Lily reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “You’re a badass, Georgia Blake. Now go prove it, because I’ll never stop being infinitely jealous of the fact that you havethreeboyfriends.”
“Same,” Daisy echoes.
I spend the next few hours finishing up packing.
“Don’t forget your hat,” Lily says. “Let it be the reminder that keeps you strong when you have to face your asshole dad.”
I laugh. “Okay, well, I doubt that’s how it works, but it’s worth a shot.” I tuck the hat under my arm, grab my keys, and step out into the hallway with the kind of resolve that makes the next step feel a little bit easier.
I’m not just moving out.I’m moving on.
Time to do this the right way, for once in my life.
Time to face my dad.
I happen to know my dad is in New York right now rather than Charleston. The walk to his condo is only about fifteen minutes away, but it feels like marching to my own execution. It’s late afternoon, the sun already ducking behind the buildings, as I force myself onward.
I feel the nervous sweat pooling at the small of my back. If I turn around now, I could be at Brody’s in under fifteen minutes, curled up with him and a glass of wine and a thousand excuses for why I didn’t confront my dad.
But that would make me feel even more like I’m just trying to evade him, and I know it.
So, I keep walking. Past the stoop where he taught me to tie my shoes, past the deli with the best pickles in the city, past the park where we used to sit after Mom passed away and pretend that things were going to be okay.
When I reach his place, I press the buzzer, and there’s a long, metallic ring before his voice grinds through the speaker. “Yeah?”
“It’s me,” I say, and then add, “Georgia.”
A pause, then the door clicks open.
Please don’t let him kill me.
As soon as I step inside, he’s waiting on the landing, just inside, arms crossed tight against his chest. He wears the same Navy T-shirt he’s had for as long as I can remember, and his jaw is set so hard I’m surprised he can talk at all.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice clipped. “Did your little love triangle go south?”
“Well, it’s not a triangle, more like a square—” I stop myself and then shake my head. “I didn’t call because I didn’t think you’d pick up,” I admit, and instantly regret how defensive it sounds. But he just stares at me for a second and lets me in, the heavy door groaning shut behind us.
Inside, the condo is exactly as I remember, with hardwood floors buffed to a shine, the scent of lemon polish and old paperbacks, every surface lined with photos that he stopped updating when I left for college. There’s one of me in an ancient soccer uniform, mid-run, hair flying wild.
In all of them, I look like I’m just about to disappear out of the frame.
Or maybe that’s just me, projecting how it felt to grow up as Robert Blake’s daughter.
We move to the living room. He gestures for me to take the armchair while he sits on the couch, not quite facing me. The silence is suffocating, like he’s waiting for me to admit full guilt for my sins.
“So,” he says, his tone painfully devoid of emotion. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I thought I made it clear this wasn’t acceptable unless you came to your senses.”
I take a deep breath, then another, rehearsing the lines I practiced in my head a hundred times on the walk over. None of them sound convincing in the slightest, so I just say it.
“I’m moving out of my house today.”
His eyes dart up, then quickly move away. “What does that have to do with us?”
“I’m moving forward into a relationship with Brody, Miles and Emmett.”
He snorts, and the sound is pure Dad—unimpressed, a little disgusted, a little wounded. “Fine. Brody’s new project, is that it? I hope you enjoy being his flavor of the month. It won’t last.”
I swallow the urge to scream. “You were wrong about him. And you’re wrong about me.”
