A slow smile spreads across his face. “I think so. I think it is impossible not to like her. Renn loves her.”

I’m sure he means this in a reassuring way, but all I feel is quiet rage that my brother has accepted someone else into our family without putting up a fight. Was she that forgettable?

“I’m happy,” I say, finally. And then, in a louder voice: “I am. Very. Yes. Definitely.”

It might not be the entire truth, but I will get there. I will rid myself of the weirdness and accept this. I must.

“Really? You don’t think it’s too soon?” His eyes light up.

“Well, that depends on when you met her,” I answer truthfully.

“Eight months ago.” He actually blushes. My dad, who is the least emotional person on planet earth.

“Yeah, I’m okay with that.” I pick up the broomstick again and sweep, just to do something with my hands. “Tell me about her.”

He tells me that her name is Donna. That she is his age. Widowed, with two kids, my age and a little older. That she actually used to be a professional tennis player before she became an instructor. And that Renn gets along really well both with her and with her sons, Dylan and Ashton.

I promise to meet her soon. He nods, looking sheepish.

“What?” I ask. But then it all clicks together. Dread falls over me. Oh, no. I really have been away for an eternity and a half.

“She is living here now, isn’t she? That’s why the house looks so pretty. Why there are fresh flowers on the kitchen counter and the garden is lush.”

Dad looks apologetic. He wrings his fingers in his lap like a punished schoolgirl. “Things escalated quickly. She moved in this December. This was why I wanted to talk to you so urgently in November. I didn’t want you to feel blindsided.”

I deserve this. This feeling of being a guest in someone else’s life, even though this someone is my dad.

“Just tell me one thing,” I say.

He stares at me expectantly.

“Who makes better pancakes—Mom or her?”

“Oh, Donna does not make pancakes under this roof. That’s the rule. We both decided it was better this way early on. Too many memories.” He waves a hand in the air. “If we want pancakes, we go out.”

I smile. “Then I think we’re good here. I’m going upstairs to take a nap.”

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-THREE

The answer to my question—how would I feel the next morning—presents itself the day after.

And the answer is: shitty. I feel shitty.