We grow silent again for a while until my father lifts his hand, turning the volume on the radio low.
“I was watching season seven yesterday,” my father says.
I look at him with surprise. “Yeah?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah. I’ve seen it before, but that’s the one I like best.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he says, his mouth curving into the smallest smile. “When Ricky arrives, and Jenn jumps off the boat and stays underwater so he can’t see that she’s on a date with Luis?” He chuckles. “That moment’s a classic.”
I’m stunned into silence.
My father doesn’t justwatchthe show. He actuallyknowsit. He sounds…like a fan.
“Have you seen the last few seasons, then?”
“I’ve seen them all.”
I blink. “Why? Do you…do you watch other reality shows? How did you even—I mean, I remember you said it doesn’t air here, so I don’t understand why you—how you even found it.”
He’s quiet for a second. “Neelu, I watch it because you work on it.” He says it like it’s something obvious. Like it’s something I should know, but I don’t.
This man has barely shown any interest in my life. Has barely taken the time to get to know me. I don’t understand any of this. I don’t understand him.
“Why?” I ask.
His brows fly up. “Why?”
“Why watch it just because I work on it? Why would you—”
He gapes at me for a second, but turns back to the road quickly as we come up on a hairpin turn. The force of it pushes me to the side a little, and I glance over my shoulder, checking on Jacob, but he’s still fast asleep, leaning against the window, his mouth partly open.
We finish the turn, and the road becomes a little easier. At first I think my father’s going to let this topic drop, but after a while, he speaks, his words clear and surprising.
“You’re my daughter.”
A rough breath escapes my lungs. And for some reason, the corners of my eyes prick.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to cry in front of him.
I curl my hand into a fist and place it under my thigh, the pressure helping me hold my emotions at bay.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“What?” my father responds, startled.
“I’m your daughter?” I say, repeating his words.
“Yes?” he says, slow and hesitant.
“And that means what, exactly?” My tone is harsh, more bitter than I want it to be, but I can’t seem to help it.
“I—” My father’s brows crease. “I don’t understand.”
“No,Idon’t understand. You—you let me go, Dad.”
He opens his mouth, his expression stunned. “But I—”
