“I wish you could see—”

“What? That you’ve never really loved me, because I’ll never be her?” I don’t bother to wipe away my tears. I let them flow, unabated. “Save it, Dad. I’m going to my room.”

I turn and go, leaving my suitcase behind, forgotten, in the front hallway.

Holiday

A few hours later, I venture downstairs. There’s no sign of my father.

“He’s upstairs in his office,” Genevieve informs me, in that uncanny way she has of anticipating my needs before I voice them. She’s far from personable, but still, even hearing her matter-of-fact voice pipe through the sound system is comforting.

“Dinner’s in the fridge,” she continues. “Your dad has work to catch up on but will see you later this evening.”

Genevieve doesn’t say it, but it’s obvious my father’s avoiding me after our tense conversation. I understand his urge to hide. We aren’t that different, he and I. I fix myself the lasagna and salad he’s set aside for me and am digging in when the doorbell rings.

“Emmaline,” Genevieve’s voice rings out. “There’s someone at—”

“I heard,” I answer, climbing down from my barstool and padding to the front door in my socks. “Thanks.” It’s almost seven o’clock. Who would be visiting us now? If it were a package, they’d leave it in the garage.

I peek through the curtain on the window and see a man and a woman, snazzily dressed, standing on the front stoop.

“Yes?” I say through the intercom.

“Delivery for Colin Chance. We’re his interior design team,” says the woman.

I sigh, opening the door for them. They walk in busily with bags and boxes, introducing themselves and explaining that the house is getting an update. New lamps, new throw pillows.

“Whatever.” I shrug. I had no idea my dad cared about that kind of stuff. Our house is decorated just fine, albeit impersonally. “He’s upstairs, in his office,” I inform them before returning to my lasagna.

As they bustle about, replacing a lamp and measuring for new window shades, I wonder when my dad will emerge from his study. I wouldn’t be surprised if he stayed in there all night, to avoid finishing our conversation. I curl up on the couch and try to lose myself in mindless TV, but all I can think about is what I’ll say to him, when I do see him later. If I’ll finally tell him how hurt I am. Because it occurs to me he might be so focused on how all this affects him—he might not even know.

• • •

I wake up the next morning to find I’m still lying on the couch. Someone’s laid a blanket over me and tucked in the edges. Confused, I sit up.

“Genevieve? What time is it?”