“How is it?” I ask, my customer service smile plastered on my face.

“Fine,” he says.

Fine. Whatever.

“This is a 2017 from Napa,” I say, filling up the others’ glasses. “You’ll notice ripe cherry, sweet tobacco, and hints of menthol.”

They all take the time to swirl the wine, letting it splash up the sides of their glasses, holding it beneath their noses.

“I’d suggest the charcuterie, with our selection of hard cheeses, and the tenderloin or the rib eye as a pairing.”

They nod. “That sounds amazing.”

“Should I put the orders in for you?” I smile. An order like that would put their bill over five hundred dollars but it’s not like they can’t afford it. All of them are wearing at least that much on their wrists or feet.

“No,” Dad growls. “We’ll look at the menu.”

The hairs on the back of my neck rise in fear at that tone in his voice; a sound that has always made me want to run.

“Fine,” I say, just a little too sharply to be considered professional. That sound always made me want to run, but I never did. “I’ll check in on you soon.”

In moments like these I question why I attempt to reconnect with our father at all. If it were up to Wes, we’d have cut our losses a long time ago, but when he asks why I keep trying, I can’t give him the answer he needs. Because I don’t know. I don’t know what I need from our father, but I know I haven’t gotten it yet. I don’t know what he needs but there’s no way he has it, either.

Sophie stands in the middle of the kitchen, surveying her meager kingdom. Her cheeks are pink and her hands on her hips, ready to tackle whatever problem comes next. She squints at me but looks away too fast for me to grin at her, to wink.

Which is an asshole thing to do anyway. We’ve been on shaky ground all week. More due to the fact that she’s mad at me because I didn’t ask her for help than because of my failure as her leader, her boss. I don’t get to flirt with her now when all I wanted was to protect her.

“Amy.” Dad’s voice thunders over the dining room. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman but his tone alone turns me into a kid. For the span of a breath, I’m frozen, twelve years old again, hoping he can’t see or hear me, that whatever it is that’s making him angry will blow over fast.

The half-filled room goes quiet as everyone turns to either look at me or look at the man who speaks to service staff like they count with their fingers. I smile woodenly and return to the table. I’d much rather be staring at Sophie than be the focus of his glare. “What do you need, Dad?”

“We’re going to need more wine.”

There’s still half a bottle left.