“Then help me remember instead of trying to drag me away!”
“I’m trying to save your life!” She throws her hands up. “But you’re just like your sisters. The three of you are stubborn and blind!”
She storms toward the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. “When you change your mind, call me. If you still can.”
The door slams behind her. I wait until her footsteps fade down the hallway before I grab my phone from the nightstand. I scroll through my contacts, my thumb hovering over Caleb’s name.
Without overthinking it, I press the call button.
28
Caleb
I stare at Poppyas she picks at her chicken salad. My mind is racing, replaying Amara’s words over and over. She wants to see me. Tonight. Sneaking out while Dom is in his office.
I check my watch. Only 5:43 pm. An hour and seventeen minutes until she’s supposed to meet me.
“You have dancing for three hours tonight?” I ask, knowing the answer but needing to confirm my mental timeline.
Poppy looks up, her fork paused midway to her mouth. “Yes, Dad. Same as every Tuesday.” She tilts her head. “Why?”
“Just checking.” I glance at my watch again—5:44 now.
“Dad, that’s the third time you’ve checked your watch in like two minutes.” Poppy puts her fork down. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just...busy night ahead.”
“Working on your book?” She takes a sip of water, studying me over the rim of her glass.
“Something like that.” I push my barely touched pasta around my plate.
“You’re being weird.” Poppy narrows her eyes. “Does this have anything to do with Amara?”
My head snaps up. “Why would you say that?”
“Because you get this look whenever someone mentions her.” She mimics my expression, furrowing her brow dramatically. “Like you’re constipated but also about to cry.”
“I do not look like that.”
“You totally do.” She points her fork at me. “Plus, you’ve been extra weird since her accident.”
I check my watch again.
“Dad! Seriously, what is happening with you tonight?”
“I love you,” I tell her abruptly.
Poppy’s expression softens, confusion giving way to concern. “Are you okay?”
“Can’t I tell my daughter that I love her?”
“Of course you can.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Love you too, Dad. But you’re still being super weird.”
I push back from the table, my legs unsteady beneath me. “I’ll make some coffee.”
The kitchen has always been my refuge. The place where I can think, where I can breathe. I grab the dark roast beans from the freezer. Pull back the top and pour some into the grinder, letting the mechanical whir drown out my thoughts for a few precious seconds.
The rich earthy aroma hits me as I pour the grounds into the filter, thinking about Amara and the predicament I’ve found myself in.
