“That’s a very sweet boy you found,” Mom begins, removing about ten tons from my shoulder blades.
“Ifound,” Fiona says with a waggle of her brows.
I side-eye her, but that only adds to her delight.
Since my father remains mute, Mom elbows him in the ribs with a hissed, “Yosef.”
“What?” he says. “Electra’s my little girl. No man is ever going to be good enough.”
“Callie, tell me you’re filming this?” Fiona calls out.
“With my ears and eyes, Fi,” Callie replies, tapping her temple.
“Mister Grumpy here approves,” Mom finally says, wrapping an arm around Dad’s back. “Especially after he found out that Cillian made those scones. You should’ve heard them talk about baking and cooking. Nonstop.”
“I’m not crazy that he lives in his car, though,” Dad grumbles.
“In a camper,” I correct.
Dad hefts a brow as though that made his living arrangements any better.
“It’s not forever, Yosef,” Mom says.
Fiona sets her Wordle booklet on the sofa. “In no time, he’ll be movin’ in with Elle, and?—”
“No!” Blood stabs Dad’s suntanned temple, inflating his veins. “No.”
“Honey,” Mom murmurs again.
“What?” he snaps.
“Elle is twenty, not ten. Besides, we moved in together when we were twenty,” Mom reminds him. “So did Diego and Dorian.”
“It’s not the same thing,” he retorts.
I finally find my voice. “Why isn’t it the same thing? Because Cillian isn’t an Atlantean?”
Mom shakes her head. “He doesn’t care about that. At least not until it becomes serious. What he cares about is itbecomingserious.”
“They can date without moving in together,” Dad says. “I’m happy to pay to put him up in an apartment of his own.”
Mom levels her eyes with my father’s tense profile. “What did he tell you when you offered that to him this morning, Yosef?”
“If he wants to date my daughter, then he’ll need to set aside his pride.”
I catch Calanthe’s stare. She mouths what looks like: “See. Not after your money.”
“Ifit becomes serious, Elle”—that vein is still bumping along my father’s temple—“you tell us, and we’ll get him an apartment and compel him to use it.”
“It won’t—become serious, that is,” I reassure him.
Fiona tuts. “Youth issoblind. That boy is perfect for you, Elle. Just you wait and see.” She settles back into the sofa and picks up her word games, repeating, “Just you wait and see.”
I’d find my father’s paling complexion amusing if I weren’t so certain Fiona was predicting whatshewanted toseeand not what would come to pass. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Cillian as a person, but he was far from the man of my dreams.
My gaze strays to the round foyer table on which thrones a bouquet. Though not peonies today, they remind me of the first time I crossed paths with him. Fiona had found his faceplanting adorable while I’d rolled my eyes and murmured that he needed stronger lenses.
Turns out, his vision was fine.
