“October twelfth,” she says.
Less than two months. Tammy is leaving me in less than two months. I don’t think my heart can take another separation.
“I’ll be back for Christmas, and you can come stay as many times as you can escape from your torture chamber,” she says softly, putting her hand on my shoulder and squeezing.
“I’m so happy for you,” I tell her.
“I know you are.”
My phone buzzes on the bar and we both look down to see the text from my dad.
Table’s ready. Where are you?
My head and neck gain twenty more pounds at the thought of the few blocks and the dinner ahead of me.
“To getting through dinner,” Tammy says, lifting up her drink with a smirk.
“To your new adventures in diplomacy,” I say, attempting a smile.
I clink my glass to hers, then down the rest of my martini.
I take another bite of tiramisu and shut my eyes.
It’s not perfect—the mascarpone is too sweet and the espresso isn’t bitter enough—but it is still enough to bring me back to that table. I can almost feel him beside me, leaning in to whisper something—
“I spoke to Serena this afternoon,” my father says, interrupting a fantasy that I most definitely shouldn’t be having while sitting across from him.
More work talk. The entire meal has been work talk. And when I ordered dessert he seemed genuinely shocked that I’d want to extend our time together. I don’t want rushed meals and quick goodbyes. I want to sit and eat and enjoy the moment. Even if I’m just trying to work up the courage to confront him about Mom.
“What did you two have to talk about?” I ask, trying to keep the defensive bristle from my tone. Not many people would be comfortable with their father speaking to their boss.
“We needed some documents that she was supposed to release to us weeks ago,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. “Obviously, we didn’t discuss you. That would be unprofessional.”
I lift a brow. As if that’s ever stopped him from getting into my business before. I shove a mouthful of drowned lady fingers into my mouth and prepare for what I’ve been avoiding since I satdown—even though my father has asked me several times what’s wrong.
He knows me well.
His eyes narrow on me as I swallow, and he leans back in his chair, the lapels of his suit jacket falling open at his flanks.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had accepted the job, Ava?” he asks. “I had to find out from my partner. It was—”
“Why didn’t you tell me that Mom had cancer before?” I interrupt, my voice cracking a bit on the c word.
He puts his napkin on the table and lets out a long breath.
“So many reasons,” he says, looking up at the pendant light over our table. “The main one being that she asked me not to.”
I can’t help the sharp sting of betrayal that hits me in the gut. The idea of my mother keeping things from me stings like a jellyfish swimming inside my veins.
“She never wanted you to see her sick in the first place, Ava. She hated that you left school, even if she loved being with you. She didn’t want your life to revolve around her cancer. And that’s exactly what happened. You left everything behind just to care for her,” he says.
“Of course I did. And thank goodness I made that choice, because she’s gone now, Dad.”
“I know. I know that. I’m just telling you how she felt about it. She wanted you to live without her burden—to love without the fear of what you witnessed.” He pushes his lips together, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he says, “When I wanted to tell you about her history, she asked me to let her handle it. And when she never did, she asked me to let it go. Said your memories were better left unmarred.”
A fat tear falls into the smear of mascarpone on my plate.
“I know you must be angry with me. But after she died, I was so scared that you’d never recover, Ava. You wouldn’t leave yourroom for months. Barely ate. Barely spoke. You were a ghost. And one ghost in the house was enough. I didn’t know what to do. She was always the one who knew how to give you what you needed emotionally.”
