"Lead the way."
The restaurant was small and warm, a place with checkered tablecloths and candles stuck in wine bottles. We ordered pasta—carbonarafor her,cacio e pepefor me—and a bottle of red wine that the waiter recommended with the confidence of a man who'd made this suggestion a thousand times.
Willow tucked her feet beneath her on the booth seat, a move that struck me as almost feline. Comfortable.As though she belonged here, in this tiny Italian restaurant in a town she'd never visited, across from a man she was only pretending to date.
"So," she said, swirling her wine. "Tell me about Elena."
The question caught me off guard. "What about her?"
"Anything. Everything. You've mentioned her, but you go all stiff whenever she comes up. What's the real story?"
I took a drink of my wine. Considered deflecting. Found that I didn't want to.
"Elena is brilliant—graduated high school two years early, finished her undergraduate at twenty. She's interning at a tech startup in San Francisco now while pursuing her masters. AI development. I understand about thirty percent of what she does."
"That's impressive."
"She's impressive." I turned the wine glass in my hands. "She's also the reason I know exactly how badly I failed at being a father."
Willow didn't flinch. Didn't offer reassurance or platitudes. She just waited.
"When she was young, I was building the firm. Sixty-hour weeks. Seventy-hour weeks. I told myself I was doing it for her—for her future, her security. But I wasn't there. Not for recitals or soccer games or theeveryday moments that add up to a childhood." I set down the glass. "Jessica—my ex—she handled everything. Until she couldn't anymore. Until she decided Elena deserved a father who showed up, even if it wasn't me."
"The divorce."
"The divorce. Elena was twelve. She didn't understand why her dad chose blueprints over her. Hell, I didn't understand it either. Still don't, if I'm honest."
"But you're trying now. You said she's coming to visit."
"She is. In a few weeks." I met Willow's gaze. "I've spent eight years trying to rebuild what I broke. Some days I think we're making progress. Other days I'm convinced she tolerates me out of obligation rather than affection."
"Have you asked her?"
"Asked her what?"
"Whether she's tolerating you or actually wants a relationship."
I blinked. "No."
"Then how do you know?"
"I don't. I just... assume."
Willow leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin propped on her hands. "Here's the thing about assumptions. They're usually wrong. And even when they're right, they keep you stuck. You assume Elena resentsyou, so you act like someone who deserves resentment, and she picks up on that and probably assumes you don't actually want to be close to her."
"That's... surprisingly insightful."
"I'm a surprisingly insightful person. You just don't notice it when you're too busy criticizing my foam art."
"I notice it."
The admission hung between us. Willow's face did that thing where she tried to hide how my words affected her and failed.
Our food arrived, saving us both from having to figure out what to say next.
We ate. We talked. Not about heavy things—about food and terrible movies and the worst customers Willow had ever served. She told me about the guy who demanded a "half-caf triple-shot almond milk latte with exactly three ice cubes, no more, no less" and then complained that it was too cold. I told her about the client who rejected six designs, each more elaborate than the last, before admitting he actually wanted a simple log cabin.
She laughed at my stories. I laughed at hers. The wine disappeared, replacedby coffee and a shared tiramisu that Willow insisted we order despite being full.
