I glance sideways at him, the corner of my mouth lifting. “I’ve been working on growing my own. It’s not a terrible thing.” I take in the empty ice in front of us, struck with an idea. “What are you doing after this?”

Declan catches on. “I was hoping to spend time with my kid. I booked a room for a few days. My schedule is wide open.”

“Fantastic. Let’s get you some skates.”

“I haven’t seen your wings around…” Declan trails off, with every appearance of nonchalant-ness, as he flips through the giant menu at the family diner we’re sitting in. We’re meeting Betty and James here, along with Micah and Dani. You know, just to get all the awkward introductions over with in one fell swoop. We’re early, though, because Declan, despite recent complications, is too much of a dad to be late. The place is loud and clang-y and has an unusual collection of old-fashioned fenders affixed to the walls.

Which I’m not noticing right now, because I’m purposely not looking up from my menu, not wanting to meet his eyes. “I left them at home. Or, well, at Mom’s place, I guess.”

“All of them?”

“Yup.”

“Is this a ‘growing up’ kind of thing or an ‘I’m sad and can’t bear feathers’ kind of thing or ‘my new boyfriend won’t approve of wings so I’m changing for him’ kind of thing?”

“Woooooow.”

He raises a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faux severe smirk that can be interpreted as “You wanted a dad, so you’ve got one, Meg” plain as day.

I raise one right back, closing the menu with a slap. Well, a slap, slap, since it’s a trifold of epic and confusing proportions. “It’s a combination of the first two. But in reverse order. At first, I was too sad and angry. Then, I decided I was probably too old for wings and it was time to leave them behind. My boyfriend, Micah,” I say, enunciating his name over several extra syllables, “has only seen the wings in pictures, but took them in stride.”

“Well, I’m a little sad to see them go, but I suppose it’s your choice.”

“Actually, and I’m only telling you this because I’m eighteen now and you’re not my real dad anyway”—I wink, and he rolls his eyes—“I got wings tattooed onto my shoulders.”

“Ah.” Declan schools his features, but he’s struggling with a response. “When?”

“A month or so ago.”

“A tattoo is permanent.”

“Wait,” I deadpan. “It is?”

“Well, okay, then.”

“That’s it?”

“Are you waiting for me to ground you? Can I see them?”

I pull one shoulder of my sweater down, and he takes in the ink with a soft gasp.

“It’s lovely, Meg.”

“Thanks.”