It was Saturday evening, which meant it was time for Annika’s weekly journey to her father’s house in the Hollywood Hills. Although she’d never tell Hudson, her weekly dinner dates with her dad were the real reason why it was hard to get to know anyone. Saturday night was prime date-night real estate, and Annika knew no one would understand why she felt the need to spend every single one with her father. No one would get the guilt she still felt at leaving him behind to knock around in that giant lonely house, now that she wasn’t there to fill it with a modicum of noise anymore.

She pulled up the long, winding driveway, got out of her hybrid Honda Accord, and paused. The hills loomed in the distance, dusk already wrapping them in pink and purple. She took a deep breath—even after all these years away, this felt like home.

She climbed up the wide front steps and let herself in. The massive crystal chandelier that had hung in the foyer since before she was born shimmered and twinkled, welcoming her home. “Daddy? I’m here!”

He came in from the kitchen, a striped half apron tied around his trim waist. “Ani!” He scooped her up in a hug and then held her by the shoulders, studying her with a physician’s critical eye. “Have you been eating?”

Annika resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Every week, this was her dad’s standing question. It was like he was afraid that without him making his delicious recipes, she’d just wither away and silently starve to death. Never mind that she’d been living on her own—and cooking for herself, or getting takeout, which was basically hunting and gathering—for six years now. “Yes, I’ve been eating.” She gave him a peck on his clean-shaved cheek.

“Come on in. Have a glass of homemade lemonade.” Annika followed him and the strains of Vivaldi coming from the direction of the kitchen, which transported her back to high school.

She would sit on a barstool doing homework while her dad bustled around cooking, Vivaldi keeping them company, drawing them together. Annika had grown up listening to classical music and nothing else. Even now, she could name composer and composition for almost any piece of classical music she came across. June found it annoying when she’d interrupt an especially poignant engagement ring or pregnancy test commercial by naming the piece of music playing in the background, but Annika couldn’t help it. Her dad had ingrained that knowledge and appreciation in her.

She poured herself a glass of strawberry lemonade from the crystal pitcher and took her usual seat on a barstool. “Smells delicious!”

“Thank you.” Her dad looked proud, like he always did when she complimented his cooking. Gesturing to the bubbling pot on the stove, he said, “This is the tropical fruit chutney to go with our kalua pork.”