Chapter 11
ELEVEN
After work, I step out into the warm, late-afternoon air and start walking toward my car.
The sky is one of those perfect blues—clear, no clouds, nice to look at.
I catch myself trying to come up with a poetic way to describe it, something about vastness or depth or whatever, but nothing really sticks.
I hope that burst of inspiration from earlier wasn’t a fluke. Part of me wants to drive somewhere quiet and pretty and see if I’ve still got it in me.
There’s this park with wildflowers everywhere, a pond, and these soft, rolling hills.
It would be perfect to sit at the top of one and just stare at the sky for a while.
I used to go there when I was a kid, back when Gia and I would take turns on the monkey bars until our hands were raw.
It’s just around the corner from my parents’ house—or, I guess now, my dad’s house.
He’s probably holed up inside, totally unaware it’s one of those days that practically begs you to notice how beautiful the world is.
That flicker of inspiration I was riding fades into a dull pang of guilt. One second, I’m dreaming about writing something brilliant, the next I’m hit with Oh god, what if the people I love are falling apart while I’m trying to be the next Shakespeare?
The tight ache in my chest says it all. I need to see Dad. Not later—now.
He sounded a little off on the phone, but hearing someone’s voice isn’t the same as seeing their face. Mom has Nicholas to lean on, but Dad . . . ? He’s got no one.
And I just can’t picture him sitting in the living room, feeling abandoned, picking up the phone to say, “Hey, I need to talk.” That’s not who he is. He’s always been the kind of guy who pretends everything’s fine, even when it’s not. I honestly can’t remember a single time he asked for help.
When I pull onto his street, I spot an unfamiliar red Mazda parked right next to his old pickup truck in the driveway.
My first thought is that it must be a therapist. I mean, how could anyone deal with being blindsided and abandoned without a little help from a professional?
Maybe Dad actually asked for help after all. Good for him.
I’ve heard some therapists do home visits, which would definitely be a selling point for my father—I could never picture him sitting in a waiting room, risking running into someone he knows.
Not because he thinks there’s anything wrong with therapy, but because admitting he can’t handle something on his own would be way too hard for him.
I decide not to drive away. I’ll wait it out.
I stay parked where I am, which honestly feels like the new story of my life lately—always on some kind of stakeout.
Maybe I should go into private investigation.
I do have experience now. Spying on my parents and my friend’s ex-boyfriend could totally go on my resume.
From what I’ve heard, therapy usually takes about an hour, so that’s probably the longest I’ll have to wait. I brought my notebook with me, so I pull it out and flip to the page with the poem I wrote, running my fingers over the words like it might help lock in some of that inspiration.
I read it once, then again, marveling at how those words tumbled out of me like a switch suddenly flipped.
I glance toward Dad’s house just in time to see the door swing open.
Out steps a smiling woman, probably around my age, radiating positive energy that matches her bold outfit.
She’s wearing a bright yellow dress with a delicate lace overlay, paired with strappy gold sandals.
Her blonde hair cascades loosely around her shoulders as she walks down the front steps with a kind of effortless confidence and grace.
Dad walks out after her, following her along the concrete walkway toward her car. His wide grin gives me a sense of relief that courses through me. Whatever’s going on here, Dad looks more content than he does grief-stricken. Thank goodness.
The blonde woman reaches her car door, then turns toward Dad. They hold each other for a long time before she pulls away, he steps back, and she gets into her car, smiling.
The last time I checked, hugging a therapist isn’t normal behavior. Something about crossing the patient–client line of professionalism. No one says, Thanks for the therapy, now give me a cuddle. At least, I don’t think they do.
Oh lord, he’s seeing someone too? Someone incredibly young. He’s trying to one-up Mom, to feel like he’s still got it. Maybe he joined Via Match, too, and found this much younger lover.
The woman rolls down her window and sticks her hand out to wave at Dad before she drives away.
Dad stands on the front porch, his hands clasped behind his back, a faraway smile on his face as though he’s admiring his quiet, tree-lined street as much as he’s lost in a happy thought.
After a few moments, the smile fades. His brow knits slightly as he stares straight ahead.
He stands there for a couple of minutes before turning around slowly, stepping back into the house, and closing the door.
What’s all that about, I wonder. If she is his lover, maybe the change in his expression is because part of him still misses Mom, even after all she’s done?
I don’t want to aggressively bust Dad—I’d rather he tell me what he’s comfortable telling me without any pressure—so I wait ten minutes, adding a few of the songs I heard playing at the resort this weekend to my Spotify playlist—including “Hallelujah,” if I’m being honest—before driving farther up the street and parking in the driveway.
I knock instead of letting myself in with my key. Dad opens the door just a crack to peek out, then swings it open fully. He blinks, lips parting in surprise. “Lexi, I didn’t know you were coming over.” A beat. “Good to see you.”
I swallow hard. I don’t know whether I should feel guilty that I haven’t seen him since I heard the news, or proud of my restraint if he needed some time.
I step into the house and pull Dad into a tight hug. A warm, slightly spicy scent clings to him—luxurious, and definitely not his. Clearly, his new main squeeze is a fan of expensive perfume. I raise my eyebrows in a way he’ll recognize as conspiratorial.
“You smell nice.”
Dad looks down at the floor tiles and scuffs one with his slipper, but he doesn’t say anything.
Maybe that wasn’t the best opening for him to tell his daughter he’s seeing someone.
