Page 68 of Made for Wilde
“She is.” I sip more water, stalling. “The apartment is... you know. Small but functional.”
Not exactly a lie. The apartment is small. I just don’t mention that I no longer live there.
Dad reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “I’m proud of you, Charlotte. So proud. After your mom died, Iwas afraid we’d drift apart. I was such a mess, and you were just a kid trying to deal with your own grief.”
My chest tightens painfully. “Dad...”
“No, let me say this.” He squeezes my hand. “I’m so glad that didn’t happen. That we stayed close. That you still tell me everything.”
The irony of his words feels like a physical blow. I don’t tell him everything. I don’t tell him about waking up in Koda’s arms, about the way his best friend looks at me when we’re alone, about the fact that my clothes now hang beside Koda’s in a cabin my father has visited countless times.
“I love you, Dad.” At least that much is completely true.
Our food arrives, and I stare down at my soup with growing unease. The broth looks too oily, the vegetables too bright. I take a small spoonful, feeling it slide down my throat. My stomach churns in protest.
“So,” Dad says after a long pause. “There’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Here it comes. My heart hammers against my ribs. Somehow, he knows. Someone saw us. He found out.
“I’ve been seeing someone.”
The words don’t register at first. “What?”
Dad wipes his mouth with his napkin, suddenly looking nervous. “A woman. I’ve been dating a woman. For about two months now.”
Relief washes over me so powerfully I almost laugh. This is why he wanted lunch? To tell me he’s dating?
“Her name is Rebecca,” he continues, watching me carefully. “She’s a high school counselor in Cheyenne. We met at a fundraiser for the school two months ago.”
I find my voice. “Dad, that’s great.”
“Yeah?” His face brightens instantly. “You think so?”
“Of course.” And I mean it. “Tell me about her.”
He does, words tumbling out like he’s been holding them back for ages. Rebecca loves hiking and bakes the best apple pie he’s ever tasted. She has a Golden Retriever named Max and a collection of vintage lunch boxes. She reads mystery novels and does the crossword in pen. His eyes light up when he talks about her, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth that I haven’t seen since before Mom got sick.
“I’d like you to meet her,” he says finally. “If you’re comfortable with that.”
I reach across the table to squeeze his hand. “I’d love to meet her, Dad.”
The relief on his face is palpable. “Really? I wasn’t sure how you’d react. It’s been just us for so long, and with your mom...”
“Mom would want you to be happy.” The truth of this statement rings clearly through all the other complicated emotions swirling inside me. “And so do I.”
Dad’s eyes shine suspiciously. “I decided to tell you because I hate keeping secrets from you. We’ve always been honest with each other.”
The irony of his statement makes my stomach clench, and I take a quick sip of water, willing the sudden wave of nausea to pass.
“You’re looking a little pale, sweetheart.” Dad frowns. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“Just tired.” I force myself to take a bite of my salad, though it tastes like cardboard in my mouth.
He nods sympathetically. “You’re working too hard. Maybe cut back on those weekend shifts at The Summit?”
If only he knew I’d already quit working at The Summit weeks ago. Another lie in the growing pile between us.
“Maybe,” I mutter, pushing my plate away.
