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My father smiles as he drops into the booth across from me. He’s right on time, which is nearly unheard of for him.
“Hey, Dad.” A familiar rush of affection floods me.
The waitress sets my fries on the table and we place our order. We both get the same thing every time. Why mess with perfection?
“Your sister couldn’t make it?”
He asks me this every single week. As if New York City is a quick dash around the beltway instead of four hours away without traffic. And let’s be honest—there is always traffic.
“She has to work,” I reply.
“Speaking of work, have you found a new job yet?”
I tell him I haven’t. And then I tell him about Slater.
After making appropriately encouraging remarks, he says, “It’s Kyle’s birthday on Friday. We’d love for you to come.”
My first instinct is to say no. Kyle is one of my half-brothers and we aren’t close. The only person who’ll be happy if I come to the party is my father.
Libby will do her best to ignore me.
My brothers will attempt to follow her lead. They still occasionally slip and share a smile or two with me, but it happens less and less with each passing year.
“I shouldn’t. Birthdays are family time,” I say.
His shoulders sag. “You are family. You’re his sister.”
“I know,” I rush to reassure him. “It’s just…it might be nice for Kyle if he gets all the attention on his big day.”
“He’d get even more attention if his oldest sister could make the time to wish him a happy birthday,” he says. And then he twists the knife. “You haven’t been by in months.”
“I’d love to come.”
I’m rubbish at lying. There is no way he believes me, but he grins anyway.
On Friday evening, the first person I see when I enter my father’s house is Libby.
“Ellie.” She grimaces. “You came.”
“Libby.” I give a brief nod.
Normally this would be the end of our interaction, but my father ambles into the room.
“Two of my best girls,” he says as he leans over and gives me a peck on the cheek. “We’re so glad you could make it.”
It drives me nuts the way he always speaks for Libby. He might be glad I’m here, but even a blind person could see she isn’t.
“You haven’t stopped by in ages,” Libby says with a pointed look.
My father nods. I don’t know if he’s aware his wife doesn’t like me. Is he oblivious, or simply unwilling to take a stand?
“I’ve been busy hanging out with Slater Jones.” My voice drips sweetness, but I wince internally. I tend to sink into my ten-year-old psyche any time we interact. I can’t believe I dropped Slater’s name into the conversation. What is wrong with me?
Libby stands up straighter. She’s an avid follower of celebrities and she clearly recognizes his name, but she only says, “I had heard you were unemployed.”
“Slater isn’t a job. We’re friends.” My words are appropriately vague—there’s no reason to mention that Kelsey asked me to check on him.
“You shouldn’t let that expensive degree go to waste,” she says with a subtle dig.
