Page 55 of The Unexpected

He pours, and we drink in silence, just the two of us in the shitty church apartment, the ghost of our girl’s perfume hanging in the air.

Neither of us says it, but we both know: This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Above us, the crucifix gleams in the faint light, and I swear to god, the face on it is smirking at us.

19

A MUTED WARNING FROM MY DAD

Stella

It’s almost midnight when I remember how to breathe again. The hour is half-strangled between today and tomorrow, and I’m cross-legged on my queen-sized bed, in comfy pajamas with cartoon dogs on them. My Nicolette name tag sits on the vanity, discarded in a way that feels permanent. The dress and tights I wore home are in a heap by the door. There are two lavender candles on the nightstand, their wax in long, obscene rivers across the marble. The air smells like spa day mixed with sweat and something human.

There’s a leather-bound journal in my lap, the kind you give to someone who either reads too much or is definitely lying about their antidepressant dosage. The pages are open, and I’ve been scribbling for the better part of an hour, but nothing is a sentence. Just shrapnel. My hand is cramped, and there’s a blue bruise at the webbing of my thumb from clutching the pen too hard. When I drag my palm over the lines, the ink smears. I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say.

I’m confused.

I’m in love with two men.

And I wouldn’t change it for anything.

My hair is down, tangled in a way I haven’t seen since childhood. I keep tucking it behind my ear and then shaking it loose, over and over, like if I repeat the gesture enough times I’ll come up with some answers.

After all, the two men are with me all the time now. My thighs are pressed together, but there’s a deep, residual ache in the pit of me, the place Hunter and Lachlan have made a home. It’s not pain, not exactly; more like the aftertaste of an electric shock. Every time I shift on the bed, the fabric sticks to my skin, and the feeling spikes.

Down the hall, the grandfather clock does its hourly dirge. Ten chimes, slow and regal. I wait until the echoes die, then flip the journal closed. I stare at the gold-leafed “SM” on the cover and wonder if that’s still my name.

The pen is in my mouth before I realize it, and I’m chewing the end to splinters, tasting the metallic tang of cheap ballpoint plastic.

The knock at my door is so sharp it feels like someone dropping an anvil onto a sheet of ice. I jump, and the journal falls open, pages fanning across my lap. “Stella,” comes the voice—measured, lower than I remember. “Do you have a minute?”

Oh shit, it’s my dad! I whip the journal under my pillow. I run a hand down my hair and try to look like a person who didn’t just spend an hour reliving every sin of the last month in breathless, inked detail.

“Come in,” I call, and the wobble in my voice is an earthquake in miniature.

My father enters in full-dress Thomas mode: jacket on, open-collared shirt still creased from the dry cleaner, and cufflinks that glint in the candlelight. He stops just inside the door, his eyes skimming over the mess of my room: the heap of clothes, the half-burned candles, the duvet crumpled like a dog bed. His face gives nothing away. He picks up a cardigan draped on the armchair by the window—moves it to the floor without comment, sits, and crosses his legs.

For a moment, he looks at me the way he used to when I was a child—taking stock, not of what’s there, but what’s missing. I fold my arms over my knees.

He waits. Always the champion of silence in a debate. Finally, he says, “How are you?”

I want to say “fine,” but I know the trap. I give the slightly upgraded version: “I’m good. Work is busy, but I like it.”

He nods, not believing, not disbelieving. He fusses with a cufflink for a moment, rolling the silver cylinder between his thumb and forefinger. “You’ve been keeping late hours,” he says, not accusing. “I had no idea the boutique was open so late.”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

He continues: “But you seem happy. In a way I haven’t seen in a while. I can’t decide if it’s a good thing, or a warning.”

I want to ask what that means, but I already know. “I’m just…” I trail off before clearing my throat. “I’m figuring things out.”

“You always do.” He says this as a compliment, but it lands somewhere darker.

There’s a long stretch where he just looks at me. Not unkind, but like I’m a riddle he’s still two clues away from solving. The candlelight flickers on the planes of his face, and for a second he looks old. I wonder if I do too.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” he says, “but you’re my daughter. I see the changes.” His voice is gentle, even; the voice of a man who’s already had this argument with himself a hundred times, and lost every one. “You’re spending a lot of time with your uncle. I know you always liked him, but this is more.” His gaze shifts to the candles, then back to me. “And now, the pastor. I’m not blind.”

My mouth is desert-dry. “Nothing’s happening,” I lie, and the words sound weak even to me.