The question sits between us, honest and painful.
"I'm getting there," I say finally. "It's just... hard. Trusting again. Knowing when something's real or when I'm just seeing what I want to see."
Dad nods slowly. "Your Victor. He makes you happy?"
"Sometimes. When he's not being a frustrating brick wall.”
"That's marriage."
"It's fake marriage."
"Maybe." He looks at me with those eyes that have always seen too much. "But you don't look at him fake."
"You sound like Mom."
"We've been married a long time. We think the same."
I lean against the porch railing, looking out at the small yard. "I don't know what I'm doing, Papa. With Victor. With the show. With everything."
"Nobody knows what they're doing. We're all just making it up as we go."
"That's not reassuring."
"It's honest." He puts his hand over mine, the tremor more visible now. "The treatments start next month. Your mother thinks I don't know about the money. How much it costs."
My throat tightens. "Papa?—"
"I know you've been helping. Your mother told me."
“That’s because Maman has a big mouth."
"She's worried too. We all are." He squeezes my hand. "But Harper, you don't have to save everyone. Sometimes it’s enough to just save yourself."
"I can do both."
"Can you?"
The doorbell rings inside, cutting off my response.
"That's probably your sister’s husband Philippe," Dad says. "Late as always after dropping the kids at the babysitter’s. Your mother will kill him."
We head back inside, where Mom is already moving toward the door, muttering in French about husbands who can't tell time.
"Finally! Philippe, tu es en ret—" She stops mid-sentence.
Because it's not Philippe at the door.
It's my boss—in all his six-foot-plus, gorgeous glory, standing on my parents' front porch in Queens, holding a bakery box and looking completely out of place in his expensive coat and dark jeans.
"I'm sorry I'm late.” He blinks, a lock from his dark hair falling forward. "The fitting ran over."
Mom stares. Margot appears in the hallway and smirks. Amelia lets out a squeal.
And I just stand there, frozen, trying to process the fact that Victor Kade—who said no, who had a fitting until six—is here.
At my family dinner. Looking at me like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.
“Amelia mentioned tourtière," he says into the silence. "And I realized I was hungry after all.”
