“Perfect.” I drop my head into my hands. “My fake dog’s toys are going to charity.”
“What did you name him? I couldn’t hear,” Maya asks. She’s fully invested now. “The puppy. Winston?”
“Winston,” I confirm through my hands.
“After Churchill?”
“After Winston from New Girl,” Alex corrects. “Dylan was binge-watching when Dom asked for the name.”
“So your dead father’s purebred wiener dog is named after a TV character.” Nikko is cataloging this. “This is incredible.”
“This is my nightmare.”
“This is what happens when you lie to your boss,” Sofia says sagely. “You get tangled.”
“I’m so tangled I’m basically a pretzel.”
“What have you told him lately?” Dimitri is genuinely curious now. Pulls out his phone. “About your father.”
I think back through the past few months of conversations with Dom. The casual check-ins. The way he remembers to ask.
“That Dad’s thinking about retiring,” I say slowly.
“From what?” my mom asks.
“Insurance adjusting.”
Alex's hand finds mine under the table. She knows. My real father was a lawyer. I can't even give my fake father that.
My real father. Robert Wells. Dead at forty-three. It was sudden and unexpected.
I haven’t been to his grave since the funeral. Can’t. Every time I try, I freeze at the gates.
But I can describe his fake life in perfect detail. His fake health problems. His fake retirement plans. His fake fucking wiener dog.
“Dylan.” Dimitri’s voice is gentle now. Sets his phone down. “Why did you start this lie?”
The real question. The one nobody’s asked in five years.
I look at Alex. She knows. She was there that night. Concert tickets. Phoebe Bridgers. Floor seats. Dom called me in for weekend work and I panicked.
“I wanted to go to a concert,” I say finally. “With Alex. We had tickets for months. And Dom called me in and I—” My throat closes. “I said I couldn’t because my dad was in the hospital.”
“And then he kept asking about him,” Alex says quietly. “Every week.How’s your father?And Dylan couldn’t take it back.”
“So I kept going.” I stare at my plate. “Every week. New details. New stories. Five years of building a man who doesn’t exist.”
“But he did exist,” my mom says. Her voice is careful. “Your real father. Robert.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” She’s not angry. Just sad. “Because you haven’t visited his grave since?—”
“Mom. Please.”
“I’m just saying.” She reaches across the table. Takes my hand. “You’ve built this elaborate life for a pretend father. Maybe because you can’t face that your real one is gone.”
I can’t breathe. Can’t speak. Can’t look at her.
