Cassidy and I both look more like Mom, but I can see traces of my appearance in my father. Our eyes are the same green, and I inherited the cinnamon shade of his hair, although it’s curly, like Mom’s. But the rest of him is unrecognizable from the man who used to block my shots in the nearby park.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hello, Claire.” He flashes an uncertain smile at me.
Tommy tugs on the hem of my fleece. “Can you make me ants on a log?”
“Of course. One sec.”
I’m eager to end this interaction with my father as quickly as possible, but not so cold as to immediately slam the door in his face.
“Okay.” Tommy wanders deeper into the house, leaving us semi-alone.
I can hear Cassidy talking in the living room. Lindsey is sitting in the passenger side of the silver Lexus running along the curb. It must be uncomfortable for her, visiting my mother’shouse. She and Dad never had a reason to come over here before Cassidy and Tommy moved in.
“Tommy is quite the soccer fan,” Dad comments. “That’s all he wanted to do at the park.”
I nod, fighting the urge to fidget. “I’m glad you guys had a nice time.”
“He’s a great kid.”
“He is,” I agree.
Dad exhales. “I was hoping we could?—”
“Hey, Dad!” Cassidy appears beside me, her wide smile genuine and bright. “Thanks so much for taking him to the park.”
Dad’s expression is open and happy, nothing like when he was looking at me. It’s my own fault that I have essentially no relationship with my father. I’ve pushed him away at every opportunity.
But there’s a stab of envy as I watch them chat easily about Tommy’s party and make plans to eat lunch together this coming week.
“I should make Tommy’s snack,” I say after they’ve sorted their plans. “Bye, Dad.”
The transformation in his face is immediate as he glances at me. Tentative. “Bye, Claire. If there’s a good time to talk, I’d really like to.”
Talk about Mom, he means. Maybe Cassidy’s stopped passing information along, like I asked. Maybe he wants to know details she doesn’t. I was the one at doctor’s appointments and meetings with lawyers.
I nod. “I’ll text you.”
I probably won’t, and we both know it. But he doesn’t call me out on it. Our conversations are as awkward for him as they are for me.
I spin in my socks and hustle down the hallway after a giggling Tommy, shouting, “Ant attack!”
As I slip and slide along the varnished floorboards, I wonder if my dad recalls doing the same thing with me.
16
OTTO
Juliette looks the same as the last time I saw her—watching from a window as she climbed into the back seat of a chauffeured car while the driver loaded her luggage. I spot her instantly, willowy and blonde, as soon as I step inside the upscale restaurant she suggested we eat at.
I’ve contemplated canceling this dinner more than once the past few weeks. I even wound up with a good excuse, thanks to my last-minute return to Kluvberg. But the scheduled flights ended up aligning perfectly for me to fly back to the States via New York, then take a train back to Boston early tomorrow morning. If I’d flown into Logan directly, I would have missed tomorrow morning’s practice.
Maybe I took the seamless logistics as a sign that this night was meant to happen.
Mostly, I’m looking for a distraction from the woman who occupied my thoughts while I sat in a waiting room for two hours. After a surgeon informed me Opa’s procedure had gone smoothly and I could see him soon. As I dumped all the liquor in his cabinet down the kitchen sink. On the drive to the airport.
I can’t stop thinking about Claire, and I need to.
