He trails off, and I wait, because I’ve learned Peter sometimes needs a runway before he lands on what he wants to say. But he doesn’t continue. There’s a beat of silence, and then: “Tell me about your day. The real version, not the highlight reel.”
I smile despite myself, because he does this—cuts through the surface like it’s not even there. And for a disorienting second, I almost tell him. About Dad showing up. About the things he said. About the way I stood my ground, but still drove home with my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. About the fact I sat in my truck outside my house for ten minutes before going inside because I needed to cry and I didn’t want to do it where the walls could hear me.
But I don’t.
“That was the real version,” I say lightly. “Framing, permits, cereal for supper. The glamorous life of a contractor.”
“You had cereal for dinner?”
“Don’t judge me. It had raisins in it. That’s a fruit serving.”
He laughs, and the sound of it reaches into my gut and squeezes. I miss him. I miss him in his kitchen and on his couch and sitting next to me, saying nothing while I figure my shit out. I miss the way he looks at me when I’m being ridiculous, like I’m the most fascinating person he’s ever met rather than the most chaotic.
“What about you?” I ask, redirecting before my voice betrays me. “Have you seen your parents?”
“Briefly. They took me to dinner. Mom asked about you.”
“She did?” My surprise is genuine, because my own mother hasn’t asked about me in weeks.
After my parents divorced, she was happier, but it was like her happiness depended on how far away she could get frommy father. She never remarried, and when he did, she knew she could no longer live in the same town. The physical distance between us became emotional distance, too.
When I took over the construction business, she was angry. Mom knew Dad’s business was failing, and she chose to see that as me rescuing him, choosing him. She couldn’t even see it was literally me choosingmyself. Choosing to do something I loved. Choosing to try to become closer to a father who never saw me as enough. I was trying to show them both I was capable, and I loved them, but neither of them saw it that way. They’ve never seen me for who I am. They’ve each painted distorted pictures in their minds, completely different and completely inaccurate.
I speak to my mom when I call to check in, or when she calls me under the guise of checking on me, but really asking for a favor—usually something to be fixed around her house—which then turns into digging for gossip about my dad and his wife. She doesn’t ask about me, so my shock at Dana’s inquiry is genuine.
“She asks about you every time I talk to her. I think she likes you more than me.”
“Smart woman, your mom.” I’m grinning, but there are tears stinging my eyes. I’m grateful he can’t see them. “What did you tell her?”
“That you’re fine. That you’re busy with work. That you like to eat on the floor, and you snore a little when you fall asleep on my couch. I also told her I can cook now. She doesn’t believe me.”
“I told you we don’t discuss my snoring. And you absolutelycancook. I have a hard time believing you were ever bad at it.”
“Dana Darcy disagrees. She wants the full breakdown of the dishes I’ve supposedly made when she meets you in the flesh.”
When.
Notif.
The word lodges somewhere behind my sternum, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“Anyway,” he says, and I hear the shift—the pulling back, the same thing I did. He doesn’t want to talk about himself or his family. About the meeting, about whatever it felt like to sit in that office and wear that version of himself again. And I get it, because talking about it makes it real, and we’ve built something that exists outside of real life. Bringing Toronto into it feels like… I don’t know. Like wearing brand-new boots through a muddy field. You’ll ruin them, and they’ll never look the same.
“Anyway,” I echo.
“I’ll be back Sunday for sure. Maybe Saturday, if I can convince my parents to have brunch with me instead of dinner.”
“No rush,” I say, and it’s the biggest lie I’ve told in weeks.
“Yeah.” Another pause. “Okay. Well, I should let you get on with your evening. I’m about to get a workout in.”
“If you come back with more than six abs, I’m gonna be so mad at you.”
He chuckles, but the sound is hollow. “Goodnight, Beth.” That name on his lips is like a balm, soothing the ache in my heart, if only for a moment.
“Night, Peter.”
I hang up and sit in the silence for a long time, staring at the muted TV, where someone is winning something on a game show, and I think about what just happened. Not the conversation itself, but what happened underneath it.
