Page 71 of The Beach Trap

“The Braves,” Blake says, and I nod. It’s weird knowing we both have memories of the same person in a completely different context. “We used to watch together,” she says. “He taught me how to play catch and throw a ball, and how to eat sunflower seeds the right way.”

I wince. I didn’t know there was a wrong way to eat sunflower seeds, but I would have liked to have learned. I would’ve played catch or watched the game with him if he’d let me. I lookacross the table at Blake, sitting there with her easy smile and quiet confidence, and wonder what it was about her that made him be the kind of dad I always wanted him to be.

For some reason, I need her to know that he wasn’t always that way. At least, not with me.

“He could be tough,” I say, trying to mince my words so I don’t speak ill of the dead. “He had high expectations, liked things to be and look a certain way.”

“He hated clutter, right?” Blake asks.

This time, I’m the one who nods.

“It drove him crazy that my mom always had stuff everywhere,” Blake says. “It was a running joke between them. She always told him if he didn’t like it, he could leave her for a tidier woman.” She stops talking and clears her throat. “In hindsight, it’s not that funny.”

I manage a weak laugh, but I can’t wrap my head around the idea of my dad joking and being lighthearted with his other family. “Did he and your mom fight a lot?” I ask.

“Oh no,” Blake says, answering without giving it a second thought. “They were crazy about each other in that cheesy way you see in the movies. My mom seemed to glow whenever he was there, and he was always touching her, even if it was just a hand on her arm or her leg.”

I don’t say anything, because I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll just scream or cry. Maybe both. The man she’s describing doesn’t sound a thing like the dad I had or the husband my mom did.

“Was he like that with your mom?” Blake asks. Her voice is almost timid, and I’m pretty sure she already knows the answer.

I shake my head. “They fought a lot. But only behind closed doors. In public, they acted like an adoring couple with a perfect life.”

“It’s almost like he was two different people,” Blake says, putting into words what I’ve been thinking.

I sigh and look down at my empty plate. I don’t even remember tasting the pasta, but it’s gone. “Do you want coffee or something?” I ask, slipping back into my role as hostess.

“I’d love some tea,” Blake says. “But I’ll get it. Please. I’m not a guest.” She doesn’t say what she really is—a co-owner of this house. And in some strange way, family.

I follow her into the kitchen and watch as she takes a mug down from the cabinet above the sink. She seems so at home here, which she should after all these weeks, but it still feels unsettling seeing her move around my house like it’s hers.

After she microwaves the water and drops in the tea bag, I watch as Blake takes a sugar packet and hits it three times against her palm before tearing the corner and pouring it into the mug.

Goosebumps run up and down my arms. It’s the exact same way my dad used to pour sugar into his coffee. I know he was just loosening up the crystals, but I used to tease him about it—would it not taste as sweet if he only tapped it twice? Too sweet if he tapped it four times?

For the last fifteen years, I’ve known that Blake was my father’s daughter, but it hits me all over again, seeing such small similarities between them.

I don’t say much while Blake drinks her tea. It’s not very hostessy of me, but my mind is swirling and I can’t bring myself to make small talk. Not when everything feels so overwhelmingly big.

•••

After Blake leavesto head back to the casita, I stay out on the back porch and finish the bottle of wine. I think about my dad, and how sad it is that I’ll never know which “him” was thereal one. The weekend version Blake grew up with, or the weekday one I had.

The stories Blake shared sounded like they were about a completely different man, a man I would’ve liked to know. A man who would’ve actually been worthy of the way I worshipped him.

I used to explain away my dad’s faults—how cold and difficult he was—by telling myself he didn’t have the capacity to love. Now it turns out he had the ability; he just chose to give it to someone else. She got the best of him, and I got the rest of him. And I’ll never know how different things would have been, how different I would be, if I’d grown up with the version of our dad Blake had.

I look up and wonder if he’s watching. What he’d think of all this, and if, at the end of the day, he had any regrets.

That’s one thing I know: I don’t want any regrets. I don’t want to die and have people realize they never knew the real me. I think about all my followers and the show I’ve been putting on for them. For myself.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I open Instagram on my phone, search for one of the rare photos of me and my dad, and start a post. I write a few sentences about him, sharing that he passed away a few months ago and that I haven’t been strong enough to share with the world yet because it’s been too painful.

I want to let my followers know what’s really going on in my life. Not all the sordid details, just enough to let them know that in losing my dad, I’ve lost my footing in the world and the way I see it.

After I hit post, I turn my phone all the way off so I’m not tempted to go back in and delete it. It may not be pretty. But it’s authentic. And it’s most definitely me.

CHAPTER TWENTY

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