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“Hi, Jules,” she says. “So good to see you. How was Paris? I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
It was eye-opening, Liz. And you probablydon’twant to hear all about it.
“It was great,” I say, then sigh in relief when she grabs her keys and phone from a wooden table in the foyer.
“I’m excited to hear about it sometime. I’m off to Orange Theory.”
Last night when I reached out, I told my dad I needed to talk to him privately about mutual funds.
I didn’t tell him I wanted to discuss something that’s been weighing on me for six years. That would be cruel, to let that gnaw at him all day. The coordinating producer in me timed it around Liz’s workout schedule.
My father’s footsteps echo from the direction of the kitchen, coming closer. When he appears in the front hall, he’s still in work clothes, but his suit jacket is gone, and his cuffs are rolled up. He looks like it’s a regular day for him.
Does he have any idea what’s truly on my mind?
“Hi, sweetie,” he says with affection.
No, he has no idea.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, and it feels strange to talk to him so casually, knowing what I came to say.
Liz drops a kiss on his cheek. “Bye, darling. See you later,” she says, then trots down the steps, off to the gym.
He shuts the door behind her and gestures to the kitchen. “Want an iced tea? LaCroix? Anything else?”
He doesn’t offer wine. I wouldn’t take it even if he did.
“Sure,” I say, distracted by thoughts of what’s to come. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I tell him the truth about Paris and his best friend and me? What if I tell him where I met Finn?
Stop.
Tonight is not about Finn.
And I won’t blurt out anything inappropriate.
The thoughts float out the window.
“Which one?” he asks.
“Water,” I say as we head into the kitchen. He fills a glass from the tap, then grabs a bubbly water for himself from the fridge.
“I have my laptop ready and lots of spreadsheets,” he says.
Oh, Dad, what I have to say won’t involve rows and columns.
I take a seat at the counter next to him. Last night, I rehearsed what to say, but now that I’m here, all my practiced words fall away. Not by mistake—I am one hundred percent intentional when I skip the preamble and speak the truth. “It’s not my fault.”
His brow knits in confusion. “What’s not?”
I am strong. I am ready. “Willa’s death. It wasn’t my fault. Just because I taught her to sneak out, it wasn’t my fault,” I say, my voice catching, my throat tightening.
His eyes widen. His voice is thick with concern as he asks, “What’s going on, Julia?”
“You said it was my fault,” I say, pushing past the tears pricking the back of my eyes. “You said it at her grave.”
He blinks like this doesn’t add up. Like I don’t add up. “I-I did?”
A plume of anger rises in me, stoked by his reaction. “You don’t remember?”
