Annika felt a wave of nausea as she walked up her dad’s wide, sloping driveway after another restless day of work, her shoes clip-clopping on the concrete. It was quiet here, especially after the hectic bustle of the city, and she took a moment to stop and listen to the birds chirping in the oak trees, filling her lungs with silken air that carried the faint scent of eucalyptus. She and June had barely spoken to each other all day, June sensing that she still needed space. And thankfully, the Break Up team had been off attending some workshop together, so the floor was quiet for what felt like the first time since Hudson had burst back into her life.

The lack of sleep definitely wasn’t helping her nausea, nor was the realization that it wasn’t all a horrible dream from which she’d soon awaken. The idea of telling her dad about the eviction was … well. Not the bright spot of her week.

She wasn’t worried he’d be unsupportive. Sure, he hadn’t exactly been the most enthusiastic about her plan to go into lots of debt and open Make Up. He hadn’t understood why she’d choose such a risky proposition over the steady income generator that was being a physician. His past actions weren’t exactly a ringing endorsement of his faith in her ability to carry this off. But the bottom line was that he loved her. Her dad was her dad, as June said. He had to be there for her. It was in the contract he’d signed when she was born or something.

She couldn’t exactly wail to June about how unnerved she was feeling. June wasn’t just her best friend, she was her employee—she needed to see Annika take charge and be in control. She needed to see Annika say, “Okay, we’re headed into a storm, and this is how we need to steer this ship.”

Today, she was hoping her dad would be the sounding board she needed, so that she could figure out what her next steps would be. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to save the office space, but there could be an alternative to shuttering the doors that she hadn’t thought of yet. Her dad had successfully run his own private practice for almost twenty years. He had to have some advice.

“Ani,” he said when he answered the door, looking freshly showered in a pale purple polo shirt and linen pants, his salt-and-pepper hair still damp. His eyes anxiously searched hers behind his wire-frame glasses, taking in the sight of her, her rumpled cotton dress, the bags under her eyes, her hair pulled back in a frizzy ponytail. “Are you all right?”