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Instead, I haven’t heard a word from him.
It feels like an in-person conversation, not a phone call.
But I’m nervous too. I might be twenty-one and a legal adult, but he’s my dad. My hero, for a long time. Maybe he still is. And he’s supposed to be the parent. The one insisting on the tough conversations, not me.
I sigh and push away from the door of the sedan, straightening.
Holden and I left for Pembrooke around lunchtime. I drove my car since it was raining and we each had a couple of bags that wouldn’t fit as easily in the small back of his truck. Dropped him off at the condo and, instead of driving to my house, I came here to sit and stare at the place where my dad spends most of his time.
I remember coming here to visit him at work when I was little, getting a lollipop from the secretary at the front desk. Picking out a pen from the huge closet that stored all the office supplies.
That was a long, long time ago.
I glance at my dad’s car, parked in a prominent spot in the first row. Then sigh and start walking forward, passing the huge metal sculpture with water tricking down the sides right in front of the main entrance. Step inside the revolving door and push at the gold bar until the pane of glass starts to move.
The lobby inside is nicer than I remember. The last time I was here, I was probably five, maybe six. It makes sense that they’ve redecorated since.
My sneakers tread silently on the polished marble floor, passing leather couches and potted plants. Glossy magazines are spread on coffee tables, the covers shiny and noticeable under the modern-looking lights.
The receptionist behind the desk that looks like a giant cement block is a young woman I doubt is that much older than me. It’s strange—maybe since I’ve always known I planned on another four years of school after graduating college—that this will be most of the people in my classes next year. Working a nine-to-five with a salary and benefits and a retirement fund.
She eyes me skeptically when I give her my dad’s name and tell her I’m here to see him.
“One minute,” she tells me, then picks up the phone. I assume she’s calling my dad.
But another woman appears instead, silently gesturing for me to follow her. I thank the receptionist, offering her a smile she doesn’t reciprocate before turning back to her computer.
The hallway is nondescript, cream carpeting running the length. The walls are white too, occasionally decorated by abstract art. Each dark brown door has a shiny gold nameplate next to it. Most of the doors are shut. We pass a kitchen, then an open space that houses a maze of cubicles, then end up at the end of the hall in one corner of the building.
There’s a middle-aged woman standing in the hallway just outside it, flipping through papers. She’s about my dad’s age. My mom’s age.
She glances up as we approach, her smile friendly and polite. “Hello.”
The greeting seems to be aimed at me, since my guide doesn’t respond.
“Hi,” I say.
“This is CassiaNolan.” The woman I’m with heavily emphasizes my last name.
I get the strong impression these are thework colleaguesmy mom was referring to. At the very least, my family has been a topic of conversation between these women.
“Oh. It’s so nice to meet you, Cassia. I’m Elena. I work with your father.” Her smile grows. “You look just like him.”
I’m not a fan of Elena’s familiar tone. The way she’s talking about my father feeds all the suspicions swirling in my gut.
“That’s funny,” I say. “Most people tell me I look just like mymom.”
Elena’s smile quickly disappears.
“Cassia?”
I glance toward the doorway where my dad has appeared.
“Hi, Dad. Can we talk?”
I don’t wait for an invitation. I walk away from the two women I’m standing with without so much as a glance, walking past my dad and into his corner office.
“I—um, sure.” His tone is unsure behind me.
