Of course she did. “Yeah, that’s fine,” I reply. “I’ll be up early for practice anyway.”

“Okay,” my father says. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Okay,” I repeat. “Night.”

I turn and stride the rest of way to the parking lot. No one says anything as I climb into the car. Emma starts driving around the sports complex then turns onto one of the side roads that leads back to our house.

“Your dad seems nice,” Anne says as we hit our street.

“Yeah,” I say flatly.

We return to silence. My feelings about my father are all over the place right now, and I let them churn inside me until we reach our house. I head upstairs as soon as I walk through the front door, changing into my comfiest set of pajamas. I debate flopping down on my bed with the new murder mystery book I downloaded last night but decide to head back downstairs instead.

Emma’s standing at the counter, mixing one of her infamous cocktails. She studies the peach-patterned cotton I’m wearing. Hallie bought them for me as a joke, but they’re so soft I wear them more than I planned to. “Guess you’re staying in tonight?”

“Uh-huh,” I say, getting a glass of water and then climbing up on the kitchen counter to lean my head back against the upper cabinet.

“Jason will be disappointed.”

“He’ll get over it,” I tell the ceiling.

Cressida enters the kitchen in sweats and a face mask.

“Wait—you’re not going out either?” Emma exclaims.

I straighten my head to see Cressida shrug. “Not in the mood.” She comes over to the cabinet next to me to grab the flour. I know what’s coming next, so I slide off the counter so she can grab the sugar from behind me, relocating to one of the stools.

Emma huffs as she measures out tequila. Then squeezes two lemons. Then adds some orange juice.

I turn my attention to Cressida as Emma returns the ingredients to the fridge. “What are you making?”

She eyes me apprehensively. “Sandra’s brownie recipe.”

“Oh.”

“Did someone drink the tomato juice?” Emma inquires with her head inside the fridge.

“Please tell me you’re not putting tomato juice in that,” I reply, nodding to the cocktail shaker.

“What? It’s fruit,” Emma says as she closes the fridge door, heaving out a disappointed sigh that suggests she didn’t find the tomato juice. I’m almost certain it’s on the top shelf, but I keep that to myself.

“Emma, no.” Cressida backs me up. “That’s disgusting.”

“Fine.” She sighs again, grabbing some ice from the freezer and shaking the mixer. She snags a glass and pours some out.

I drain the rest of my water. “I’ll try some.” I hold my cup out.

“It’s tequila, not gin,” Emma cautions.

“I know, I saw you pour it.”