For Jacqueline’s birthday, I’d chosen one of my mother’s watercolours – a rainy Paris skyline – from Dad’s attic stash when I was home over winter break. I had it mounted and framed for her. She went very quiet after she opened it, tears coursing down her face. I was sure my aptitude for gift-giving had just crashed and burned, and I should never be allowed to choose a gift again for anyone.

And then she threw herself into my arms, and an hour later, I shoved my fingers into her hair and kissed her. ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘My next birthday is eleven months away. How did that just happen?’

Jacqueline was curled in the passenger seat, asleep, as I confronted the fact that we were fifteen minutes away from the coast. That I was taking my girlfriend home, where she would meet my uncommunicative father and my frequently inappropriate high-school best friend. And oh hell, were we sleeping in the pantry? Shit. I should have reserved a hotel room.

‘Mmm …’ She woke slowly at first, yawning, unfolding her legs, extending her arms, and then all at once she sat up, blinking. ‘Are we there?’

I nodded. ‘Almost.’

There was a line for the ferry. Welcome to spring break at a cheap coastal beach. Where I just brought my girlfriend of three months to visit. A heavy feeling lodged itself in the pit of my stomach, like I’d swallowed an iron bar. If she hadn’t woken up when she did, I might have made a U-turn before boarding. A guy in an orange vest pointed us to the leftmost ferry and we pulled over the ramp and on. Disembarking on the other side, we were five minutes from home, maybe ten because of the increased tourist traffic that infused money into this community after the slow winter months.

There was nothing unusual or extraordinary about this place to me, but Jacqueline sat up straight, eyes wide to absorb it all – the mural-coated buildings painted in sunny colours, the touristy shops and diners, the blacktopped streets that blended into yards with no kerbs, the water and boats almost always visible just beyond.

‘Palm trees!’ She grinned. ‘They’re so cute.’

I arched a brow at her.

‘I mean, compared to how they look in say, L. A. – they’re tall and thin there. These seem to know there aren’t many tall buildings or any hills to compete with here. They’re –’

‘Stunted?’

She laughed. ‘Cute.’

After a few reflexive turns, I parked on the gravel drive in front of Grandpa’s – now Dad’s – place. Swallowing, I turned to Jacqueline. ‘I don’t know how he’ll be to you – I mean, he won’t be rude or anything. He’s always been courteous with clients, and I’m sure that’ll be the worst –’

‘Lucas.’ She took my hand, squeezed it. ‘He’ll be fine. I’m not expecting hugs and a welcome party. He’s a quiet guy – like you. I get it.’

I scowled. Like me?

She turned my hand and kissed the back of it, chuckling like she could read my mind – and she probably could.

I reached my left hand to her nape, pulling her closer as we angled over the console. Threading my fingers through her hair, I kissed her, and the dread overrunning my mind calmed. She was here with me because she wanted to be. We’d talked about my dad; she was prepared. Thanks to my weekly therapy sessions, I was coming to terms with how he’d dealt with his grief, even if it had been far from ideal for either of us.

Dad might not roll out the red carpet, but he would be civil. Boyce could be a jackass, but she’d probably love him anyway. And the pantry bed was no smaller than her dorm bed – one of my favourite places in the world to be.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

Our foreheads pressed together, I watched the fingers of her free hand trace over the inked patterns on my arm. She angled her head and kissed me again, her tongue teasing my ring. She loved to play with it when we kissed, and had pouted when I told her I’d have to remove it once I began interviewing for jobs.

‘You’re welcome,’ she breathed against my lips.

Our eyes connected and my hand came up to sweep her face. I love you, I told her silently. I was ready to tell her, but wasn’t sure how. It wasn’t something I’d ever said to a girl. Wasn’t something I’d ever felt – not really. Not like this. It seemed silly now that I’d ever thought I might love Melody Dover. What I’d felt for her had been real – but it had been like standing on the first rung of a ladder compared with standing halfway to the top.

When I knocked, Dad came to the screen door with the closest thing to a smile on his face I’d seen in years. ‘Son,’ he said, taking one of the bags from my hand. ‘Come in.’

The windows were all open, and the whole place was suffused with the briny scent of the gulf that lay across the sand, outside the back door. Dad had put a fresh coat of ivory paint on the walls and woodwork, and pulled up the old carpets to reveal battered wood floors that somehow looked a hundred times better. One of Mom’s paintings was hanging over the sofa. I stood staring at it as he said, ‘You must be Jacqueline.’ She still held my hand.

‘Yes. It’s nice to meet you, Mr Maxfield.’

With effort, I turned away from the painting and watched as my father shook my girlfriend’s hand and almost-smiled, again. ‘Please, call me Ray. I’m happy you’ve come with Landon, uh – Lucas.’

That was new.

He picked up both bags and walked … to his room? Jacqueline followed, glancing at the scant but clean furnishings the same way she’d examined the town as we drove through – logging details and missing nothing. I turned the corner into Dad’s room, but it wasn’t Dad’s room any more. Grandpa’s bed sat against the far wall, flanked by his night table and a new lamp. His dresser sat opposite. There was new bedding on the bed, and the walls were the barest hint of blue. Another of Mom’s paintings hung over the bed, and a mirror suspended by a threaded length of rope hung over the dresser.

Dad set both bags on the floor by the bed. ‘I thought you two would need your own space … when you visit. I moved back to your Grandpa’s room a few weeks ago. I can get a look at the gulf first thing in the morning now, figure out how the sailing will be for the day.’

‘What a beautiful room,’ Jacqueline said, looking out the window at the squatty palm tree cluster next to the house. The beach was visible in the distance. ‘I love it. This is one of your wife’s paintings, isn’t it?’ She walked closer to examine it, and I continued to stare at my father.