Dad’s quiet footsteps descend the stairs. The hallway floor creaks as he heads into the kitchen to fill his thermos with coffee. He’ll come home at 7:00 a.m. for breakfast with Mom—two eggs over easy, one piece of toast, cherry jam. More coffee. I could slip out of my bedroom, confront Dad by myself. Last night I agreed to press on, with Thomas. If I didn’t, he might’ve thought that I was hiding the truth. Our goals don’t align. But if he returned to LA right now, despite whatever pity I’ve earned with this family visit, his article would probably cast me as an unredeemable fraud.

My chest tightens at that thought. I’ve spent years burying every doubt, but in two days they’ve all risen from the dead. Now I’ve reached a fork in the road. I glance back over at Thomas. This is a big risk.

Moose watches me from his curled position on the rug as I creep to the window and study Thomas. When he hugged me last night, I thought I’d gained the upper hand. Looking down at him now, the curve of his lower lip, his broad chest, long lashes on a smooth cheek . . . I’m not sure who is manipulating whom. Yesterday the battle lines were clearly defined. But last night things changed. The only certainty is that I’m walking on quicksand.

I tap Thomas’s shoulder. He wakes with a start. “Dad’s up. Let’s go.” Silently we tug on jeans, sweaters, and boots. The front door creaks open, closes with a dull click. Dad always walks through the orchard to Eduardo’s first. Together they plan the day. I want to catch him before he gets to Eddie’s. Thomas scoops up Chris. Moose follows as we tiptoe through the hall, down the stairs, across the front porch.

The moon is so bright, we don’t need the little flashlight I snagged from a desk drawer. We leave our bags by the car. Thomas nods at Chris. “Leave her on the front seat,” I mouth. “We won’t be long.” He opens the SUV’s door, slides her in, and shuts it with pressure from his hip. What would happen if Mom woke now? Would she follow us into the orchard? Stop Dad from talking to me? Would she drag me upstairs, to their bathroom, and . . .

That first birthday, Mom constructed elaborate sushi rolls in the shape of dragons with fiery red eyes and scaled tails made from avocado, sesame seeds, seaweed. They scared me, like at any moment they’d breathe fire or claw with sharp talons. I slid Carla’s tamales onto my plate and Mom’s eyes filled. She turned away but I knew she was crying. I hadn’t chosen her. When it was time to eat the cake she’d baked and expertly iced, I had two pieces, even though I didn’t like it. But she only noticed the walnuts I’d picked out of each slice.

“Ready?” Thomas asks. It’s cold enough that his breath makes white clouds.