Page 67 of The Apparent Trap

“Last night sucked.” She blows out a breath, heavy.

“What happened?” I ask, curious, unable to not let my mind slip to Lee’s sleeping pills.

She hesitates, and that makes it even clearer that this has something to do with my dad, who I suddenly realize is not here. “Mark basically refused to wake up last night, even though I was banging on the door, and then even after I got in, he snored the entire night.”

Oh shit. So Lee’s ridiculous plan really did work. I bite my lip, desperate to not laugh. “Did you talk to him about it this morning?”

She huffs again. “Yeah, when I got up he was already awake. I asked him what the hell was going on, and he said I was being dramatic, that he’s just a deep sleeper.”

My eyebrows shoot up, because I know, of course, that’s not the whole truth. I wonder why he’s afraid to tell her that he simply took a sleeping pill.

“How, um . . .” I’m trying to think of anything else to ask her, something that won’t seem like I know more than I’m saying. “Why were you banging on the door?”

She sighs. “I got locked out. I left the room to go chat with Lee for a little bit last night, but I forgot to bring my key.” Oops. Well that piece is an unexpected, unfortunate (for her) twist. “When I got back, I couldn’t wake him up—I banged on the door; I called his phone. Nothing helped. Finally it was clear I had to give up, but you know all these rooms are so isolated, it took forever to walk back in the cold to the lodge, get a new key, and then come back to the room, all while I was ready to go to bed. So that was frustrating, and I admit I wasn’t thrilled by the time I got in like twenty minutes later. But then he wouldn’t wake up even once I was inside; he was just totally avoiding even an attempt to say hi.”

I really don’t want to find this funny. Someone else’s cold misery is not funny. It’s hard, though, not to be a little amused by Lee’s hijinks actually causing low-stakes trouble in their inexplicable paradise.

But she’s not done talking. “And then he snored half the night. Every time I started falling asleep, it sounded like a jackhammer was next to me. I barely slept at all. So yeah, last night sucked.” She pauses her rant, a realization taking over. “Sorry, is it weird that I’m telling you about a tiff I’m having with your dad?”

My secret amusement banishes because I’m caught off guard by the sentiment—I have no idea what to say. Because of course it’s weird that she’s having a fight with my dad; it’s weird that she’s having any interaction with my dad at all. It hasn’t stopped being weird for me, even if the two of them want me to pretend like it’s all fine.

The minute I have the thought, though, I have to admit that it’s not completely fair. Because how would they know I’m finding it weird? I made my bed; I chose to try and not rock the boat with my dad, and I pretended everything was fine. And maybe those were good reasons at the start, but now my true feelings are undeniably a festering secret. And that’s the problem with secrets—once they begin, they compound and compound until you can never quite go back to the starting place where you could’ve made a different choice that could’ve potentially had a different outcome.

I’m still hoping this outcome is that I get to have my cake and eat it too. I want them to break up, and I want to never have had to be openly unsupportive of my dad.

But damn, it’s complicated trying to get there.

And now I’m taking too long to answer her. Should I give her a half truth? Or keep feeding her the lie?

“No, it’s okay,” I hear myself say, the lie somehow easier.

And that ease makes it all feel so much worse.

But before that thought can linger, my dad saunters in as though we summoned him, looking like his usual cheery self and not someone who knows his girlfriend is peeved with him. “Hello, everyone,” he chirps.

“Hey,” I say, pulling out a chair for him. “What have you been up to this morning?”

I know I shouldn’t prod. But even if I’m starting to wonder if we’ve gone too far, I also have the sense that maybe we could still pull this off without anyone realizing. Maybe we’ve finally found the key to cracking something, and a little gentle nudge could tip the scales.

“Oh, well, you know how I’ve been interested in the toxicology of what’s being released into marine ecosystems as permafrost melts from climate change?”

Amir looks up from his book, parsing out that non sequitur, but I’m unfazed.

“Yup,” I reply, because I actually do know that he’s particularly interested in that.

“Well I got an email from a colleague with a new study around offspring effects of exposure to a mixture of three PFAS during rat pregnancies—”

“As one does,” Amir replies dryly.

My dad just smiles at him, then looks back at me. “Anyway, it was led by a researcher at the EPA who’s been doing some fascinating work, Dr. Earl Grey.”

Amir starts laughing. “That is not the man’s name.”

“It really is,” my dad says.

“That’s like . . . something you’d name a Muppet. Or a character in Clue: Dr. Earl Grey, with the teapot, in the kitchen.”

I can’t help it. At that I crack up, and I bring Amir along with me.