“You don’t want… more?” My voice sounded small and timid, but my earlier rush of bravery was quickly wearing off.

“I’m okay.”

“Because we can—”

“No.” He took a deep breath and raked his fingers through his hair, then glanced at me. “Feel better?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Good.”

“I didn’t mean to leave you hanging.”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t seem fine. And neither was I. My orgasm buzz was deflating like a balloon. He was sitting on the far side of the couch, like he needed to put as much distance as possible between us without actually leaving the room. Maybe that was his attempt to save my feelings. If so, it wasn’t working.

“Do you want to finish the movie?” he asked, not quite looking at me.

I gaped at him. He’d just given me an orgasm then recoiled away like he didn’t want to touch me again. And now we were going to just sit here and pretend it hadn’t happened?

“No. I think I’m going to go.”

I stood and grabbed my purse so I could find my phone. My dad’s house was probably walking distance, but I didn’t know the streets well enough to navigate in the dark. Ginny would come get me, but I didn’t want to bug her if she was still having fun. I’d just order an Uber. Were there Uber drivers in Tilikum? There had to be at least one or two. It was small, but not that small.

“Sky,” Gavin said. “You don’t have to go. Or at least let me drive you.”

He started to get up but I held out a hand. “No. Don’t, it’s fine. You should probably rest your leg.”

“But—”

“I just need to go,” I said, cutting him off.

I didn’t wait for a reply. Just walked out the door.

19

Skylar

I cast a suspicious glance at my phone, sitting on my desk. The notification light flashed, the tiny green dot making my stomach clench. Who had texted me? I wanted to look, and didn’t want to look. Wanted it to be Gavin, and didn’t want it to be Gavin.

We hadn’t talked since I’d left his house last night. I still wasn’t sure what had happened—other than he’d given me a breathtaking orgasm, then inexplicably wanted to go back to watching a movie, like nothing had happened.

I would have—

It didn’t matter what I would have done. Gavin hadn’t wanted it. Hadn’t really wanted me.

I finished getting dressed, my mind a jumble of thoughts. Physically, I still felt great, which was such a strange contrast to the state of my brain.

Finally, I took a deep breath and picked up my phone.

It wasn’t him.

Ginny: Morning, sunshine. Want to meet for breakfast?

Me: I’d love to.

Ginny: How about that cute place downtown? Bigfoot Diner?

Me: Sounds good to me.

Ginny: Meet in about half an hour?

Me: See you then.

This was good. Ginny would help me sort this out.

The sound of someone whistling greeted me when I left my bedroom. Was that Dad? Mom had been sleeping in the room across the hall, and her door was still shut. She’d never been much of a morning person, so I wasn’t surprised she wasn’t up and about yet. The whistling continued, followed by the metallic clang of a pot or pan. Was he cooking?

I went downstairs. The front rooms, which had been empty when I’d moved in, were now full of my mom’s furniture. At first, they’d just stacked everything in a haphazard jumble. But Mom had said there was no reason we should all live in a house that looked like a storage facility, even if it was only temporary. She’d talked Dad into helping her arrange her couch, chairs, and coffee table, as well as her dining room furniture.

She hadn’t gone so far as to put art on the walls or unpack all her decorative stuff. But there were a few things sitting out that hadn’t been there a couple of days ago. A photo of me and Mom sat on an end table. And there were books and a few knick-knacks on a small bookshelf in the living room.

It didn’t surprise me. Mom had always made sure her living space was not only tidy, but pretty as well.

I went back to the kitchen and found my dad, still whistling while he cooked breakfast. Bacon sizzled in a pan and there was a plate of pancakes on the counter. He cracked an egg into another pan.

“Morning,” I said, half wondering who this man was and what he’d done with my father. I’d been living here for a month and I’d never seen him cook, beyond reheating things or warming up packaged food.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Morning. Hungry?”

“I was going to meet Ginny for breakfast soon, but I could eat here and just order coffee.”

“Whatever works for you. It’ll be ready in a few more minutes. There’s coffee made if you want a cup now.”

“Thanks.” I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. “What’s the occasion? Or did you just feel like having a big breakfast?”

“Bacon sounded good.” He paused to flip an egg. “I figured if I was going to make bacon, I might as well do breakfast right.”

A vague memory flitted through my mind, wafting in on the smell of coffee, bacon, and maple syrup. A memory of this very kitchen, and me at this table. My legs swinging, too short to reach the floor, a plate of pancakes in front of me. Dad cooking breakfast for the three of us while Mom sat at the table with me, sipping coffee.

“You used to make us breakfast sometimes, didn’t you?”

“He did,” Mom said, appearing in the doorway. She wore a silky floral kimono that belted at the waist. Her face was fresh and makeup-free, her hair down, but even without all her usual styling, she looked beautiful. “For a while, it was our Saturday morning tradition.”

“Yes, it was,” Dad said without turning around.

Was it just me, or was he suddenly standing up straighter? Now that I really looked at him, I noticed his shirt was neatly tucked in. And had he gotten a haircut?

Mom got herself a cup of coffee and sat next to me. She flicked quick glances at Dad while she sipped.

This whole situation was so weird. I’d never been the kid who wanted to Parent Trap her parents back together. I’d always wondered how they’d ever gotten together in the first place. Growing up, it had felt like they got along for my sake, but a simmering tension had remained between them. Once in a while, that tension had snapped, and I’d watched whatever frustrations they still carried boil over.

Mom had been here for about a week and a half, and that tension hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it seemed to grow by the day. So far, Dad had mostly grumbled about her presence, muttering to himself when he couldn’t find things after her kitchen reorganization or shaking his head at the furniture decorating the other rooms. Mom had been her usual self, cheerfully doing what she wanted despite my dad’s grumbling, all while casting him side-eye glances when he wasn’t looking.

But how long before the pressure cooker burst and one or both of them snapped?

“I think I remember that,” I said, hoping to keep the conversation on happy things. “I don’t have a lot of memories of living here, but I do remember pancake breakfasts.”