But now I wonder if she saw our dark sides, too. All the ways that my quiet, sullen, grumpy ass resembled his. Unable to make connections the way she and Wes could, a leader, but also, always, alone.

For the rest of the car ride, I try to think of a way to break the silence. If only because silence would be my father’s baseline and so now, to prove I’m nothing like him, I must speak.

But god, talking to him sucks. I have to actively remind myself of why I’m pursuing this relationship with him: because he’s the only family we have left, because he needs us even if he would never admit it.

Despite the awkward silence in the car on my way to my dad’s condo on the other side of town in the Seaport District, the quiet after dropping him off breaks me. Normally, I’d go park outside Mom’s house. Maybe listen to some really loud music and scream into the quiet of her old street on a Monday night. Maybe cry. Maybe both. But Mom’s is for when I’m sad. I’m not sad. I’m agitated.

My parking brake makes an unfortunate screech as I crank it in my usual spot behind the restaurant. The wind cuts down the alley, and with the parking lot empty with the restaurant closed today there’s nothing to block the freezing cold that slices through my clothes. I jog to the door, not bothering with my coat in the cool February air. I jam my key in the lock but I’m met with none of the resistance I usually get from the old metal. The lights are on as I step inside.

Holy shit.

“Who the fuck closed last night,” I mutter. Whoever it was is about to get fired. They left the door unlocked, the lights on, and...music playing?

I walk slowly through the back hallway, past my office and the staff locker room, and poke my head out the door to the front of the restaurant. “Hello?” I say quietly.

The dining room lights are low, but the overheads from the kitchen spill into the dark hallway. The music is louder out here, something electric with the kind of bass that reverberates through your chest. As I stand in the doorway between the front and the back of the house, a sliver of fear trickles down my spine. What am I doing walking in here when the door is unlocked, after hours? It could be anyone, a burglar, maybe. Someone with an axe to grind. Chad’s pissed off face flashes behind my eyes.

Slowly, I close the door. I’ll go back to my car, drive around to the front of the restaurant, park down the street, and try to figure out what’s happening. Then decide what to do. Before the door can close, a quiet humming comes from down the hallway and I stop. It’s not a fan or a fridge motor kicking on.

The voice is feminine, following along to the beat, adding in snippets of words here and there over the instrumentals.