There was a time when we were close, when things were easy. Dad is ten years younger than Mum and he was always the “fun parent.” They used to argue about it. I overheard Mum complaining more than once that she always had to be the “bad guy.” She’d roll her eyes at us when we’d hog the sofa and watch horror movies or when we’d play along, with life or death seriousness, to bad game shows. We had in-jokes and shared playlists. Now I think Mum might have felt left out of our silly club. She was always wound so tight and we made her stay in that role instead of inviting her to play. But even though I’m certain Dad believes I’m the one who pulled away from him, he’s the one who put these huge boulders between us. I couldn’t climb over them if I tried. And I didn’t have the will to try.

When our plates were mostly empty, he shuffled in his seat and coughed.

“So.” He cleared his throat. “So.”

“So?”

“So I need to talk to you about things.”

I pushed back my seat and took my plate to the kitchen. Dad followed but he hung back in the door frame.

“Look, I really don’t want to hear about it.” I leaned against the dishwasher, keeping a safe space between us so I wouldn’t strangle him. I’d had such a good time last night—I didn’t want Dad spoiling the delicious hangover of having kissed a beautiful girl with a conversation about how he’d found a great new wife to replace his old broken one. “I’m going to uni soon and I’ll be living there. I won’t be here anyway. Do whatever you want.”

I was still unsure about going to Oxford, but in the pro-con list in my head, Dad marrying Beth was tipping the scales in favor of getting the hell off this island. Maybe when I’d gone he’d have a new daughter too. One without the faulty genes. Sometimes I thought about calling Izzy and asking her about Oxford. She has this incredible way of making everything seem simple. If I talked to her I knew she’d say the perfect thing and I would realize what I should do. She should be a therapist like my mum. I thought about it, but I never called.

“You’ll be home on holidays,” he pouted. “You need to get to know Beth. You can’t pretend she doesn’t exist.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

Dad ignored that.

“We want to have the wedding before you go away. We’ve set a date. The thirty-first of August. Lucky Oxford starts that bit later than most universities, so there’s still plenty of time for us to get you sorted before you leave.”