“I’ll be there.”
“See you later, kiddo.”
“Bye, Dad.”
The line goes dead, and I stare at my reflection in the dark phone screen. My expression is calm, but my stomach’s a knot. Dinner at Dad’s means smiling at all the right times and pretending everything’s fine.
I shove the phone in my bag and head toward my next class, coffee in hand, notes ready, paper tucked under my arm—the routine that keeps me breathing.
I see his text hours later, somewhere between errands and caffeine. A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. I type back fast.
Gideon: Morning, Little Menace. Hope you didn’t leave a glass slipper at my place. I’d hate to have to come hunt you down.
Me: If I did, it’s probably next to your ego. Both are too big to fit in one place.
Three dots flash. Disappear. Come back.
Gideon: You wound me.
Me: You’ll live.
Gideon: Barely.
I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling.
The rest of the day passes easier after that—grading, reading, a little tutoring session squeezed in before lunch. Every so often though, the image of Talon leaning close flickers across mybrain. That voice. That grin. That absolute refusal to take “no” as an answer.
By the time the last class ends, the sky’s turned pale gray and the air’s cool against my skin. I sling my bag over my shoulder and start the walk to my car, telling myself I’ll shower, change, and maybe eat something before dinner.
And hopefully not see Talon again today. Because if he corners me like that again, I’m not sure if I’ll keep my cool…or completely lose it.
By the time I get back to my apartment, the day’s already worn me down to a thin wire. I drop my bag on the couch and kick off my heels like they personally offended me. Dinner at Dad’s is at six, which gives me just enough time to pretend I’m a functioning adult before heading over.
I open the fridge, stare at the sad collection of leftovers, and grab the emergency stash instead: a pizza Lunchable and a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. Fine dining, college edition. I eat standing over the counter, phone propped against the paper towel roll, scrolling mindlessly while fake cheese and spicy dust ruin my manicure.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate Abi’s efforts. It’s just that her cooking always involves something I can’t pronounce and ingredients that sound like they belong in a chemistry lab. Last time, she made duck confit with lavender foam. My taste buds filed a complaint and haven’t forgiven me since.
When five-thirty rolls around, I’m back in jeans and a sweater; casual enough to feel like me, clean enough to pass the“Abi approval” test. I drive across town, rehearsing small talk in my head the whole way.
The house looks like a magazine cover—white shutters, wraparound porch, flowers that have their own gardener. I ring the bell and hear Dad’s footsteps before the door opens.
“Hey, kiddo.” He smiles big, pulling me into a hug that still smells like aftershave and home.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Come on in,” he says, closing the door behind me. “Abi’s just finishing up.”
The hallway’s warm, full of that mix of furniture polish and expensive candles Abi’s always lighting. My steps slow near the photo wall—old pictures of Mom and me, smiling on the lake, covered in sand, wind tangling her hair. My throat tightens, the familiar ache pressing in.
At least Abi has never tried to erase her. That’s something. She might redecorate every other inch of this place, but Mom still lives here on the walls.
Dad glances back. “You okay?”
I nod and force a smile. “Yeah. Just… remembering.”
We reach the dining room, and it’s pure Abi—everything gleaming and perfect, table set like she’s expecting a royal delegation instead of her future stepdaughter. Crystal bowls, folded napkins, matching cutlery, even little mints on the napkins.
Abi’s already seated, posture perfect, blonde hair smooth as glass. She looks up with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
