"Language," I remind them, though the word lacks conviction, a hollow echo in the bustling restaurant.
Tina huffs, a sharp puff of air. "Whatever, Dad. You curse more than both of us combined. Maybe try leading by example for once."
Malia snorts, slumping back into her chair, her thumb already scrolling endlessly across her phone screen. Tina follows suit, a miniature reflection of her sister's sullen posture.
I lean back, the vinyl of the booth cool against my spine, watching my daughters bicker and roll their eyes. It should feel endearing. Normal.
Instead, all I can think about is Andy.
Thenextmorning,Andy'snew Instagram post appears on my feed—the first in weeks. A photo marking a major milestone in his life that he shared on our call last night: he's signing the lease on his dream yoga studio in Malibu.
And I'm not there.
I'm not there to celebrate with him, to hug him, to tell him how proud I am. I'm in New York, stuck in meetings and rehearsals, missing one of the biggest moments of the man I love.
The guilt gnaws at me all day.
I pull up that photo countless times. Andy smiles his brilliant smile. But dark circles shadow his eyes, stress etched into hisface. Andy never looks tired; he's the Greek god of eight-hour sleep.
He misses me. I know it from the way he holds me over the phone at night with his words, his voice, as if those calls are the only lifeline tethering us together.
"Dad," Malia's voice cuts through my thoughts. She leans closer on the boutique bench, her sharp eyes flicking toward my phone. "Who are you talking to?"
I quickly turn off the screen and flip my phone face down. "No one."
Malia raises an eyebrow. "Dad, that was clearly a picture of Andy and Cynthia. I saw it."
Her tone softens as she tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, but the curiosity in her eyes sharpens. "And I know you've been calling Andy everysinglenight. Out on the balcony."
Caught.
"Why are you being so weird on this trip?" she presses, her voice low but insistent.
"I'm not being weird," I shoot back, avoiding her gaze. "And I'd appreciate a little more respect in your tone, young lady. You're talking to your dad, not some school friend."
She rolls her eyes, her smirk widening.
"Malia, why don't we focus on why we're here, okay?We’ll talk about this tomorrow with Tina. I promise. Today is dress day." I stand abruptly and knock on Tina's fitting room door, desperate for a diversion. "Tina, sweetheart, can you please put us out of our misery and show us the dress?"
"I said fucking wait a second, Dad! It has to be with my hair up!"
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "It doesn't have to be with your hair up. What difference does it make?"
"All the damn fucking shitty difference!"
I bite back a laugh, the sound barely suppressed behind a tight smile. "Well, now you're just stringing together curse words for the sake of it. Watch your language."
"SHUT. UP. DAD."
Her raised voice slices through the boutique's quiet atmosphere, drawing the attention of a sales associate who approaches us cautiously, her polished nails clicking against the tablet in her hands. I straighten up, preparing for the inevitable scolding, but instead, she does a double take, her eyes widening with recognition.
"Oh my gosh! Are you Vince Vickers?"
And there it is.
A few minutes and a selfie later, the associate leaves us alone, suddenly willing to overlook Tina's volume and teenage dramatics. I honestly would rather be kicked out for my daughter not having decent manners, like anyone else would have. The associate's sudden deference only highlights how out of control my daughters are, how badly I've failed at teaching them basic respect for public spaces.
My daughters are completely out of control.
