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When he stops, enough to at least respond, he says, “It’s simple, my little flower, and you clearly are sorry. So why don’t you tell him so?”

“I’m trying but he won’t listen.” It comes out smaller than I mean it to, nothing like how big the ache in my chest is, how tight it gets at the thought that Theo, after spending so much time inserting himself into my life, won’t even give me the time of day.

“Then you have to make him,” he says, “if you really want to make it right, if you think his friendship was worth it. Even if it takes a while, even if it’s embarrassing. If you’re in the wrong, you have to own it.”

“I know that,” I grumble. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. What does it matter if he won’t listen to a word I say?”

“Then I’d say you’re not trying hard enough,” Dad says, crossing his arms, his gaze narrowing on me. “You never lost any of your mock trials, right? You always get your point across. If you’re not, I think you’re holding back. Maybe because you’re scared to actually face him. Try harder. And show him you mean you’re sorry.”

I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve, avoiding his eyes. “So, like a grand gesture?”

“That’s right,” he says, standing up. “I’m sure you have it in you.”

I nod, then shake my head, waving my hands. “Okay, I would love to brainstorm ideas, but I can feel my stomach eating itself from the inside.”

He ruffles my hair and Vivi’s too. “There’s flan in the fridge if you want a snack.”

“Thank you,” I sing.

I lay down with Vivi and stare at the ceiling, contemplating his words. A few seconds later, the front door swings open again.

Dad appears in the doorway. “Did you mean it?” he asks. “When you said Risha and I make a good pair? Me, with anyone?”

A grin fills my face. “I did.”

“You’re not…” His words come slow, hesitant. “Me being with another person, it doesn’t upset you? When you did what you did on the dating app, you weren’t mad at the thought of me being with someone other than your mom?”

I shake my head. “It’s not that I don’t miss Mom or think anyone can be better than her.” Nobody can, but they can still be good, a different kind, anyway. “It’s that I think you’re so great it’d be a waste if someone didn’t get to see it. And”—my throat cracks—“I’m pretty sure Mom was cool enough she’d want you to find someone after her.” And then, because I realize I didn’t say it earlier, I add, “I’m sorry about before. About trying to set you up without permission.”

“I forgive you,” he says. “And whether or not things work out with Risha, I don’t need you to be worrying about me and who I’m dating. Do you understand?” He smiles. It’s not happy or sad; it’s a strange in between. “I’m never alone. I always have you no matter how far you are. Your mother is always in my heart.”

“But she’s not here.” I can’t help but point it out.

“I know that, Violet.” He rubs his chest. “I know that more than anyone. I know that every morning when I move my arm and there is no weight pressing against it. I know it when I gather my clothes for the day, and there’s so much space in the drawers. I know it when I take out two cups for coffee in the morning and only fill one. I know it every moment of the day.” He clears his throat and looks at the ground for a moment before looking back at me, a small smile on his face. “I’m never going to forget your mother.”

My eyes feel heavy and burn, like lines of salt are spread across my lids. “Aren’t you scared you won’t be fully happy again?”

“I promise, my little flower, I’m not the sad old man you think me to be, so worry about your schoolwork and having fun with your friends, but don’t worry about me. I have it all figured out.”

“I don’t think you’re a sad old man,” I say, my throat tight. “I think you’re an old man with bad music taste and a genius daughter.”

He ruffles my hair. “You’re right about the last part.”

“You know, I think Mom would be annoyed if you weren’t dating, just saying.”

He smiles at that, the little sadness we always carry just a hint in his eyes.

“She would,” he agrees. “You’re a good kid, my little flower. Even when you’re making mistakes, you’re the best of them.”

“Get out of here.” I throw a couch pillow at him.

He catches it. “I love you.”

“Me too.”

When he leaves, I sit around thinking about his words and Theo. What kind of gesture would be good enough to prove I’m sorry? And if I’m really as good of a person as he says I am, why is there this nagging feeling in the back of my head saying I’m not?

When I figure it out, I peel myself from the couch and grab all of my equipment, sit at my desk, and begin my research.