I wake up at noon to the sun blazing through the blinds. Lydia is pawing my face, and I get up to feed her the stolen cat food. I enjoy the whole process of feeding her, putting the food in a bowl and watching her lap it up, things I don’t normally think twice of. I once read an article in the Atlantic about MDMA therapy for depression. I feel like the molly shifted something in my brain, adjusted my neural pathways. Or maybe it was just my proximity to Beau.

Since I can’t go to Subtropical today, for seduction purposes, I decide to do my readings in my bed, like I used to do all the time. I crank Counting Crows and fall into a nice rhythm, completing the readings in a machinelike fashion and watching my Venmo dollars increase. Venmo riche, I think, bopping my head to “Mr. Jones.”

When the sun fades and the light outside my windows turns a softer blue, I check my texts. I have two unread texts from my dad. I recall our abandoned conversation from last night.

We named you Emily because your mother worships Emily Bronte, which I thought you knew.

To be perfectly honest, I am not a Bronte fan, but it has somehow become unacceptable for a man to dislike a female author, so keep that between us.

I smile. Lydia nuzzles my leg.

Your secret is safe with me, I write. It feels nice to have a secret with my father. I see from the little bubbles that he is already composing a response.

Thank you. I live in perpetual fear of being unjustly canceled for my tepid opinions.

I smile. Honestly? I write back. Same. I recall that dumbass who tried to cancel me for posting one of her memes, which was well within the realm of fair use.

My dad is still typing: Would you like to get coffee this week and catch up?

I’d love to, I write back.

Great, he writes. I don’t want to have to make you come all the way to Riverside. We could meet somewhere halfway. Tuesday and Thursday afternoons work best for me, but I know you’re busy, so I’ll move things around if I need to. We could also get dinner.

I look at my laptop to see what day it is. Freelancing means I never know what day it is. I haven’t kept track of the days of the week since I was in high school.