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“She’s your wife.” My voice cracks. “You guys have been married for—what? Thirty years?”

“Thirty-eight,” he says quietly. “And I love her. God, I do. But this? This isn’t about you coming between us. It’s about her refusing to be decent about any of it.”

I sink back against the kitchen counter like my bones forgot how to hold me up. “I didn’t want this,” I whisper, cheeks hot with shame. “I didn’t want to be the reason⁠—”

“You’re not,” he cuts in firmly, voice razor-sharp. “She is. Her pride, her expectations, whatever the hell story she’s been writing in her head for years—none of that is your fault.”

The silence that follows isn’t peaceful. It’s heavy. Like rain clouds pressing against the ceiling.

I shift gears, because I can’t sit in this wreckage much longer without choking on it.

“Why Kingston?” I ask, watching the way his mouth softens at the name. “Why did you arrange for me to stay with him?”

Dad smiles like he’s remembering something that made sense once. “Because I know he’ll take care of you.”

I raise a brow. “You trust him that much?”

“I do,” he says without hesitation. “He’s already taken care of you before.”

I blink, heart thudding unevenly. “That was years ago.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “He showed up when it counted. And after what happened with his ex…” His voice trails off, but the look in his eyes says everything. Regret. Sympathy. Maybe even something close to pain. “I think he needs someone to take care of him too.”

The air between us shifts again. Warms and tightens, like a string being pulled taut.

Dad clears his throat, nudging his mug forward. “You feel like getting out of here? Maybe grab some lunch? Just you and me.”

I blink. “Lunch?”

“Yeah,” he says, almost too casually. “We haven’t hung out in a while.”

It’s true. And not just because I’ve been drowning in hormones and heartbreak and Reese’s insane calendar. My dad and I—we’re solid, but we’re also satellites, orbiting the same planet but never quite syncing up. Still, I nod.

“Sure. Let me throw on some shoes.”

We end up at this cozy little place a few blocks over—brick walls, booth seating, indie rock humming overhead like it’s trying not to be noticed. I’m in maternity leggings and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder every time I move. My bump is small, barely there, but still real enough to press against the table when I lean forward.

Dad orders a BLT. I get a veggie wrap I’ll pick at.

Halfway through my lemonade, he glances up. “So. Any thoughts on your next move?”

I blink. “Professionally?”

“Or personally. I just mean… what comes next for you?”

I stir my straw like the answer might float to the surface. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I’m still figuring it out. I’ve got six months to sort through the chaos.”

He nods, but there’s a furrow between his brows that never quite goes away. “You don’t have to figure it all out alone.”

“I’m not.” I offer a smile that feels more like a shrug. “I’ve got Reese. The band. My job still exists. And now… this.”

“This,” he echoes, then leans in. “Look, I’ve been thinking. If Fletch doesn’t want anything to do with you—or the babies—then maybe it’s time we make that official. I could call my lawyer. Get the ball rolling. Terminate parental rights. You shouldn’t have to worry about him showing up months from now trying to play dad because he’s bored or lonely.”

The idea makes my stomach twist into knots. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s right. Too right.

I nod slowly. “I’ll think about it.”

It’s easier than saying I don’t want to think about it. Easier than unpacking the guilt still stapled to my ribs every time someone says his name.