“You’re in love with Beverly,” he repeated slowly, his tone flat. “Is that what I just heard?”

A cold sweat broke out along the back of my neck, creeping down my spine like ice. The weight in my chest lifted slightly, but it was replaced with something worse. “Yes,” I replied, my voice betraying none of the panic swirling inside me.

“Does she know this?” he asked, his voice rougher now.

“We love each other, Dad,” I said, forcing the words out. “We’re together.”

The muscles in his jaw tensed. His eyes darted away from me, scanning the restaurant, as if grounding himself in his surroundings. Like he needed the reminder that we were in public, that there were witnesses, that he couldn’t just drag me outside and beat the shit out of me in the alley.

“How long?” he finally asked. His eyes burned into me, demanding an answer. “How long has this been going on?”

“A long time,” I admitted.

I had expected anger. Yelling. Maybe even a punch to the jaw. But nothing could have prepared me for this—the sheer disappointment in his expression, the way his body sagged, as if the weight of my words had just crushed him.

He exhaled sharply, his gaze shifting away from me as he stared blankly at the wall. For a long time, he didn’t say anything.

I hated it. I hated that he wasn’t yelling, that he wasn’t giving me something tangible to fight against. This quiet, bitter resignation? It was worse than anything I had imagined.

My mind spiraled; numbers and formulas flickered behind my eyes, desperately trying to help me think straight.

I almost apologized, but I stopped myself.

I wasn’t sorry. Not for loving Beverly.

“You can yell at me,” I told him. “You can hate me and disown me if you feel like it. I get it. But I’m not sorry for loving her.”

He looked back at me, startled. “Hate you?” His voice cracked. “I could never hate you, Blake.”

“Then what is it?” I demanded.

“I’m just trying to figure out if I’m to blame for this,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I always thought you two would grow up like siblings. I never saw this coming. Maybe I should have. I should have seen it. I should have stopped it before it got to this.”

I shook my head, searching for the right words. “It’s no one’s fault,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging in his eyes.

After a long, excruciating silence, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “How is this going to work? You’re leaving, and she’s staying. Have you thought about that?”

“Of course I did⁠—”

“Then tell me. What are you going to do? How are you going to make this work when you’re hours away?”