of her hair around her finger, her gaze dropping to the floor, avoiding mine. "You're, like... obviously his new best friend now. But I'd never even met you before today. I mean, I never met my dad's best friend. That's not fair. We used to be so close. And Andy? You have a boyfriend, right? My dad told me you did. That's why you couldn't come with us to the museum that one time. You were having dinner with your boyfriend."
I lean back on my hands, crossing my legs, the movement feeling slow. "I did. But not anymore. I don't have a boyfriend."
She blinks, surprise flickering across her features. "But you date men."
"Yeah," I say, giving her a curious look.
She hesitates, then blurts it out quietly, almost like she's afraid of my answer. "Andy, be honest... are you secretly dating my dad?"
I laugh so hard she turns red. I try to stop, but I can't.
"No, no. I'm not."
"Well... I just thought maybe." She groans, burying her face in her hands. "He's been acting weird, you know? And you guys spend a lot of time together. Then he told me Sam broke up with him, so I thought maybe you guys were, like..."
"Malia," I interrupt gently, choosing my words with care. "I think your dad's a little out of my league. Don't you think?"
She laughs, loud and genuine. "No way. If anything, you're out of his league. He's way lamer than you, man. You seem alright."
