I packed my laptop and want to get a few hours of readings done after I hang out with my dad. Also, BuzzFeed asked me to write a piece called “The Signs as New Year’s Plans.” I want to show my dad I am a working woman, a digital nomad. I will tell him that Elon has some requests for me and keep working after he leaves.

“Is six okay?”

“A-okay,” he says. I have a small urge to punch him.

Thomas’s car is much smoother than what I’m accustomed to. I’ve always driven my parents’ old Toyotas because they are the most practical car.

I can’t figure out how to use Thomas’s fancy sound system, so I drive in silence and think about Beau almost the entire time, imagining how I will pose for his camera. There isn’t much to look at in terms of scenery, just highways and cars and dirty palm trees. The sun burns my eyes. I find some sunglasses in the center console and put them on. They are a unisex style, too cool for Thomas, and I assume they were left by a woman.

When I reach San Dimas, a heaviness descends over me. On the sterile streets, people wear yoga pants and fleece jackets. I feel like I’m in the computer game The Sims, and it reminds me of my childhood. I stand out with my black dress and black hair and black Doc Martens.

The inside of the coffee shop has exposed brick walls and nitro cold brew taps and Jenga blocks on the tables. I see two patrons in fedoras, which makes me deeply uneasy. The suburbs have no idea that hipster culture died in 2009. My dad sits on a faux vintage couch, wearing a gray cardigan with leather patches on the elbows, a literal professor sweater. He adjusts his glasses, spots me, then stands up.

“Emily,” he says. I cringe a bit at the sound of my name. I just hate it so much. It was so nice the other night to finally have a nickname. If I audition again, I will go by Ice Forrest. It feels very ‘90s, like River Phoenix or something.

“Hi, Dad,” I say.

“Have a seat,” he says. “What can I get you?”

“Black coffee would be great,” I say.

“Great,” he says. “After your old man.” He looks embarrassed for a second, like he’s been too intimate. “Your mom takes her coffee with cream.”

I think about saying, You should divorce her, but instead I say, “Why dilute perfection?” like I said to Beau yesterday. Pleasant sensations swirl through my stomach.

“Exactly!” he says, then disappears to the register.

I sit down and performatively pull out my laptop, just so my dad will see me working when he returns.