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“Um. Okay.”
My baffled expression summons a chuckle from him. “Listen to me, kid. I know you’ve got a lot of love to give. Beinginlove, though, that’s a whole different thing. The heart knows there’s always just one.”
“Really? When’s it going to tell me?”
“You gotta listen. If you’re in love with one of them, it’s been telling you.”
I don’t know if that’s true.
Or maybe it’s proof I’ve never been in love with either one of them.
Dad sticks around for three days to spend time with me. I skip the classes I deem unimportant and squeeze the rest in between lunches and outings with my father.
But three jam-packed days of tourist activities also means the paps are staked out in front of the house at all hours to snap shots of Gunner Bly. He’s still staying at the hotel, but the second he was spotted visiting me in Notting Hill, it was all over. We were besieged.
Lee is on cloud nine. Bouncing with joy every time a new photo pops up on Insta or some celebrity blog. Jamie’s car parked on the curb. Our trash bins. Jack sweaty and shirtless. Lee in his pajamas. Me coming in and out of the house. It’s typical paparazzi fodder and intrusive as hell, but Lee has ordered me to let the little people bask in the glow of celebrity. By little people, he means himself of course.
Last night over dinner, Jamie said there’s an army of women salivating over Jack’s shirtless pics on Twitter, which triggered an unwanted pang of jealousy followed by a jolt of angry self-reproach that I still care enough to feel jealous. Jack and I haven’t spoken since the night I learned the truth, despite his attempts to get me alone. I’ve brushed him off every time, using my dad’s visit as an excuse.
Really, though, I can’t put my heart through another rehashing of Jack’s betrayal.
On our last night, Dad takes me back to Soho House. Just me and him in a private dining room to celebrate my twentieth birthday. I make him promise not to tell Lee or the others, because I don’t want them making a big deal out of it. Maybe if Jack and I were on better terms, I’d be down for a roommate hangout or even a small party, but right now it’s too much of a hassle.
When our personal server brings out a huge slice of chocolate truffle cake with one lit candle on it, I smile at my father, the tears welling up.
“Happy birthday, baby girl.”
“Thanks, big guy.”
I blink away the tears and blow out my candle. The waiter discreetly places a second slice in front of Dad, then camouflages into the background.
“I get it now,” Dad says as he watches me devour the cake.
“Get what?” I ask through a mouthful of truffle goodness.
“Why you needed to leave me.”
The frank words and slightly sorrowful way he voices them send an arrow of pain to my heart.
“Dad— ” I start to object.
“No, I understand, kiddo,” he presses on. “I see it now. Thanks to me, your knowledge of the world before you moved here was…secondhand, I think is a good word for it. But how could you ever learn to take care of yourself, stand on your own two feet, if I didn’t let you start living?”
“I think I’m getting there. The standing-on-my-own-twofeet part.”
And I think I’ve done well. I left my safe, secure bubble in Nashville and entered a whole new world. I navigated a new city. Discovered the real struggles that come with having roommates. I made friends, real friends, who aren’t part of my father’s social circle or sealed in the same enclave of rich, rural Tennessee.
“Granted, I also made a ton of mistakes,” I confess, reaching for my water glass. “Lied to you. Got tangled up in a love triangle. Naively fell victim to a scoundrel like Ben Tulley.”
“You’ve made mistakes,” he agrees. “That just means you’re doing it right. The living part.”
The rest of the evening passes way too fast, and before I know it, it’s midnight and I’m on my front stoop, hugging my father goodbye. With a final wave, he slides into the back seat of a town car and is whisked off to the airport.
A rush of sadness washes over me as I step inside and make my way upstairs. When I enter my room, I find Jack leaning against my dresser.
I stiffen, my chest instantly going tight with emotion. A knot of anger and sadness. A deep stab of hurt.
“What are you doing in here?” I mutter, staring at my feet.