Like, what would he even say? Oh, you approve of my new girlfriend’s perfume? Great. Hope you approve of her, too, despite the massive age gap and the fact that I might be dating her just to piss your mother off.
I clear my throat. “What’s new with you lately?” I hope that’s a safer place to start. Simple. Great open-ended question to spark some new revelations.
“Just trying to do some decluttering,” Dad says, gesturing behind him at the house, which looks a hundred times more untidy than usual, with a stack of papers on the coffee table and loads of books and boxes on the dining room table.
“Would you like any help with that?”
“No, no,” Dad says, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m retired. I have plenty of time to go through old things. Come in and sit down.”
I follow him into the living room, and it’s obvious Mom hasn’t been here in a while. Takeout containers clutter multiple surfaces, alongside a few empty beer cans. Her favorite prints—Salvador Dalí’s Swans Reflecting Elephants and Claude Monet’s Impression, Sunrise—are gone.
Did Dad take them down because they reminded him of her? Or did Mom ransack the place and take all her stuff?
Does she live with Nicholas now? Or . . . yikes, does she live at Heart Hotel? Daily baths in that gaudy heart-shaped bathtub? What has she resorted to?
Instead of opening my mouth to let the stream of questions that are running through my mind come tumbling out of my mouth, I opt to practice self-control.
I’m going to let Dad lead the conversation.
He obviously isn’t ready to talk about his rebound romance yet and I know that if he had his way, he’d still be with Mom.
“It’s been a minute since we caught up,” I finally say, my eyes skimming his facial expression, which looks closed off, neutral, with a tight-lipped smile. “How are you doing with everything?”
He shrugs. “I’m fine.”
I study him carefully. He looks a lot better than I thought he would. His hair is carefully combed and he’s clean-shaven, looking handsome in a blue golf shirt and crisp khakis. “I’m sorry Mom did this to you,” I say, pulling him into another brief hug.
“I don’t want you to worry about me,” Dad says, smiling at me reassuringly. “It’s fine, honestly.”
It seems true. He’s doing amazingly well for someone whose wife is cheating on him.
But the first real test will be Gia’s wedding.
Dad will be forced to handle it face-to-face.
Mom’s so smitten that she’s definitely going to rub it in, even if it’s unintentionally.
From what I’ve seen, she and Nicholas can’t go longer than a minute without putting their hands all over each other.
I vow to talk to Gia about us both encouraging Dad to bring his new girlfriend.
He’d feel a heck of a lot better if he walked into the venue hand in hand with that beautiful woman, instead of shuffling in, all alone, while everyone gapes at Nicholas and Mom, and then looks back at Dad to see how he’s dealing with the situation.
Him coming in with his date would make him look like he’s moved on and he’s okay with everything.
There would be no feeling sorry for him and awkward conversations about how he’s been doing.
People would admire him as someone who didn’t sit around moping.
Of course, Gia will probably have an opinion about it, will say something like, It’s bad enough that Mom’s bringing a date without Dad adding to the scandal, but if I explain things to her, she’ll understand that it’ll be good for Dad.
It will also be good for Mom to get a taste of her own medicine, and for the guests, too, who won’t have to pity my dad on Gia’s special day.
Dad disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a plate of Oreos.
Then he vanishes again and returns with two glasses of milk.
He flips on the TV and settles on some cheesy comedy rerun.
We plop down on the couch, munching and sipping.
We laugh every few minutes, and it’s obvious—Dad has zero interest in diving into any big conversations right now.
He just wants to hang out, pretend everything’s normal, and bribe me with sugar into going along with it.
I mean, it’s been working ever since I was a little kid—it’s a good strategy.
“I’m going to meet some friends at the golf club in half an hour,” he says, breaking a long stretch of neither of us speaking.
I glance at him curiously. “You joined a golf club? I didn’t think you liked golf!”
Dad’s eyes gleam with enthusiasm. “I needed something to do. It’s pretty great, actually.”
“My dad, the golfer. I like how that sounds. And it’s a great idea. That’s awesome for you.” I pat his shoulder. He doesn’t exactly look like someone in need of comfort, after all. “Well, I’d better get going anyway. I have work in the morning.”
Dad walks me to the door, and my heart pinches a little. It hits me that there might never be another moment where both he and Mom stand here together, saying goodbye. This is the new normal now. Strained conversation and all.
“Have fun at golf. I love you,” I say as he wraps me in a bear hug.
“Talk to you at the wedding,” Dad replies.
I tilt my head back so we’re looking at each other. “Or, you know . . . we can talk before the wedding. I’m here for you. You know that, right?”
“Lexi, it’s okay.” His brow furrows, and he rests a steady hand on my shoulder. “You don’t need to feel bad about any of this. I think we all just needed a bit of space to process.”
“I still can’t believe she did this to you.”
A shadow flickers across Dad’s face before he smooths it into something more neutral. “Don’t be mad at your mother, Lexi. She had her reasons. We’ll explain everything soon. It’s just . . . not the right time yet.”
“What do you mean? Spill it, Dad,” I say but he just shakes his head.
“Not yet,” he says again, this time more firmly. “Good to see you.” He leans in to hug me one more time, and I step outside and down the walkway to my car, my mind reeling with possibilities.
One of them joined a cult. One of them wanted to retire in Costa Rica and was bitter with the other for not being willing to go along with it. They both want to be swingers now. I wish he would just tell me because what I’m capable of imagining is probably way worse than the truth.