Then suddenly, I have an idea.

I head to the sink with a smile.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Riley

MORNING DAWNS.

DAD DIDN’T KNOCK on my door. I waited all night like I would for a lover, but no knock came. No lover came either, as absurd as that is to think. My phone didn’t ring any more than my door was knocked on. It’s incredibly unfair. If I’m being chastised for being a foolish girl who only cares about sex (though that’s probably a bit overly dramatic), it seems that I should be overflowing with hedonism. If I’m being punished for being with Brandon, I should be with him. Receiving the cold shoulder but not the reason for that cold shoulder feels like a raw deal.

I get up. I plod through my morning routine like a zombie. I’m up before the alarm, so I take my time cleaning up. I don’t need a shower; I felt a long, hot bath was warranted last night.

I head into my side unit’s small kitchen, but of course I only have a few snacks. I normally eat in the main part of the house. With my father. He’s been going in later since I’ve been home.

I hold the cupboard door open, looking at my lonely box of graham crackers and three Luna bars, and wonder if I should make do. Bars are for breakfast, after all. Graham crackers? They’re for any time.

But if I stay here, that means I’m avoiding the house. Because I always go there for breakfast. I don’t have coffee. Or a coffee maker. I only drink it in the mornings, and because Dad drinks it too, it only makes sense to share that as part of our ritual. So it’s in the house, not here.

I could get in my car. Pick up coffee at Hill of Beans, or Starbucks. I could show up early, thus proving how responsible I am. Maybe nobody heard yesterday’s berating. It was lunchtime, after all, and most of them were probably already gone. Maybe I’ll get lucky. I’ll skate through the day, keep avoiding my father like I am now, and make it home safe and sound.

Repeat tomorrow. Repeat forever.

Eventually, we’ll forget all about it, and resume our relationship.

It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid despite still feeling both rejected (from being yelled at) and indignant (because I’m twenty-two damned years old and shouldn’t be yelled at by my father anymore). So I hike up my dress skirt, grab my bag and purse, and drop both off in my car before heading into the main part of the house for breakfast.

Maybe I’ll walk in, and things will be back to normal.

Dad will be sitting at the table, dressed for work, with his tie slung back over his shoulder like a scarf to keep it out of his food. His short, brush-cut hair will have a very slight sheen of wax, and I’ll see that before he looks up at me and says, “Good morning, Princess” as he does every day. He’ll be eating his toast, tapping around for news on his tablet, or maybe reading the paper. I’ll get two cups of coffee, which will be brewed but not poured. And then I’ll join him, and we’ll put this all behind us.

I walk into the kitchen.

Dad is sitting at the table, wearing a pale-blue shirt and a cobalt tie. The tie is slung over one shoulder, and he’s eating toast. He has his tablet. I can smell the coffee, made as usual, waiting to be poured.

He looks up at me and says, “Good morning, Riley.”

I’m perhaps overly sheepish when I reply. I feel naked. Honestly, I feel a lot like I always imagined I might if I’d found myself pregnant at fifteen or sixteen and had to tap dance around him the next morning. My father’s expectations are the reason I took longer than my friends to start having sex and why I was doubly careful (condoms and the pill) when I did. I couldn’t face that morning. But even though I’m twenty-two, I stupidly feel as if I’m facing it now.

“Morning, Dad.”

“Sleep well?”

“Uh-huh.”

He looks up, gives me a small smile, then goes back to his tablet.

I pour coffee for both of us. Dad takes sugar. I take half-and-half and equal. I feel like I’m walking around land mines, but Dad shows no signs of explosion. Last time I saw him, he looked like he meant to disown me. Maybe he’s realized, overnight, how crazy this all is. Maybe it’s not as bad as I figured, Brandon’s radio silence notwithstanding.

I sit. I put Dad’s coffee in front of him, and as usual, he takes it without looking — some kind of coffee-location ESP he’s always had. I get a muttered thanks as always. But after his first sip, something new happens. He spins the tablet and slides it toward me. I look, seeing listings of some sort. Then I meet his eyes, which seem a bit softer than normal. Maybe a little tired, too, as if he’s grown older since our parting.

“I owe you an apology.”

“Oh.” I blink.

“It’s hard for me to believe you’re growing up.” Then he almost laughs. “Or that you’ve grown up.”

“It’s okay.”

“Everyone makes mistakes.”

That remark doesn’t settle as well, but he seems to have moved on, so I let it go. He taps the tablet.

“What’s this?”

“Home listings.”

I look up. The surprise must show on my face because he laughs again. He’s putting on a good show, but I can tell this is all unnatural for him. He’s trying. But it isn’t easy.

“You’re buying a new house?”

“For rent, Riley.” He gives a little sigh. “For you.”

“Oh.”

“I know you didn’t mean to stay long. I know you want your own place.”

I take the tablet. I scroll through the listings but don’t see any of them. For some reason, I feel a plummeting sadness. He’s right; I do want my own place. I’ve said that from the start. But today, here and now, after what we just went through, this seems wrong. I felt displaced coming back from college that first day, and that displacement made me sad. Today feels the same, only I’m not sure why. Something precious has ended.

“Oh.” I set the tablet down. “Thanks.”

“There seems to be a lot there. I can give you the deposit.”

“It’s fine. I have my own money.”

He must have been expecting me to say this, so he makes no protest. Daddy’s little girl is all grown up and can make her own decisions.

“Dad,” I say after another few quiet minutes.

He looks up.

“Brandon.”

This seems to test his calm. There’s a bite of toast in his mouth, and his chewing pauses for a few beats. He works his jaw, swallows, and faces me.

“What about him?”

“Are you going to fire him?”

He sighs. “I don’t know.”

“You can’t fire him, Dad.”

“It’s not about what he did. It’s about what it represents.”

“What does it represent?”

“A betrayal of trust. A lack of respect.”

“For whom? Whose respect and trust?”

“Mine.”

I watch my father, wondering if he realizes what he’s just said. He’s looking right at me, and it’s like he’s forgotten I’m here … or, more importantly, that I was there.

“It’s not ‘what he did,’ Dad. If he ‘did’ anything, I did it too.”

“That’s not the same.”

“You’re acting like he raped me.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Riley.”

“Or roofied me. Or persuaded me to act against my will. Or coerced me. Or bribed me or harassed me.”

“Riley … ”

“Or got me drunk or told me he’d get me a new car or threatened you with blackmail unless I did what he wanted.”

“You’re missing the point.”

“I was there too. It was both of us. Both of us in our right minds.” I swallow, feeling the need to shock him into my point. Or, perhaps, feeling the desire to hurt him the way he hurt me. “Both of us wanting it,” I finish.