“About what?”

Simon knows exactly what. He just wants me to verbalize it. “That he didn’t tell me sooner. That he’s refusing treatment. Take your pick. It’s all shitty.”

“You’re right.”

“But . . .” There’s always a but with Simon.

“No buts this time. You have every right to feel this way. I would be angry and frustrated, too, if someone I loved wasn’t doing everything they could to stay with me for as long as possible.”

“I just don’t get how he could be so selfish! He has people who love him and he’s hurting all of them.”

“Do you love him?”

“Of course I do.”

Simon sighs into my ear. “Well, that’s something you wouldn’t have confessed to so easily, sitting on the porch steps that night with me, now is it?”

“I guess not. I wouldn’t have felt it then.” And yet just a week later, there’s no doubt in my mind that I love my father, and I don’t want him to die. Which makes this all so much more painful. “But he doesn’t seem to care about anyone but himself. He never has!” Even as I say the words, I know they’re not true. “He doesn’t care enough,” I amend.

“Do you think he hasn’t thought his decision through?”

“How could he have? I mean, who doesn’t fight cancer?”

“It does happen, for various reasons.” And Simon, for one, would know. He’s had his share of terminal patients who come to him for help with dealing with their grim reality. “Did he explain his decision to you?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, and I repeat everything my father told me earlier.

“Sounds like maybe he hasn’t made the decision lightly.”

“Maybe. But it’s still not okay.” It’ll never be okay. “What would you do?”

“I’d like to think I’d go through with the treatment, at least to start, but I’m not in his shoes. Besides, your mother would have me hog-tied and dragged to the hospital if I even suggested skipping it.”

“She should come here and do that to him, too,” I say half-heartedly. “Or at least call him. I’m sure she still remembers his number. She sure dialed it enough times twelve years ago.”

Silence meets my words.

“I mean—”

“There isn’t anything about what happened with your parents that I’m not aware of, Calla,” Simon says carefully.

I sigh. Of course Simon would know.

God, what a mess my parents are.

“I imagine Wren is quite scared,” Simon finally offers as a way out of the awkwardness.

“He said he wants to die on his own terms.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t be downright terrified while doing it.”

“I guess.” And I ran right out of there today, leaving him alone. A sting of guilt pricks me.

We sit in loaded silence, my pajama-clad body wrapped in my flannel jacket and a layer of blankets, my gaze drifting out over the night sky, still much brighter than what I’m used to for almost one a.m.

“So I guess you don’t have any wise words to make this all better.”

“Sorry. No wise words,” Simon says with a sigh.

“That’s okay. Just talking to you helps.”

“Good. And remember, you can be angry and frustrated with him for his decision but still love and support him through it.”

“I’m not sure how to do that.”

“You’ll figure it out. You’re a well-adjusted and self-aware young woman, and you make smart decisions.”

“Calla! You coming back to bed?” Jonah hollers from somewhere unseen but nearby. He was reaching for a leather-bound book on his nightstand, the sheet draped loosely over his bottom half, when I threw on my clothes and left him to come here. It was an oddly erotic sight.

Speaking of making smart decisions . . .

Jesus. Half of Bangor probably heard him.

“Let me guess . . . That must be that horrid pilot from next door that I’ve been hearing about from your mother,” Simon says dryly. “Pray tell me, how is your vicious feud with him going?”

“I used up all my dad’s water, so I have to stay over there tonight if I want plumbing.” I could also stay at Agnes’s house, a point I’m not about to bring up.

“Right. Well, that was kind of him to welcome you, despite your being mortal enemies.”

“It really was.” And Simon isn’t buying my lame excuse for a second.

Jonah’s heavy boots stomp up the porch stairs. He pushes open the door and I catch a flash of movement next to his feet. It’s Bandit, scurrying in ahead of him, his beady eyes shimmering against the glow of the Christmas lights. He lets out one of those high-pitched chattering sounds.

I cringe. “Hey, Simon, what’s your professional opinion about someone who has a pet raccoon?” I ask loudly, to make it clear to Jonah that I’m on the phone with my stepdad.

“Considering we seem to have two, who am I to pass judgment? Good night, Calla. Call me whenever you need to.”

“’Night. Love you.” It just rolls off my tongue for Simon. And I have yet to say it to my real father even once.

Jonah’s gaze drifts over the ceiling of the porch. “You and Mabel did a good job.”