Page 15

I miss the chaos. The clatter of coffee mugs on ceramic. The buzz of guitar strings being tuned and retuned until someone yells for the love of God, shut up. I even miss Carson’s trashy snack wrappers on every damn surface.

My phone pings on the counter, a little chirp that breaks the stillness like a rock through glass.

Dad: Hey, sweetheart. Any chance I can see you today?

I stare at the message for a beat too long, like maybe the letters will rearrange themselves into something else. Something casual. Something normal.

But they don’t. They just sit there. Unassuming. Unexpected.

Me: Sure.

I hesitate, then add a smiley face—because apparently I’m that bitch who still performs politeness for her own father.

Twenty minutes later, the elevator dings “You’re here,” I say, swinging the door open so he can come in. My voice cracks like a cheap vinyl record.

“I was nearby,” he shrugs, stepping inside. “Figured I’d check in.” He steps inside my borrowed luxury, towering and tan despite the dull New York sky, olive skin and the same raven-black hair as mine, though his is streaked with silver now. As if time couldn’t decide whether to weather him gently or rip him down the middle.

“You were in the city?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his dark eyes skimming the room like he’s cataloguing every sin I’ve ever committed. I pull at the hem of my sweater—an oversized off-the-shoulder knit that skims the top of my thighs and clings softly around the subtle curve of my bump. It’s not big. Not yet. But it’s there. A whisper of a future I’m still figuring out how to survive.

“I didn’t realize you were coming to New York,” I say, padding to the kitchen. “You want coffee?”

“Sure. Black. You know how I take it.”

While the machine hisses and spits like it’s angry at being woken, I grab a mug for him and a clean cup for my tea. Something herbal. Something that won’t mess with the growing life inside me, or the carefully stacked lies I tell myself every morning in the mirror.

Dad leans against the island, arms folded, presence loud in a way the apartment isn’t. His gaze is sharp, but not cruel. That’s the thing with him. He’s always been the softer one. The eye of the storm, not the lightning.

“You didn’t say why you’re here,” I say, sliding his mug toward him and cradling mine like it might anchor me.

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

My stomach clenches, hard and fast. Like the words hit some internal tripwire I didn’t know I’d set.

“I’m… fine.”

He doesn’t believe me. I can tell by the twitch of his jaw. The way his hand tightens around his mug before he lifts it.

“You sure about that?”

No.

“Yes.”

Dad exhales slowly, setting the mug down with a dull clink. “Truth is, I needed a little space from your mother.”

My brows lift, a ripple of surprise skating up my spine. “Really?”

He nods, shoulders sagging like the weight of that admission cost him something. “She’s been… difficult. Ever since she found out.”

“You mean since I got knocked up and decided to keep the babies without a ring on my finger?” I say it sharper than I mean to, the words laced with sarcasm and too many bruises.

He flinches, but doesn’t argue. “Your mom… she doesn’t understand. She’s old-school. Catholic to the bone. This wasn’t how she pictured your life.”

“Yeah, well… neither did I.” I blow on my tea. “But I’m managing.”

“I know you are.” His voice is gentler now. “That’s not why she’s upset. I think, deep down, she’s scared.”