There’s meatloaf in the oven and mashed potatoes being kept war on the stove. I even bought Dad’s favorite ice cream <b>on </b>the way home. It’s prettyme, except it’s all I have. <b>It’s </b>the only weaponat my disposal to bring my father around for an actual conversation with him about Mom. The promise of a good meal, something it seems like he misses out on when I’m not <b>around</b>. He’s been a stranger the past few days,ing homete and leaving the house early.


    The only evidence I have of him being here is the dishes in the sinke


    morning and a damp towel on the bathroom floor.


    He’s been treating this ce like a hotel, and me the housekeeper think the worst part of all is that I don’t mind. The least I can do is take care of him, since he’s doing me a favor by letting me stay. I won’t be here forever. I have every intention of leaving. I’ll have to either piss or get off the pot soon regarding that lease, but I will sign it. I only asked for a few days to work on a few things and thendlord was more than happy to agree.


    All that’s left is getting it through to Dad. Part of me wants to pack up my things and go without saying a word—he hasn’t given me the respect to show his face and refuses to even clean up after himself. After all that, do I actually owe him an answer on where I’m going? I might do it if I knew he wouldn’te looking for me. Although I know him well enough to know he won’t


    let it go. I’d rather get this out of the way now than face drama down the


    I sent him a text, telling him I’d be making dinner tonight, asking him toe home right away. He sent me back a single letter: K. Do people not understand what it does when they send that single letter? Maybe he wants me to feel anxious.


    Until I’m sure he’s being wise about how he conducts this investigation of his–and not running himself into the ground while he’s doing it–I can’t in good conscience leave him here alone. I simply don’t have it in me.


    My cell buzzes on the counter, and I nce over at it while heating the gravy. Seeing Gianni’s name and that it’s a text he sent makes me tremble. It’s been a couple of days since west were together at the house, and I’ve weed the silence since then. What is there to say? I’m still angry with myself for making it so easy for him to do whatever he wanted, no matter how much I enjoyed it.


    Curiosity won’t let me leave the phone where it is. No matter what tell myself, I’m not strong enough to ignore his message. The phone almost falls from my hand before I can open the app to read the entire message.


    Gianni: You win.


    Okay. If he’s deliberately trying to goad me into responding, it worked.


    Me: Win? What did I win?


    2


    Gianni: You gave me the silent treatment long enough to force me into texting you first. How are you?


    How am I? I doubt there’s enough time to type out my response before leaving for work in the morning. There’s been plenty of time to think–obsess<b>–</b>over every moment we spent together that night and all the reasons why it will never work between us.


    Me: I’m wondering why what I want and need never matters to you


    I doubt he was expecting that.


    I can’t believe I said it–and now that I have, it’s like a dam has burst. My thumbs fly over the screen.


    Me: I might as well be with Luciano all over again. He used to say and do things all the time that hurt me. Except in this case, I’m not being cheated on. I’m helping you cheat on the woman you’re still married to. No matter how often <b>I </b>tell you we can’t do it anymore, you still find a way to push me into it. I hate myself for that. You’ve made me hate myself.


    Gianni: That’s thest thing I want. I don’t know how to say it to make you understand. She means nothing to me, and the only thing keeping us married is the fact that she hasn’t signed the papers. You are not the other woman. <b>There </b>is no one else.


    Easy for him to <b>say</b>.


    Me: I am. Can you at least see how hypocritical this makes me look Breaking up with Luciano for cheating on me and then turning out to sleep with a man who is still married to his wife.


    Gianni: I’m not married. We haven’t lived together for years.


    Me: Semantics. You made me feel like a slut that day at the house, and I can’t forget the shame I felt. I was the whore in your bed, but worst of all, I was thest one to know. I didn’t get the chance to make a choice.


    Gianni: You’re right. I’m the one at fault.


    Somebody catch me, I may faint from shock.


    Gianni: I should have told you instead of assuming it didn’t matter.


    I should put an end to this before Dad gets home, except there’s heat spreading in my chest, anger and indignation and shame fighting to be heard.


    Me: And then, when I need time to work things out and try to protect myself from getting hurt more, you tell me I deserve to be punished. How does that make any sense? How am I supposed to want to be with you when you treat my feelings like they don’t matter?


    My heart’s thumping madly by the time I send that, and every moment I spend waiting for a reply makes breathing more difficult than before. Finally, the blinking ellipsis tells me he’s typing a response.


    Gianni: What can I do to make it up to you? Whatever it takes, I’ll do it. All that matters is making things right. I’ll do anything to get us back to where we were before–because no matter what you say now, we both know what we have is real. I want it back. I want you back for good. You can’t deny how we need each other, and you know in your heart there’s no ending to this. Why fight what’s bigger than both of us?


    I wish he didn’t make so much sense. I wish I didn’t want so much to give in. It would be so easy and would feel so good… at least, at first. Until he ultimately makes me regret it.


    But maybe it will be better this time. You don’t know unless you try


    Me: I need to finish getting dinner ready, but more than anything, need to think about things.


    I don’t care if he thinks it’s sudden, cutting off the conversation like that. It’s much better to end things abruptly than to let Dad see how flushed and shaky I am, thanks to this conversation. I’ll think about it allter when I’m alone with nothing but my thoughts. A quick ssh of cold water on my cheeks helps cool me off, and a few deep breaths slow my racing pulse. Not that it matters once I hear Dad’s key in the lock of the front door. Right away, I get that sick feeling in my stomach, like I’m at the top of a roller coaster’s highest point and about to go over the edge. Since when do I feel that way about my own father?


    Since he became so damn unpredictable.


    That’s the simple answer. Right now, he’s rumpled, messy. His button–down shirt is a little wrinkled, and his hair could use abing. At least he’s here and can walk a straight line, so I hope that means he’s sober. I think he’s been stopping at the bar every night rather than doing his drinking here, in front of me.


    “Just in time,” I chirp from the kitchen as I open the oven door. <b>“</b>Meatloaf’s ready.”


    “Smells good.” Almost like he’s surprised. I force myself to smile through it.


    “You’ve been putting in some long hourstely. Should I be worried?” Does it sound like I’m teasing? Il *I’m not. I hate feeling like I’m walking on eggshells, but eventually, the truth has toe out.


    “Why would you have to worry about me?”


    so<b>, </b>even though