“You are intimidating.”
“I’m observant.”
“You made a grown defenseman cry once,” I remind him.
Frank looks genuinely thoughtful. “That was different. He lied to me twice.” Elena bursts out laughing so hard she has to grab the counter.
I stare between them in horror. “You can’t encourage him.”
“You undersold this man completely,” she informs me. “This is magnificent.”
Dinner somehowgets worse from there. Or better. I honestly can’t tell. Because watching Elena dismantle my father’s reserve in real time feels deeply unnatural. By the second glass of wine, he’s relaxed enough to loosen his posture completely, one arm draped over the back of the chair while Elena tells a story about accidentally pepper-spraying herself during a solo trip through Rome.
“You carried pepper spray in Italy?” he asks.
“I watch documentaries.”
“Toni watches documentaries before vacations too,” he says.
“Dad.”
“She made spreadsheets for Disney World when she was eleven.”
Elena gasps. “No.”
“I was efficient.”
“You were terrifying,” Frank corrects.
“I needed structure.”
“You color-coded ride wait times.”
Elena physically wipes tears from beneath her eyes. “Antonia Maria Amato. You beautiful little psychopath.”
“I’m leaving.”
“You live here,” she reminds me. “Well, next door.”
Frank’s eyes stay on me a second too long, softer now. Proud. That familiar ache moves through my heart again. Because this version of him always gets me. Just my father sitting at a dinner table, smiling while someone makes his daughter laugh. The warmth in the apartment deepens slowly over the evening. Music humming low. Wine glasses half-full. Steam rising fromuntouched coffee. Elena switches effortlessly between teasing him and genuinely listening, asking questions about travel and hockey, and life after retirement from officiating. And my father — impossibly — opens up. Not fully. Frank Amato would rather die dramatically. But enough that I notice. Enough that he sees me noticing. At one point, Elena disappears into the kitchen for dessert, leaving me alone with him at the table.
The silence settles comfortably for a moment. Then his expression shifts slightly. More serious. “You seem happier,” he says.
My stomach tightens instantly. “I’m fine.”
“There it is again.” I stare down at my wine glass. “You’ve been tense for two years,” he continues gently. His gaze intensifies in the way that always makes me feel sixteen again. “Something’s different now.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Because the horrifying thing is: he’s right. And fathers always know. I try for casual. “Work’s been intense.”
“Hm.” That single syllable carries decades of parental skepticism. “Are you sleeping at all?”
“Mostly.”
“You eating properly?”
“Yes.”
“You lying to me professionally or personally?”
