If he found out about that, Harbor wouldn’t survive the night, and I’d be headed to a convent. And we’re not even Catholic.

He starts typing on the computer, his attention stolen away. “What does that mean? You celebrate,” he says, glancing at me, “with a special dinner or something?”

Remembering that Harbor asked me this morning to have dinner with his parents, maybe that’s what hitting a month means. I shrug. “Not sure. I haven’t planned anything.” I let a minute pass by, taking another spin in the chair, and then ask, “What do you think about Harbor coming over for Sunday dinner?” I keep it as casual as I can because my dad doesn’t take well to disruptions in his routine. Resting his hands on the counter, he shifts his weight forward as he stares at me. I start to get nervous. Is it too soon, or will my dad always want it to be only the two of us? “We’ll still watch the game, but we can talk beforehand . . . and stuff.” God, I’m rambling.

“Okay.”

He moves around me, walking toward the garage. He knows I’ll follow. I’ve been following him around this shop my whole life, every day after school before I was old enough to stay at home alone, and then other times I’d come to do my homework at that very counter just to see him before dinner.

My dad hasn’t only been my parent, but at different stages in my life, he’s also been my best friend. Still is. I just can’t talk to him about everything in my life like I could when I was little. I hop off the chair and cut through the doorway before the door closes behind me.

He’s already ducked his head under the hood of a burgundy Camry when I reach him again. “Hand me the ratchet over there?” I scan the toolbox, grab the rotating tool, and set it in his waiting hand. “Thanks, Pip.”

“As for Sunday, okay, he can come over? Or okay, you need to think about it?”

Lifting his head out from under the shadows of the hood, he says, “Bring him over. I’ll make burgers.”

I smile. “Thanks, Dad. You’re the best.”

He looks a little embarrassed but fixes his expression quick, so he appears indifferent about the compliment instead. “Don’t thank me yet and tell him to bring a side dish.”

21

Lark

Eight fifty-three, and still no sign of Amanda. I shove the pizza into the oven, too hungry to wait any longer. Even though it would be nice to have a glass of wine when it’s done cooking, if for no other reason than to settle my anxiety regarding how my friend is acting, she was in charge of buying that, so there is none.

I sit in the living room with my laptop open, taking advantage of the time by going through application checklists. I scored well on the MCAT but was surprised not to receive any early offers of admission.