Corrine comes up behind him, her hand on his forearm. He looks down at her and she smiles. He shrugs, the tension leaking from his body, but he’s not deflated.

Just peaceful.

“All right. Let me know you get home safe?”

I turn away before I answer him. Wes would accuse me of jealousy, probably. As twins we’ve always been the creepy kind of close that freaks out our friends. There was a time, a short time, when Wes would have been right. I was jealous of the closeness that he and his now girlfriend share. I thought his gain meant my loss. But that’s not what makes me turn away from them now. Their relationship hasn’t taken something away from ours.

It’s highlighted exactly what’s missing in my own life.

I’m a lesbian who started her first restaurant before she turned thirty because after watching my mother’s life slowly fade, I knew I couldn’t wait one more second to do the scary things in life. I wasn’t going to distract myself with a relationship while attempting to fulfill my lifelong dream. My life could start once Amy & May’s was off the ground.

Now Amy & May’s is off the ground. Kind of. It’s chugging along the runway, hurtling as fast as it can, nose up but unable to convert RPMs to flight, and running out of runway.

So, yeah. I would kill for a distraction.

That’s probably what my attraction to Sophie is. I’m desperate for a distraction, for someone to slide her hand along my forearm and take my mind off things, to remind me I’m not alone.

“I will,” I say. “Let’s go, Dad.”

We hug while Dad gives a brusque goodbye from the front door. “Thanks for dinner,” I whisper to Corrine.

She squeezes me tight. “Thank the grocery store for pre-cooked meals.”

Their front door closes behind us, leaving my father and I alone in the bright lights and oppressive silence of her building’s hallway. Without waiting for me, Dad strolls to the elevator.

“How’s...work?” I ask, following after him. Normally it’s Wes who can’t stand a silence. Thanks for that, bro.

Dad’s cheeks are red from the three scotches he had tonight. He condescended to drink from Corrine’s apparently abysmal collection, muttering about the “swill” the whole time.

He’s tall, like Wes and I, and shares the same shoulder hunch as my brother, from a lifetime spent trying to fit into spaces made just a little too short for them. “Fine,” he grunts.

“That’s great,” I say, with false brightness. When he doesn’t respond in kind I say, “The restaurant is...” I pause. If he were Mom, I’d tell him everything about how the restaurant is doing.

If he were Mom, he’d already know. But he’s not Mom.

“Doing great. We’re testing a new menu.”

He grunts again. A quick uh-huh.

“I think it’s really going to help with, you know, numbers.” Even that small admission leaves me raw and vulnerable.

But that’s the great thing about Dad. He’s not paying enough attention to bother noticing, what I said or how I feel about it.