I forced a nod. Leave it to Mrs. Henderson to state her opinion when no one asked for it.
“He was always good at the apology part,” I retorted.
“Maybe you’ll take a ride!”
“Maybe,” I lied, dragging a long sip to avoid saying,“Not even if you paid me.”
And then, because it was shaping up to be a truly terrible Sunday, I spotted him.
Andrew Wade, in the flesh—standing near the pilot, laughing like he wasn’t invading my otherwise pleasant autumn. Corduroy jacket, pressed shirt, sunglasses hanging from the collar. He looked as if he materialized from a photo in the old family albums, except a little grayer and a lot more put together.
He saw me before I could disappear into the crowd.
“Margot!” he called out, waving like we were long-lost friends. Before I could make my escape, he was already crossing the street toward me.
I turned, pasted on an impassive expression, and braced for impact.
“Didn’t expect to see you out here so early,” he said when he reached me, his voice full of easy charm.
“I don’t know if you know this, but I’m not thirteen anymore.”
He laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Come on, can’t we at least try for civil? It’s a beautiful day, the balloon’s up, people are happy—”
“People love a good show,” I interrupted, gesturing to the floating monstrosity overhead. “And you’ve always been good at giving them one.”
A flicker of discomfort passed through his expression, but he smoothed it over almost immediately. “You really think I did this for show?”
“I think you did it because you can’t stand not being the good guy.”
He exhaled slowly, then smiled the kind of smile that meant he was trying not to lose patience. “It’s for the festival, Margot. The town needed some help this year.”
“Right,” I said lightly. “You’re here for the town.”
“Yes— no, I just thought…” His tone softened. “It might be something nice for everyone. For you, even.”
I laughed under my breath. “Sure. So, where’d you leave your daughter? That must be record time for you.”
“Still can’t resist a jab,” he said, almost fondly.
“And you still can’t take responsibility.”
He went quiet. Around us, the burner hissed again and the balloon rose a few more inches, casting a warped shadow over the gazebo.
“I’m trying, Margot.”
The words were simple—maybe even sincere. But they hit like spewing gravel.
“I never asked you to try,” I said finally. When he opened his mouth, I held up a hand. “Actually, there was a time when I did—you know, skipped birthdays, ignored holidays. But I’m twenty-five now,Andrew.”
He flinched when I used his name. “Margot—”
“No. It wasn’t my responsibility back then to make you be a father, and it’s not my responsibility now to help you be a better one for her.”
“Camille,” he corrected, barely above a whisper. “After her mother.”
I rolled my eyes. “Did you leave her too?”
“She passed away.”
