He never talks about his family at work, at least not with me.
Giovanni pauses his movements and his eyes widen, almost like he’s surprised he shared that with me. He parts his lips, and for a moment, I think he’s going to say more. Instead, he mutters, “I need more metallic thread. I’ll get it.”
Finally, something for me to do. “I don’t mind getting it for?—”
“No.” He briskly walks toward his office.
Trying to ignore yet another abrupt dismissal, I get up to stretch my legs. The sharp trill of my phone cuts through the quiet as I walk toward the front of the shop.Shit. Giovanni hates noise when he’s working. I rush to silence my phone before he comes back, but pause when I see who’s calling.
My father’s name stares up at me: Christopher Thompson. A confusing blend of apprehension and hopefulness floods my nervous system, as it always does when he calls me.
Don’t pick up. Don’t do it.
Chris Thompson is an opportunist. He always wants more from life. More traveling, more connections, more money. Always reaching for more, just never reaching for me.
Not entirely true, my psyche chimes alongside my phone—which I’m still debating on answering. Dad reaches for me when he needs access to my brother. My role was just repurposed. To him, I’m less of a daughter and more of a bridge.
I don’t know how my father always seems to know when I’m feeling low, but that stubborn shred of hope nudges my thumb to press the green button. My chest tightens as I clutch the phone and wait to hear his voice.
“Tessa? You there, Fashion Fairy?”
I flinch at his use of the nickname, knowing that he only got it from Mom.
“I’m here.”
“Fantastic! So, listen. I wanted to see if you’re up for grabbing lunch together next week. I’m in town after a long trip.”
I roll my eyes. Dad’s almost never in New York. Freelance journalism takes him abroad more often than not. Last year marked ten months in Japan. Before that, it was Peru.
“Sure, Dad. And should I forward this lunch invitation to anyone in particular?”
We both know the answer.
“Well, it’s been, what? Five years since we all last met up, I think. Maybe even longer. The three of us together again—can you imagine?”
Three of us. My stomach sinks, and a familiar bout of self-loathing kicks in. I know how these calls end; yet, I continue to subject myself to them.
I roll my shoulders back. “You must have a pretty vivid imagination, seeing as Daniel doesn’t speak to you anymore.”
When Daniel went no-contact with him, I think he assumed I would, too. After all, I barely had a connection with our father. The divorce was final mere months after I entered the world, and Dad was already in New York, leaving me with a thoughtfulparting gift of growing up with the painful knowledge that I’m easy to abandon.
“Ah, you know your brother. So stubborn. It’ll blow over soon, especially with your help. How’s he doing, by the way? Must be pretty excited for the league’s award ceremony coming up.”
I bristle. “I’m not talking about Daniel with you.”
I’ve had nearly enough of this conversation, but something in me pauses. The three words I’ve tried to bury, time and time again to no avail, resurface in my mind:Maybe he’s changed.
I start negotiating with myself against my better judgment. Knowing Dad’s rarely in the country, it probably wouldn’t hurt to go to lunch just this once.What if he gets eaten by wild animals while on location, and I regret not seeing him when I had the chance?
I clear my throat. “I’d still be open to meeting, you and me, just this once. I guess.”
He hums, and I hear clicking in the background, like he’s typing on a keyboard. “Let’s not plan anything until we know Dan’s schedule. No use getting something on the calendar just to change it, and?—”
I’ve spent so long rehearsing indifference that my hand comes up in a “stop right there” motion as if he was here to see it. “You don’t have to explain. Actually, I’d prefer it if you didn’t. I’m probably too busy, anyways.”
Dad smacks his lips together. “Alrighty then! Talk to ya soon, Fashion Fairy.”
My eyes start to sting. “Yep.”
